Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 1 of 133

The Holy Darkness

By Albert F. Borris Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 2 of 133

Part I: The Kill

Martin walks up on me, from behind, while I’m assembling the bomb. “Hey,” he says, not noticing what I’m holding. “That’s my locker.” I startle. My right hand, the one with the bottle, shakes. From the ground where I’m kneeling, I look up at him. There’s not a good way out of this kind of situation. “What?” I say, slowly. My ears feel suddenly hot. I imagine they’re turning red. This is probably one of the stupidest ideas I’ve ever had, but I can’t seem to help myself. Stall, I hear the voice in my head yell. “That’s my locker,” he repeats. Now his tone changes, louder, kind of angry. In the empty hallway the sound of his voice seems to echo forever. He puts his hands on his hips, like they do in the movies, when someone is indignant. Why that word comes to mind I don’t know. Probably from a vocabulary quiz. The bottle wobbles in my fingers, shaking. I feel like I can’t swallow. “What are you doing?” Making sure the school bully won’t pick on anyone else, I think. I don’t say anything. “Well?” I realize he can’t see my hand. I’m a big enough guy. My bulk hides the bottle from his view. Mostly it’s torture being so big, but for the moment I’m glad. Hands, still in the locker, I tighten the cap on the ammonia. Don’t think it smells, at least not much. Fortunately, nothing has spilled. I haven’t even had a chance to mix the chemicals yet. No time now. “It was open,” I lie. I glance behind him. Still, the hall is empty except for the two of us. “And that gives you the right to go in it?” Martin says, voice rising. By now, it’s apparent that I should stand, step away. We’re not friends. I look guilty of something. It’s not like I should even know his combination. I must seem suspicious, kneeling, but not answering. The bleach, fortunately, is still in my book bag. So’s the wire that would hold the bomb in place until he opened the door, part of the whole contraption. “Well?” The bell rings, and a loud noise, maybe a door slapping open, happens down the hall. Martin twists towards it. Quick, I stand and slide the small bottle into my back pocket in one motion. As Martin turns back towards me, I grab the locker door. I tower over him. “Fine,” I say coldly, indignant. “You see if it was cockroach, then.” The top of his head is dark, covered with extremely short hair. He’s shorter than I even imagined. I step aside, pointing to the bottom of the locker. On the lowest shelf nothing moves, but I stand there looking and directing my attention to the corner as if there were something. He drops his back pack on the floor, then slides it away from the locker. Standing now, I look down at him. His eyes turn to me, stare at my chin for a second, then my eyes. Most people don’t gaze into my eyes too long. They gawk. He just keeps his Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 3 of 133 eyes frozen on mine for a minute. Finally, he turns to look at the books in the bottom of his locker. “Great,” he says, sarcastic. He kicks the locker door with his sneaker, hoping to draw out the imaginary cockroach. “Disgusting,” I say. He steps towards the locker and his arm brushes against mine. Somehow that feels scary, like I shouldn’t let him get too close to me. I don’t know why. I’m at least a foot taller than him. I move farther away. He gazes into the locker, and then seems to forget me. Slowly, Martin bends down, pokes at a few papers with his finger, looking, I assume, for the bug. The other kids start to meander past. I let a few of them get between us, then I start to walk away. With great difficulty, I grab the bottle from my back pocket and sneak it into my pack. Martin’s head drops behind a few bodies and then he’s gone from view. As best I can, I slip into the crowd hoping to disappear. I turn back, knowing that he can see me, head well above everyone else. And, sure enough he stands. But, he never looks towards me, just slams his locker and heads in the other direction. I stop at my locker. Time to ditch the evidence. I pull out the ammonia and the bleach and walk into the boys room. In the handicapped stall, I lock the door behind me. Then, I open the bottles, one at a time. Both of them stink. I dump the bleach first. I don’t sit, just pour the liquid straight into the toilet. Then, I flush. Mostly, I want some time alone to think about what to do next. It is April 30. Maybe this is dumb, but I think Martin needs to go in a very public way. In school. So other people will know that we don’t tolerate bullies in our building. No picking on other kids. Whether it’s the special ed kids who get called retarded or gay kids. No body should be picked on. I want something special. Something unusual. Something that won’t make it like I’m the bad guy. Not like Columbine or that Amish crazy guy. I’m not a killer. I’m like the Punisher, a force for justice. That’s why I wanted chemicals. Ammonia and Bleach mixed together, toxic, fatal, a spill in front of his locker. A symbolic act. Death by gas chamber. As I open the door, I hear someone in moving in one of the other stalls. Quick, I drop the bottles in the trash and head for the door. Next time it’s the electric chair. Or poison injection. Firing squad is too messy. Maybe I should catch a cockroach and put it in his locker just to be on the safe side. Maybe torment Martin the tormentor a little. Maybe a million cock roaches could eat him if I starved them long enough and somehow managed to put whatever cockroaches eat all over Martin. For the time being, I guess the chemical bomb is out. I need another plan.

# The next time I see Martin, he’s doing the same thing that made me plan to kill him in the first place. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 4 of 133

I am sitting in the cafeteria at a kind of mixed table. We still have assigned seats because of last month’s a food fight. Four hundred twenty five students in my lunch period with designated seats. “Hey faggot” Martin calls out, acting all tough. I am sitting with Monica, a smart chick; two freshman gamer kids who I don’t know at the far side; the soccer coach’s daughter Lin; a girl in my science class named Bethany with great lips; and Joey Roberts. I know Joey best, since fourth grade. He’s next to me, near the end. I’m always at the end of the table, every table. As Martin walks past, I hear a thunk. A noise. Joey’s fingers go to his head where the tray has caught his ear. “Jerk,” Bethany calls out. Her face scrunches up, lips puffing. Really cute. Martin laughs, looking at Joey. “Sorry.” He tilts his tray, his weapon. Martin doesn’t seem to recognize me. Even though I’m big, I’m relatively normal looking, sitting down. And it’s not like we’ve been in any classes together. There’s 2000 kids in this school. Joey rubs his ear. As he pulls his fingers away, I notice red. Blood. I start to rise. I don’t know why. Martin’s back is already towards us, headed away. Maybe I’ll go trip him, accidentally, pretend to need a napkin and knock him over. “Ungh,” says Joey to Martin or maybe Bethany. I begin to unfold myself, and bump the table with my knee. I wince. The table jars, shaking. Joey’s container of fries falls over. My chair slides back nearly tumbling. Joey grabs it. “Go kick his ass, Baby” chuckles Lin, then she blows me a kiss. Shamed, I glance down. She knows my reputation. “Didn’t know you liked boys,” Joey blurts, catching me off guard. Everybody knows Joey is gay, for years now, since eighth grade. But nobody much cares anymore. Except Martin, obviously. I toss Joey a dirty look. “I don’t.” Joey looks at me. “I meant her,” he says, pointing at Lin. Joey’s always been like that, cocky and challenging. Makes his family nuts. Especially because he’s not afraid to say he’s gay. I’m surprised he doesn’t take on Martin, say something. The Gamers laugh. Lin turns red. “Up yours,” she grumbles back. I’m not used to people sticking up for me. Lin tosses her perfectly cut, blonde, athletic hair, then turns her chair so that she doesn’t have to look at us. “Forget it,” Joey says. “He shouldn’t—“ “He’s not worth it,” Joey interrupts. I hold my tongue. Bethany says something, smiling, but I’m not really listening. Purposefully, I watch Martin walk over to his table. Even when they gave us assigned seats, somehow there ended up a group of all black kids. Martin joins his table, six kids, all boys, all black. I wonder if the principal did that on purpose. I always wonder why the black Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 5 of 133 kids sit together? But, then again, I wonder why all the white kids sit together too. We’re pretty mixed up, racially, as a school, but not as a cafeteria. I usually sit alone, even in the Fall when the football team wore jerseys and sat together on game days. Slowly, I open my lunch bag, pull out an apple, sandwich, bag of chips. A third of the apple disappears in one bite. Then, I unwrap my sandwich. Bethany says something again. I’m too distracted to pay attention to her words. Her face is pretty. Besides chewing makes it harder to hear. Maybe its wrong to kill Martin because he’s a bully. “That’s a hate crime,” I say to Joey. “What?” “Him hitting you like that.” “What?” Now, Joey makes a face. He rubs his ear again, then straightens his two-tone hair. He’s always messing with his hair anymore. He’s become more flamboyant this year. “Harassment. Because you’re gay.” Bethany joins in. “Sexual orientation. It’s like any other classification, racial, religi—“ “Assault with a deadly cafeteria tray?” Joey interrupts. “It’s the law,” Bethany continues. He rolls his eyes at her words. Then, Bethany pouts, shakes her head. “You should stand up for yourself,” I continue. “Look who’s talking.” He chuckles, biting into his sandwich. Joey laughs, like a girl, jiggling his head a little. We stop talking. Again, I bite my apple, feeling stupid. I glance once more towards Martin’s table, but can’t see him. I raise my head for a better look, and catch sight of him chewing with his mouth open. It’s his mouth that gets him in trouble, saying things… And suddenly, I’m remembering my decision. Happened on Monday, I decided to kill Martin after the second time he went after Joey. Three things. First, Martin calls Joey a “fag” in the library. Second, I just sit there while my skin burns up and I feel my throat catch fire. Then third, that night, I lay in bed with a pad and pencil. I write down everything I can think of to do: tell the Principal, leave a note in Martin’s locker, try and confront him in person, talk to a teacher about Martin, write an editorial for the school paper. Nothing feels like it will work. Martin will just brush anything off; maybe even take revenge on Joey. Perhaps revenge is for the weak, those who can’t come face to face with the reality of their lives. I remember my hand shaking when the words come: Kill him to make a statement. Teach them all. Make up for all the times I haven’t done something. There is no other way. The Holy Dark moves in me. Joey’s words bring me back to the lunch table. “You’re what? Like nine foot eleven now?” I shrug. “Seriously. How tall Raine?” “Six feet, six inches tall,” I reply. “Four hundred pounds?” “About three hundred.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 6 of 133

“So,” he says, picking up the last of his fries. “You shouldn’t let people, like Lin—“ He pauses, saying her name real loud. I glance towards her. She ignores us.“—Call you names.” “What about Martin?” “That’s not a big deal.” Joey laughs. “Besides, people act like jerks when they’re scared of something.” “He should be scared,” I mumble. “I’ll get him when he’s not looking.” “Yeah,” says Lin, sarcastic, glancing over at us. “Stop it,” Joey shouts. The gamers look over, glancing up from some electronic device they’re sharing. Joey stares them down. They return to video heaven. Lin shakes her head, loses interest in us. She leans towards the next table and starts talking to someone else. “He doesn’t bother me,” Joey continues. No, I think. He bothers me. “You’re just used to it,” I reply. “Well, it’s nice that you’re all about civil liberties and justice, but do it on behalf of someone who needs you superman. Stick up for yourself. Otherwise people will start talking about us.” He’s right. I’m tired of the crap about who I am. “I won’t connect you to this,” I reply, and take a bite of my sandwich. Slowly, I turn my glance towards Martin’s table. He seems to be having a good time. I can’t hear anything exactly, but the group is loud. He’s moving his arms around, pointing. Inside, I feel hot. “Raine,” Bethany says. His mouth seems too big, too animated. Like he’s desperate for attention. I’ll give him some attention. “Raine!” Bethany calls again. Her voice relaxes me, just a little bit. I turn to her. “Your sandwich Big boy.” I look down, and what’s left of my lunch comes squishing through my fingers. I’ve crushed it without noticing. The bell rings. “See you at two,” she says, standing. Bethany looks at me and chews her lower lip, as if she knows I’m getting ready to do something I shouldn’t. I am. It just may take a little time.

#

I know it’s coming because he told us we’d be matched alphabetical last time we met. Dread. Worse things have happened, but I none come to mind. Not even my mom. The high school counselor, Mr. D’Ascenzo looks funny. He’s got half of his hair dark and half gray, a kind of balding crew cut. I suppose that happens when you get older. Today, he Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 7 of 133 herds us into the gym. The place stinks of stale shoes and body odor, which is worse on hot May days like today. The gym feels sticky and is filled only with boys. After seventh period, we climb up into the bleachers and take seats. I hate having kids behind me, especially if they start talking about how they can’t see because I’m too big. I pick the top row. Most kids take seats high up in the stands. No one comes near me. Martin sits up front, blue button down shirt making him visible among the boys in t- shirts. Mostly black kids. Mr. D’Ascenzo waves for our attention, then starts to talk once we settle down. “At present, we are continuing our Resume program.” We’ve met with him here in the gym twice so far this year, September and January, a lecture and a PowerPoint slide show. Today, the crowd looks bigger. “Remember, I told you that what we’re doing— working to give everyone something for their resume. So that when the time comes for you to apply to college—“ “What if you don’t want to go to college?” a voice to the right of me shouts out. “Even if you don’t plan on going to college, you might change your mind later. This will help you have more choices. Besides it’s a painless way to have a better time in high school.” “So’s smoking weed,” someone else shouts. The crowd erupts laughing. Mr. D’Ascenzo doesn’t think that’s funny. He folds his arms, waits for the noise to stop. “Enough with the wise cracks,” he says sternly. He waits, arms folded, trying to look tough. The problem is you can only look so mean when you have weird hair. Some mumbling sounds in the stands, but no rude comments. Mr. D’Ascenzo paces, and rubs his head quickly. His voice echoes a little in the gym. “You’ll be paired with your buddy and a twelfth grader for a triad, meaning the three of you, so he can tell you what to expect for senior year. ” Joey Roberts shouts, “Do we have to go back to class today?” Mr. D’Ascenzo makes funny face. “No,” he says, “the rest of the day is the Resume Project.” Everyone starts clapping. Mr. D’Ascenzo shakes his head. He holds up his hand to quiet us down. I feel my head sweating. Quickly, I reach up and wipe my brow. I look over at the other kids, the ones with longer hair, to see if anyone else is sweating. Hard to tell. Martin leans back and I wonder if there’s a way to stage an accident in the bleachers. Mr. D’Ascenzo’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “The easiest way to do this is to have everyone line up, alphabetically. A’s to my left,” he says, pointing. “Once we’re in order, we’ll pair up alphabetically. Same partner today and the next session later this week.” I want to vomit, but not just throw up. Hurl, a giant gross chunker that can reach across the bleachers hit Martin and the counselor for such a stupid idea. Little by little, the crowd files onto the court. I’m slow to the floor because Martin is, hell, he’s mine and I’m stuck with him. I checked in the student directory. The noise level goes way up as kids start shouting their last names. I can see over everyone because I’m so tall. The group looks like Christmas shoppers, crazy, moving around Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 8 of 133 each other. The gym floor fills, and a small crowd shuffles under the basketball net at one end. I step off the bleachers and walk to the far left. Way to Mr. D’Ascenzo’s right, leaning on the far wall, at my end of the alphabet, stands Martin. A few other kids stop nearby, but he’s, literally, touching the wall. As I approach, Martin looks up at me. “Adams,” he says. I turn away quickly. “Burns,” says a boy I don’t know wearing a Giants jersey. “Bernard.” “Baxter.” I notice them starting to move into position, forming a line. Mr. D’Ascenzo walks over. “Alphabetical,” he repeats, directly to the small group, waving his arm, trying to get people to move faster. I can see Mr. D’Ascenzo’s impatience, those flopping arms, like a penguin. Two hundred teenagers trying to line up alphabetically is probably not a good idea, especially over something so exciting as a Resume project. “Atkins” “Barber.” I watch Martin out of the corner of my eye. Then, the voices grow loud, so loud that everyone seems to be shouting. “Johnsson.” “Jacobs.” Someone a few spots away starts singing “John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith.” “Attenborough”, says the last of the nearest kids. Now would be the time to ask to go to the nurse in order to avoid Martin. Then, the line starts to move to the right. Really it’s a strange kind of mob, not line, three or four deep, clusters of kids. A few other voices join in with the singing. “Count off by two,” Mr. D’Ascenzo shouts. I can barely hear him, even though he’s just feet away. Then, the Barber kid starts singing too. “His name is my name, too.” Suddenly, something whizzes towards me. I duck. Thwock, it hits the wall. As I turn, the ball thuds off the cement and bounces, rebounds, against the side of my head. It doesn’t hurt. The group near me startles, voices quiet for a quick second. “Who did that?” Mr. D’Ascenzo yells. But, no one answers. He looks towards the rest of the mob; they’re too loud to hear him. Besides, the back of the pile isn’t any more organized. The singing grows louder still, a chorus of off-key Jingleheimers. “La la la la la la la la.” “Whoa!” one of the other A’s or B’s says, laughing. The others chuckle. The ball, one of those red things we use in dodge ball, comes to a stop at my feet. “Get him,” someone closes calls out. I know that means me. Atkins, I think, eyes the weapon and steps forward. But, before he moves very far, I bend and pick it up. I hate dodge ball. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 9 of 133

Atkins freezes, retreats. I squeeze the ball in my right hand. Freshman year, they targeted me. I mean everybody. With my size, I was an easy mark. We’d play with teams of thirty on each side in the gym. Fifteen dodgeballs. And the whole other team would collect balls until they could all hurl them, at the same time, at me. Every single ball. Thwock, another ball hits the wall near my head. Martin grabs it before it lands, and in one motion pushes me forward and slides behind me. Just like freshman year all over. We’d split the class alphabetically, but more organized than today, and the other kids would hide behind me. “Knock it off,” Mr. D’Ascenzo shouts. But now even my end of the gym sings. Atkins and Barber grab arms in a mocking dance, a jig. “Fire,” Martin shouts, chucking his ball around my bulk. It flies out across the room, but disappears into the masses. I reach up with my other hand and grab the basketball netting with one hand. I tighten my grip, suddenly angry. I see, across the gym from the far bleachers, the seniors hurling dodgeballs towards us. Martin yells at me. I feel the rope dig into my skin. If I pull, maybe the whole backboard will shatter, crash onto Martin’s head, glass for everyone. Completely frazzled now, Mr. D’Ascenzo turns to face me. The top of his head, which I can see well, is a bad comb over, but it’s also red. “Do you know where you go?” he barks. I kind of wish his hair would stand straight up like someone surrendering. It’ll take him twenty minutes to get us all paired up. I exhale, and then I unfold my fingers from the net. Freshman year, right before Christmas, after three weeks of dodge ball and two trips to the nurse for bloody noses, I brought in itching powder. The end of the alphabet got some in their lockers, sneakers, anything I could find. Payback. Mr. D’Ascenzo seems impatient. “Well?” he asks, “What’s your name?” I know where I fit. No one ever accused me of anything back then, but the bombardment stopped, at least the premeditated attacks on me in gym did. I step next to Martin at the beginning of the line. I place my hand on the wall, above Martin’s head. I’m always first. “Abbott,” I mumble softly. Mr. D’Ascenzo turns back towards the others as the chorus finally starts to die. “Line up!” he screams. You can tell he’s not a gym teacher. Mr. D’Ascenzo shifts his look to Martin. “Adams, Martin Adams” comes the formal reply. Just like the student directory listed us, first and second. Mr. D’Ascenzo takes my right elbow, then grabs Martin’s forearm. “So here’s your partner.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 10 of 133

The only good thing about this pairing is that maybe I can learn his habits better, make him easier to get.

#

The counselor points to the far side of the gym. “Head over there,” Mr. D’Ascenzo continues. He looks at his clipboard. A group of seniors sits in the stands. “Your Senior Leader is Robert Abate. Bob.” I close my eyes and exhale loudly. Martin starts walking across the gym without waiting for me. Mr. D’Ascenzo moves on to the next two kids. I reach up, grab the net one more time, pull angrily, and then head towards the seniors. Martin walks in front of me the whole way. When I arrive at the bleachers, the kid standing next to Martin says, “Great. Fag and the punk, both.” I clench my jaw. Bobby laughs when Martin gives him the finger. He reaches his hand out for the dodge ball. I squeeze the red rubber, feeling the shape change in my fingers, but don’t give it up. Bob Abate looks a lot like a college student not high school. He sports dark hair and a partial beard. Talking to me, he says, “You’re a moose.” Then, he leads us towards the gym exit, me a few steps behind. Bob swings his head around to me. “You play any sports?” “Football.” I mumble. Bob stops, pointing. “Oh my God,” he chuckles. Mr. D’Ascenzo dances on one of the bleacher steps, about three up. Flying at him, dodgeballs seem to come from everywhere. He’s the only adult in the whole gym. “Let’s go,” Bob says, and hustles us out the door. We make a left into the hallway, not quite jogging. “You play hoops?” “No.” “You should,” he says, not really caring what I say. The gym doors close behind us and he slows. “You better play football next year too. They need big guys.” I don’t answer. I don’t really want to talk. I’m not interested in conversation with Martin, with getting to know him. Basically, I’m wondering how I can get out of this situation. Bob keeps talking. “Okay, so who are you?” And tell me who you both live with? I’m supposed to ask.” “Martin Adams,” comes a quick reply. “I live with my father, my step mother and two little sisters.” “Divorce?” Martin shrugs, not answering. “Good enough,” says Bob, not pushing. “Moose?” “Raine,” I say softly. “Ex—scuse me,” he replies, sarcastically drawing out his word. “Who do you—No. Wait. I know you.” He stops, looks at me, glances at Martin. “You’re that Baby kid” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 11 of 133

We all stop. I feel my fingers pulse on the dodge ball, squeezing. “That’s your nickname.” I don’t answer. Instead, I take a short step forward. “Big Baby, right?” Bob asks. “Raine the wuss.” He and Martin walk again too. I spot an old poster for the spring musical and yank it off the wall. “Monster size, but…” “But what?” asks Martin. I look at Martin and crumble the poster. The hall light flickers. Bob makes a weird face. “Needs to toughen up,” Bob remarks, not to me, to Martin. “Or so they say. Could be a killer.” I laugh, inside, if only he knew. Bob looks over his shoulder, back down the hall towards the gym. No one follows, no other groups of kids. “I live with my mother,” I reply, changing the subject. I don’t like this one bit. “Just her?” Bob asks. “Yes.” “Where’s your dad?” “Dead.” Bob frowns. “Car crash or something?” “Army. I was one. Do I have to talk about it?” “Actually, no. I’m supposed to ask you a bunch of questions, but I don’t really care.” Bob runs his finger against the lockers, making a clicking sound. His walk grows faster. “Favorite subject?” “Gym,” says Martin, grinning. “Maybe math.” I shrug, not answering. “Hate math,” Bob replies. “Did. Glad I didn’t have to take any this year. Play an instrument?” “No,” offers Martin, jumping in on what feels like my question. “I sing in choir.” “Here?” asks Bob. I bang the dodgeball against the ceiling. It makes a strange thud, then catches on one of the little metal strips that hold the tiles up. “My dad’s church,” answers Martin. That surprises me. He’s a minister’s son? “You?” Bob asks me. I screech my nail on the thin metal strip in the ceiling. They both jump. “Whoa,” says Martin. Bob looks at me, stunned. “Tuba,” I reply, pulling my hand down to my side. “In middle school.” Then, we turn down a different hallway. Martin asks, “Where are we…” Suddenly, Bob stops. He glances back down towards the gym. There’s no one in the hall behind us. “Listen,” he says, bending half over like he’s telling us a secret. “I only do this Resume thing because the baseball coach makes everyone on Varsity do it. It’s all bull anyway.” Martin stops walking. Bob steps towards one of the exit doors. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 12 of 133

“D’Ascenzoie the counselor in there has lost control anyway.” Martin looks at me, a question in his face. “So, I’m taking off. Just say we talked about baseball. A lot. There’s only about a month worth of school left anyway. Next session say I was a big help.” He pushes on the door. Martin looks at me, then back at Bob. “Where’re we supposed to go?” Bob shrugs. “Just don’t bug me. You’re seniors next year.” “Great,” Martin mutters. “You have an hour until we’re supposed to be done. Go do what you want,” Bob says. “Just don’t get caught or rat me out. I’m going downtown for lunch.” Then, he steps outside. He holds the door, sharing a few last words. “Oh yeah, if anyone asks, I play the outfield and I’m going to Rowan University.” The door closes. Through the glass, I see Bob running in the parking lot. “So what should we do now?” I don’t answer him. Instead, I turn and walk away. I figure if I sit in the bathroom no one will bother me, even though school bathrooms hold some bad memories. “Moose?” Martin calls out. More proof he’s a jerk. I keep walking. “Where you going Raine?” I don’t give him the pleasure of a response. “Let’s go to Ralph’s. Get some lunch Moosey.” I belch loudly, on purpose. “What an ass,” Martin mumbles. That makes me turn. Suddenly, Martin kicks out at the door, hitting the release bar with his foot. The door flies open. “Let’s go,” he says, holding the door. I glare at Martin. I don’t want to go with him. Way past him, out in the parking lot, I spot Bob opening the door of a bright green car, a new one, the most noticeable one out there. How he thinks he’ll drive out of the parking lot without being caught, I have no idea. “See ya, moose baby,” Martin laughs, winking. He doesn’t wait for me to reply. Martin takes off out the door. There’s nothing I would say anyway. I screech my nails on the ceiling again, but he’s too far away to feel it. I’ll wait.

# By the time I come out of the bathroom school is over. I have a plan. Today, I’ve ridden my bike and I leave without taking the time to go to my locker at the end of the day. I just keep all of my books in my bag, and bike home in about ten minutes. The cars and the Sisters are here when I arrive. I exhale, loudly, when I pull into the driveway. I forgot. Second Tuesday of the month. Before I’m even off the bike, Sarah steps out the front door. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 13 of 133

“Baby,” she says, calling me the nickname I’ve had since before I can remember. It stuck because I was always a big kid, and I’m much bigger than her now. From her, the name feels different. She waves from the porch. Seeing her gives me an idea. “Auntie,” I reply, smiling. Sarah’s my favorite of the Sisters, the aunt closest in age to me. She holds out her leg, flashing her ankle. “See?” I notice the tattoos. Another star’s been added. I smile, weakly. At twenty-three, she’s finished college with a Master’s degree in Philosophy. She waits tables and bar tends, I suppose, until she can find a job as a philosopher. I pedal past her, then step off the bike near the garage. “Ever gonna get your license? ” Sarah smiles. Standard tease. I shrug. “You ever gonna find a real job?” “Seriously?,” she grins, knowing I don’t care what she does. I walk towards her. We hug, my arms engulfing her. “How you doing?” she mutters, more seriously. She smells like shampoo. “Good.” “Don’t you drive yet?” “Had two appointments for my road test, but she didn’t get me there.” Sarah knows all the bad details about my mother. “She taking her meds?” I shrug. Sarah pulls back, still holding me with her hands, but now head tilted back, staring up into my face. I know she won’t let go until she hears an answer. Again, I shrug, but this time I say, “She hasn’t missed work since the last time you were here.” Sarah smirks, lets go. “That’ll do pig,” she smiles. Inside joke from the movie Babe, which we saw when I was little. Part of the nickname history. From her, the name feel cute. “Maybe I could take you for your driver’s test?” I don’t answer that question. “I have to look up an address. Could you give me a ride someplace?” I ask. As we step apart, she whispers, “Not now. Twins are here. Got to stay for dinner.” I notice noise from in the house. The twins are my aunt Jennifer’s girls, Nicole and Selena, age three. I sneak in without them hearing the door close. Slowly, I step towards their sounds, in the kitchen, something like singing. Behind me, Sarah yells, “Baby’s home!” I groan. The twins screech. From around the corner, they come bolting. Selena first, then Nicole, both with, I can see, something red on their hands. “Don’t touch—“ I hear their mom call out. Too late. “Baby!” they yell in unison. We embrace, more like they grab my legs, and wipe juice or finger paints on my legs. In spite of all the women, I feel like I’m home. And my plan about Martin goes on hold at least for a few minutes. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 14 of 133

“Hi honey,” my mother says, walking around the corner. Her hair’s been cut, short, shorter than I ever remember it. “Mom?” I say. “Do you like it?” She looks younger again, like her high school picture, like when she had me. “When did you—“ “Do you like it?” “Oh he’s a boy, It looks great Ellyn.” says Aunt Jen, coming out of the kitchen. “Come here girls. Wash those hands.” “What?” I ask. “Do you like it?” Aunt Jen butts in. “The correct answer is, ‘yes, mother. You look great.’’ She’s not really fat, but wears her pants too tight. “But then, you’re a boy. You don’t know stuff like that.” Selena lets go. I can always tell the twins them apart. Selena is darker, hair, eyes, even skin tone. I notice the red splotches where her hands were on my pants. Aunt Jen sees me looking at my trousers. “The girls are helping make jello.” At that, Nicole lets go. They say, in unison, “Jello,” and run back to the kitchen. My mother steps forward, kisses me. “How was school?” Like I’d give her the real answer. Like she has any idea about what my life is like. From behind me, I feel Sarah kick me lightly in the butt. “Hair looks great mom,” I reply, hating the fact that she’s kind of needy for my approval. I don’t mention the bomb. Mom smiles. Sarah laughs. My mother says, “I picked up a shift at the hospital tonight. You need anything?” I shake my head ‘no’. “Where do you need a ride?” Sarah asks then. I grimace, not wanting my mother to know what I’m planning. “Picnic today. ” my mother says. “Four o’clock. Where do you think you’re going?” “You don’t need me to do all the work today?” I grin. Usually, on Sisters Night, I help prepare dinner. “Sarah volunteered to barbeque,” she smiles. “And where are you going? Dinner’s not so far off.” On the Second Tuesday of the month, when the Sisters meet, all three of them, at our house, which was my grandmother’s house, until she died two years ago, I am the slave. My job, when the kids arrive, is to keep them occupied in the back yard, or in my room, before and after dinner so that the Sisters can all catch up. Let’s see. No news for Sarah. Jennifer is still stay home mom. No boys. Just me. Jennifer’s husband doesn’t come. Lucky him. “Just to pick something up,” I say in response to her question. “For school.” Sarah pinches me on the arm. “Ouch,” I mutter. “Forget it mom. I’ll go later.” “Okay,” she says. I turn down the hall towards my room. “About an hour,” my mom calls out. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 15 of 133

Sarah looks at me, and then turns towards the kitchen. We don’t have much to say, the age difference is too great, but I like having her around. Last year, she taught me how to surf. Sort of. I couldn’t get up on the board, just rode on my belly. And every year, she takes me snowboarding for one day. We cut school, with my mother’s permission, and go for a day trip up to the Pocono’s. That started when Sarah was in high school, still living in this house with us. She told my grandmother that she was going to cut school, no matter what, because of the good snow. My grandmother convinced Sarah to take me out of school for a day too, probably as a way to make sure Sarah wasn’t doing anything bad, like drugs. I was in third grade. Every year, the weekend before President’s day, we go for one day. I am a lousy snowboarder still; too high off of the ground, too uncoordinated. I walk into my room and close the door, tossing my bag onto the bed. From the top shelf in my bookcase, I grab the student directory. Martin Malcolm Adams name is listed right after mine. That’s why we’re school buddies, according to Mr. D’Ascenzo, alphabetical. Unlike me, there’s no phone number listed, only his parent’s names: Henry Adams and Chantrelle Adams. I pause wondering what to do next, and drop down on my back onto my bed. Up above my head, the poster from the movie Ice Age hangs on my ceiling. I’m probably too old for that poster now, but I keep it up anyway. I remember feeling like Manfred the big giant wooly mammoth. I stare at that poster, like I do almost every day. As early as second grade I was bigger than all the other kids, a big elephant. By fifth grade, I was bigger than my teacher. In the very beginning of that movie, Manny, the mammoth, stands up for the stupid sloth. He’s willing to fight two rhinos, and says, “I don’t like animals that kill for pleasure.” I like that courage. I know it’s stupid, but if I stare at that poster long enough I always come up with an idea. I always think of something. Like, how it took guts to stand up for someone. Suddenly, I’m reminded of my dad. Memorial Day is coming. My mom will want me to be in the parade or something. Wait, change of thought. Concentrate on Martin. Be courageous, I think. Like Manny the mammoth. Like your dad. Do something. Before the little kids take my attention, I walk to the computer. Car batteries cost about seventy dollars new. I have twenty if I’m lucky, left over birthday money. The search for used car batteries doesn’t take long: the junkyard in Manitou Park. Then, I head downstairs to run the daycare center. I’ll buy the next weapon of mass destruction tomorrow after school.

#

No sign of Martin in school today. Even in the lunchroom, I don’t spot him as I walk past the tables. I probably need more reconnaissance, more information about his routine. Finally, no assigned seats. I head to the back wall, my regular spot, under one of the “Got Milk” posters with Peyton Manning. The table’s empty. Usually, two girls sit at the far end. I plop into my chair and start to scan the room for Martin. “Join ya?” The voice surprises me. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 16 of 133

“What?” Bethany. She drops her tray onto the table and sits without waiting for me to reply. “You stood me up.” Slowly, I turn my shoulders to face her. We never sit together, except for the week of assigned seats. She doesn’t look mad. “Library?” she says, noticing my confusion. “Wh—“ “Lab?” Then, I remember. We were supposed to meet to go over a science lab in the library after school yesterday. The Resume Project, being with Martin, I didn’t even think about Bethany. I wince. “Forgot,” I reply. “I’m really sorry. Did—“ She waves her hand to make me stop talking. A couple of bracelets jingle in front of my face. “Forget it. Besides I know girls aren’t important to you. Joey told me.” “What?” I feel my stomach drop. The two girls who sit at the end of my table take their spots. We don’t talk, never do. Bethany stares straight at me. “Why else would you forget?” I hear the implication in her statement. Joey suggested I was gay. Great. Then, She picks up a plastic fork and points it at me accusingly. “Joey said girls aren’t important to you.” My mouth opens but I can’t seem to make any sounds. The girls at the end of the table turn, I think, to look at us. But, I’m wrong. They just rearrange themselves and their books. Bethany turns her fork and stabs it into the salad on her plate dramatically. “Alright,” she says. “I’m only kidding. Joey doesn’t say stuff like that about anyone but himself.” I don’t move, just stare at her. Grandly, she sweeps her arms outward. The bracelets, a lot of them, clank together. I notice one of those pink elastic ones. “Okay. Relax. I was only kidding.” I shrug, slow and deliberately. She points to my food, waving. “Eat. Look, it was a pain doing that stuff by myself. I was the one who cut up the fish when we did the lab. You should’ve remembered your part.” Actually, when Mr. Smith was talking about formaldehyde in class, when we were getting ready for that lab, that’s when he mentioned poisonous substance combinations. That’s when I came up with the bad chemical bomb idea. That makes Bethany almost an accessory. “That resume project—“ “Yeah,” she interrupts. “Girls had it too, in the auditorium. Even so, girls don’t like to be forgotten.” I turn from her and start to open my lunch bag. She chews salad more noisily than any girl I’ve ever heard. “Got it,” I reply softly. Then, I start to eat. “You do like girls don’t you?” Last year, I saw Bethany with Andrew Pence, one of the senior football players. He went to Rowan University this year, but someone told me that they were still together, long-distance. Loudly, I exhale and nod to her. Surprisingly, she doesn’t stop talking. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 17 of 133

“I don’t care. I mean not really. It’s…oh forget it.” “Yeah, please,” I answer. She chuckles with her mouth closed. “Do you think Joey should do something about Martin?” she asks. “I guess.” “He’s so cocky.” Then, she points. About as far away from us as you can get in the cafeteria, I spot Martin, standing. He seems to be yelling, but it’s hard to tell because of the distance and the background noise. “Don’t you think Joey should file a harassment charge or something?” I can’t see Joey, but I know that’s his normal spot, not far from the door, right where Martin is standing. I can’t imagine Joey putting up with abuse, not really. Though I don’t know Martin that well, just enough to know he needs to be stopped. “Well?” Bethany wants an answer. “Why are you sitting here?” I ask, not looking at her. “That’s rude.” I grimace. “Raine,” she says, voice rising, “you’re the one who made me do the extra work yesterday.” In the distance, Martin walks off away from Joey’s table. He holds his head back, relaxed and confident. I’m hoping he’ll trip and make a mess of himself. And, it’s too complicated all of a sudden. “What do you want me to say?” I mumble. “You never sit here.” “Nobody ever sits with you,” she replies. I don’t answer. As I watch, Martin walks over to the cafeteria line. He grabs a French fry off of a kid’s tray as the kid tries, unsuccessfully, to turn away. Bethany pokes me with her fork. “Ouch.” I turn away from Martin-watching. “Oh suck it up,” she says. She plunges her fork into her salad again. “It’s not all about you.” My teeth grind. “Let’s just say,” she continues, “I’m having issues with my friends right now.” She waves, I don’t think intentionally to point them out, but I spot a group of girls looking towards us. I also see Bob Abate at that table. I nod. “At least you have friends,” I say, but the words are so soft that I can’t even hear them. Then, she holds out an orange, like a peace offering. “So I need to sit somewhere.” I grunt and stare at her lips for a second, a pouty smile, if that even describes the look, like one of Aunt Jen’s twins hanging on my leg asking for me to pick her up. Suddenly, I feel sorry for her. “Fine.” I reach for the orange. My hand dwarfs hers. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 18 of 133

Again, I turn to spy on Martin. He’s standing at the cash register. Without thinking, I bite straight into the orange, peel and all.

#

I’m anxious to get there. I ride hard. The first thing I notice is the fence. I’ve only ever seen the junkyard from the highway before, driving by in my mother’s car, from high above and beyond, passing by as a tourist. On bike, it’s very different. Around the bend, entering Manitou park, the other side of the river, the junk yard is like a sign about a harder life. It strikes me that someone lives there, makes a living there on garbage, on the things other people throw away and take for granted, the discards. The road is long, straight, empty, lined with pine trees that make it seem like a ride into the woods not into another part of town. No sidewalks, instead sand shoulders line the road, which is also shoddier somehow, more rugged. I realize the color is different, as I bump along. It hasn’t been repaved or resurfaced in years, maybe decades. On my side of town, the whiter side, not really, but true in a way, the roads are black, better kept. Here, on the black side, the tar seems grayer, more pebbles, more rocks, more white. How strange. The fence for the junkyard comes right up to the edge of a thin row of trees. I can’t help but think that over the fence, someplace is an army of dogs ready to attack me. The junkyard sets my heart to racing. I pedal faster. I suppose it’s because I haven’t ever imagined a junkyard as anything other than an idea. This is real. Real junk. Real junk man. Real Junkyard dogs. Then, a long gravel driveway appears to my right, a metal fence, bent, rusty and old. The yellow sign reads “Jackson’s Auto Parts”. That reminds me of my aunt Jamie, but only for a second. She’d never live here with her kids. I turn my bike towards the junkyard and pedal towards the place. My legs shake. My backpack sticks to my shirt. Pedaling in the sand is harder than I expect. I reach down and grab the water bottle from the bike frame. The water’s not cold, but I don’t care. I take a big sip. Then, I tilt my helmet up for air. State law says you have to wear a helmet until you’re seventeen, but I don’t think the police are out here giving out many tickets. At the gate, a sign reads, “Beware of Dogs.” “Great”, I say out loud. It’s the “s” in dogs that makes me shiver. I stop, and hop off of the bike. “Be there,” a voice shouts unseen. I don’t hear everything. For a moment, I listen. In the distance, I hear the cars on the highway overpass. Nothing that sounds like a dog or dogs. Moving in slow motion, I put my hand out onto the metal. Then, I push the gate, more like a piece of fence than anything elaborate. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 19 of 133

I don’t see anyone. Part of me doesn’t want to. I’m nervous. Scared of the place. Scared of what I’m doing. But someone has to do it. Someone has to stop Martin. Suddenly, the dogs bark. I jump. They sound close. A car door slams. I step back towards the gate ready to run. A black man in a white t-shirt emerges from one of the rows of cars. He holds a car mirror in one of his hands. “Won’t hurt you, unless I tell them,” he says. I look around. No dogs in sight. “Or,’ he says, ‘if you jump the fence at night, when I’m not around.” I don’t say anything. Just stand there. I feel stupid. He steps forward, looking straight at me. Bleach and ammonia, that idea, those things were right under the sink. This feels different. The silence feels awful, at least for me, so I start talking. “How many dogs do you have?” I ask, feeling my voice crack. I look around for them. “That why you came here?” he asks, cranky. I shake my head. A small trailer, like a pull trailer, a few feet away holds the sign that reads: Office. However, a padlock secures the door. I don’t really know what to do, so I walk towards the nearest car. It’s big. My mother’s car is a Honda. This is much bigger, a Cadillac or a sedan, but rusty. “Just sounds like a lot of dogs.” The windshield is cracked, bigger than a pebble, more like someone hit it with a hammer. Probably from a sledgehammer or a big crash. Perhaps someone’s head. The whole right side of the car is crushed, as if a truck were scraped against the side. Maybe the driver was drunk and swiped another car or a telephone pole. That’s what it looks like, a peeled door, like when you peel the metal off of a Spam or sardine can. Don’t see much of this in town. “Never you mind. I have enough.” He walks closer, points to a small table, in front of the office, with an umbrella. I haven’t seen it before. I’m distracted by the various objects, things, shiny and broken, a contradiction. On the table: a pack of cigarettes, matches, an overflowing ashtray, a magazine opened, and a soda. I’m strangely drawn. He drops the mirror on the table. He walks past a pile of pipes and an old mattress spring set, waving for me to follow. Then, he points to a green Mustang beside the trailer. “Real reason I need the dogs,” he says. “I’m rebuilding that beauty.” “Oh,” I say, surprised at how much he’s told me in two sentences. “67” “Nice.” “Will be.” He exhales, smiles, a big smile, sits at the table. He waves for me to take a seat. I stay standing. “So what’ll it be?” I exhale myself. “Car battery.” He snorts lightly, like a laugh. “From a junkyard?” I shake my head in agreement. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 20 of 133

“Be old.” He says. I shrug. “Don’t care.” He waves like a king from his Throne, pointing vaguely across the kingdom. “Help yourself. There’s plenty.” “How much?” I ask. “Twenty dollars if it works. Ten otherwise.” “How do I know?” “I’ll tell you,” he says. Then he reaches for a cigarette. I don’t exactly run, but kind of scamper off between the rows of cars. They all look worthless, crashed and junked, hidden behind the fence. What you can discover looks so different than what is on the outside. I walk towards a beat-up brown car, something old, from the seventies or eighties. I don’t know. My mother never managed to teach me anything about cars. Nearby, I spy a green cavalier or accord, something small, hood open. Leaning over, I realize the battery’s secured in place, cables attached to the terminals. I don’t have tools. None. All of the batteries, it strikes me, will be bolted into place. I could probably ask the owner, but don’t want to be too memorable. Carefully I reach in and wrap my hands around the black cable. I tug. To my surprise, the wire comes right off. I lift the battery with the red cable still connected. This one isn’t as loose. I yank really hard, so much so that my hand stings. The cable stays attached to the battery, but jerks free from the car itself. I end up with the battery in my hands; the whole wire still attached. “That’s four dollars more,” the man says as I walk back. “I don’t want the wire,” I reply, trying to figure out how I’ll carry the battery back home. For that matter, I wonder how I’ll get it to school. “Just the battery.” Tucking the big block under my arm, I reach into my pocket and pull out my twenty- dollar bill. Instead of taking the money, he motions for the battery. Next, he places it on a table. He disconnects the battery cable and drops it on the chair nearby. He lifts the plastic cover on the top of the battery. “It’s got water.” “Oh,” I reply, not sure what to say. “That means it works. Twenty.” I nod my head in agreement. “You want to carry it under your arm on that bike?” He points, raising an eyebrow in question. “Backpack,” I reply. He shakes his head, disapproving. “Need it that bad?” Boy, I don’t expect my heart to pound. I’m buying tools to hurt, to kill, somebody. Suddenly, I need to swallow but can’t. “I wish…wish I didn’t,” I confess, searching my mind for another way. If only I could get Martin to change. If I could just walk away, pretend picking on someone didn’t matter. I’m so tired of being, of seeing, that kind of cruelty. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 21 of 133

Junkman’s words take me out of my own thoughts. “I’ll make up a sling for you so you can ride it out.” “I think it’ll fit,” I reply, pointing to my bag. “Yeah, but, you’ll have to carry it sideways. Acid might leak that way.” Again, the dogs bark. I look around. They’re out of sight. The man waits. Finally, I nod and hand over the money. Then, he wraps a plastic bag and a few pieces of rope around the battery. “Turn around,” he says. I do. He maneuvers the rope, and secures it across my back and bag. “Don’t let the acid get on you.” “Thanks.” “I could use a big guy like you once in a while,” he pauses, pointing at the varied cars, pieces of machinery, “If you ever need a job. Help put the seats in the Mustang.” I nod, distracted but don’t say anything. Reluctantly, I head off, wondering if the next plan will work. Wondering if I really want it to.

#

I prepare the second event better than the bomb. I take the lavatory pass out of history, fourth period. My locker is about ten over from Martin’s, in D hall. Usually, it’s a pretty empty part of the building during this time. I’ve come down here three times during the past two weeks to check. From my locker, I grab the backpack, a second one, filled with equipment. The bag feels heavy as I lift. I’m careful not to tip it. Overly concerned, I look inside at the cables, the big black box, the duct tape and rubber gloves. Again, I glance around. No one. I close my locker without more than a click. I can’t breath real easily. I feel my heart pumping, again, like the last time I tried something, like the junkyard. I walk deliberately, staring at the tiles and stepping each foot onto a crack, like a rhythm of one two one two. For a moment, I think about Joey Roberts, the reason I’m here; someone needs to stop Martin. Suddenly, I feel strong. Self-righteous. I won’t be able to tell Joey that I was the one who did it; but I don’t care. Time to stand up. My step feels lighter. At Martin’s locker, I carefully look left then right. Still no one comes. No noise either. I turn the combination with familiar movements. It took me two weeks of constant stopping, pretending to talk to the girls on either side of this locker, faking interest in history and notes, to watch Martin unlock the locker and memorize his combination. I’ve opened the locker about a dozen times now, the last time yesterday, way late, after the building was empty, so I could make sure there was room in the bottom. Plenty. Last number turned, the locker opens. I place my bag on the floor. Carefully, I unzip my bag. The plastic shifts in my hands. I lift out the battery. It’s bulky, heavy. I rip the plastic from around the battery terminals so that Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 22 of 133 they are exposed. The whole battery doesn’t need to be unwrapped, just the top. Fortunately, the locker’s big enough. Some of the newer lockers, the one’s they replaced this year, are smaller, but not this one. On the bottom of his locker, Martin’s books are piled flat, a nice platform for the battery. As I lift, the battery bangs against the locker door. I notice my hands, my whole arms, shaking. Again, I look up and down the hallway. Nothing. The plan is simple: electrocution. But, I’m a wreck. I’m not sure I’m going to kill him. Actually, I hope I don’t. I read about Stockholm syndrome, or something like that, where hostages live if their captures know them personally. I hate knowing that Martin has a family, little sisters, like my nieces. Still I have to do something. Again, I try to put the thing in his locker. My arms feel so unsteady, that the battery rattles against the door. I’m not going to kill him, but he’ll learn a lesson for sure. I don’t want to murder him anymore, just teach him a lesson, make a statement about bullies. I’m not an electrician, but I know the basic principle, and how to make this work. I need to connect two ends of the cables to the battery. I also have to leave the other two ends ready to touch. The trick is setting up the locker door. My method includes a coat hanger, duct tape, and the metal of the locker itself. Basically, when Martin opens the locker door, he’ll make the cable ends meet and complete the circuit. He should get a shock. Unfortunately, I don’t know how big. And, more unfortunately, I start to sweat. I feel it. That’s another reason that people don’t want to be around me. I smell. That was another of my names in middle school, BOB: Body Odor Baby. Somehow that first part of that one disappeared. I hope my smell here at Martin’s locker disappears, so that they can’t trace to me. I pull out my rubber gloves, just in case I touch the electric parts. No need for me to get stung or die. With a paper towel, I wipe down the battery and locker, as well. From the far end of the hallway, I hear a voice from around the corner. Quickly, I close locker door. I stay, kneeling, in front of my backpack, waiting. Sure enough, the woman security guard comes around the corner, pretty far away, but walking in my direction. I jam the cables back into my bag and spring to my feet. She’s walking with a teacher, one of the gym guys. I fling the bag over my shoulder and grab the lavatory pass, a bulky chunk of wood, out of my pocket. I’ll look guilty if I head in the opposite direction, so I walk towards them. The security guard looks up. I wave the wooden pass to cover for my shaking hands. “Morning.” She grins, slightly, nods her approval. “Mug nig,” I sputter back, my tongue too nervous for speech. Oh hell. The teacher glances at me, like everyone does when I pass. He waves, like he would to anyone else, but fortunately they keep talking to each other. I don’t pay attention to what they’re saying. I go by and head for the bathroom. The worst part, I realize, as I duck into the Boys Room, would be getting caught before I finish. I bend over looking under the stall doors for feet. None. The bathroom is empty. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 23 of 133

I walk down to the end, to the big handicapped stall, and open the door. Exhaling, I sit down and catch my breath. I place the bag on the floor in front of me. Not that I need to, but I guess because I’m nervous. I open the bag and pull out my supplies. Duct tape. Battery cables. Metal coat hanger. I’ve also brought a pair of pliers, some wire cutters, rope, and a bottle of water. I stare at them on the tile floor. This morning I thought I’d spill the water on the floor in front of his locker to make a better electrical trap. Instead, sitting on the toilet, I crack open the plastic top and sip. That feels good. I reach over and touch the metal dividing wall, then realize where I am: B Hall Bathroom. Last stall. My stall. I stand to leave. Unexpectedly, I hear the hallway door open. Two boys voices say something. Quickly, I lift the bag up onto my lap. Augh. Time to leave. I hate this stall. But, I can’t. Can’t be seen in the hallway. Can’t be seen lugging around battery cables. Quietly, I lift the things off the floor to repack the bag. “—the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” says one of the voices. “Absolutely,” comes the reply. I wonder if they know I’m here. I wait listening. No sounds, just a long silent moment. My hands stop shaking as I stare at the dividing wall, the one they had to replace after the Drowning. I don’t know what else to call it. They all yelled “Swirly”, but it was really a killing. The memory starts to come. I don’t think I’ve ever been the same. Then, I hear a flush. The Drowning started with a flush in October of freshman year. I was in here, standing at a urinal, and one of the upperclassmen said something I don’t even remember. It happened way too fast. I didn’t even say anything. Next thing two or three people pushed me towards the toilet, holding my head down. How twelve other people ended up in this bathroom so quickly I don’t know. A second flush sounds. Then, the sinks. I promised myself I would never enter this restroom again. I tried to stop them from pushing me. I held my arms out to the side, grabbed the bathroom door, but when a mob wants something you can’t stop them. At least ten people grabbed me, shoved, aimed for the toilet. I pushed with all of my strength, and the wall between two stalls bent and snapped off. My feet slid across the floor. Then came all the hands and more shoving. Harshly, my face met the water. I felt a shoe on my neck. I heard them chanting “Swirly” and the toilet flushed across my cheeks. Again, the bathroom door sounds—the kids leaving. I finish reloading supplies, but don’t move for another minute. The worst part of the Drowning was the temperature. Wet warm heat on the back of my head. Someone urinated on me, and some part of me disappeared into the pipes. Now, as though I’m using the bathroom, I pull out a few sheets of toilet paper. I wipe the sweat from my head. In case anyone is in there with me, I flush. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 24 of 133

The second worse part of the Drowning was that I couldn’t remember the face of one single kid in there. Not one. I guess I was too nervous, too many to remember, and the recollection also drowned. And they probably thought they got away with it. The next day, I went in every single boys room and shoved an apple in every toilet. A sewage nightmare. That memory toughens my resolve again. I grab my bag and head to the hallway. At Martin’s locker, I turn the combination too quickly and it doesn’t open. “Get a grip,” I whisper to myself. I exhale loudly. Then, I turn the lock again, carefully, making sure each number hits exactly. The door opens perfectly. The hardest part of the whole contraption is maneuvering the end of the cable on the locker door. To get it correct, I tape the metal coat hanger to the bottom of his shelf, which needs just the right tension, angle and strength. Without connecting the cables to the battery, I open the door. The hanger pulls right off the shelf. No luck. Next, I double the duct tape on the hanger. This time, the cable doesn’t reach. I try it four times. Finally, nearly ten minutes later, twice as long as I expect, I clip the jumper cables to the battery. Should work. Slowly, I close the door. Inside, I hear something fall, metallic. “No,” I mutter. Fortunately, no one has seen me. Now I’m too scared to care if it works. Can’t check it without the possibility of electrifying myself. It probably won’t work. I don’t care. I have to do something, even if it’s not murder. Maybe I’m turning into him, or worse.

#

I have to watch. As the bell rings I bolt out of class towards D hall. I don’t care who I bump into along the way. I have to watch. The crowds of kids feels so full, so in the way. My backpack bangs against me as I hurry past. Turning the corner, I see the locker but not Martin. I slow down. Staying on the far side of the hall, I pretend to be looking into a classroom. Really, I’m keeping half an eye out for Martin. This hallway meets the cafeteria at the end. The lunchtime crowd feels packed as it wanders past. And, lo and behold, there he appears. Today he’s wearing, khaki’s and a blue denim shirt. Somebody might mistake him for a student in a Catholic school, polished, ironed shirt. His backpack, a dark blue one, seems just right, and for some reason that pisses me off. I step back, just a little, right next to a classroom door. Martin slows. I drop my backpack on the floor, about twenty feet from him. Then, I kneel. Unzipping it, I pretend to be looking for something in my bag. Really, I’m watching him. Martin stops. His fingers reach out towards the locker. He spins the dial on the lock. Whack! The classroom door knocks into me. I go sprawling onto the floor. “Sorry,” someone says. A few kids step around me. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 25 of 133

I roll. Looking up, I notice a teacher. A short woman with dark skin and dark hair, Hispanic looking. She begins to bend towards me. Bethany, from my lunch table, stands behind her, awkwardly staring at me on the floor. Quick, I look over at Martin. He’s still turning the combination. “Are you—“ “Fine,” I reply, rolling onto my hands and knees, rising. Bethany steps around the teacher, starts saying something that I don’t want to hear. “Raine, do you need a hand?” She smiles, gazing right into my eyes. Then, she touches me on the shoulder. I jump. Startled as if I’ve been electrocuted. The distraction is awful. Another glance towards Martin, between the thinning crowds in the hallway, still turning the locker combination. I jump up, looking in his direction. Teachers voice, I think: “I’m terribly—“ “Really, fine.” I reply. I wave my hand, and nearly swat Bethany by accident. She jumps back, surprised. “Really.” Bethany frowns. The teacher gently moves her to the side as the other kids start to enter the classroom. Now, I grab my book bag and walk away from them, not wanting any conversation this second. I step towards Martin. Sixteen feet away. I hear the teacher walk back into her room. Now there are only a few students left in the hallway. Fourteen steps. He drops his bag on the floor. Ten steps. Then, he opens the locker. For a brief second, nothing happens. Nothing. No one moves. I don’t breathe. The world stops revolving around the sun. Then, a little noise, like a buzz. In an instant, Martin explodes. His hair shoots straight outward. I see his fingers gripping the locker door, but his body bursts outward in all directions at once, like a balloon. Every molecule of his body flies in a different trajectory splattering the hallway with a million pieces of Martin meat and muck. Nope. The locker door clanks open. Right hand on the metal door, Martin stares inside. The hanger jerks out of his locker, falling at Martin’s feet. One of the jumper cables clatters to the ground in front of him. “What the—“ Martin says. Then, the car battery slides off of the pile of books onto the floor, just missing one of his feet. He jumps back. “Hell,” I blurt, stopping, now only a few feet away. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.” The battery thuds onto its side. “That was supposed to—“ Suddenly, I realize I’m talking to him. Martin turns from his locker to me, stares up into my eyes. I don’t move, just look back right at him. “What did you say?” he asks. I don’t answer. “Did you—“ This time he stops talking. He raises a finger, steps closer, points it in my face. “You were in my locker last week.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 26 of 133

No answer. “There was no cockroach.” No answer. “What were you—“ Still no answer. The hallway sounds empty. I look. The last bunch of kids going into the cafeteria heads down the hall. “What is this crap?” he asks, angry. He reaches into the locker, and pulls the other part of the jumper cables out. I step back. He drops the cable onto the car battery. His face scrunches up, like he’s trying to understand. I haven’t said a word yet. “Were you trying to electrify my locker?” he mutters, shaking his head. Again, I don’t answer. His face twitches, like incomprehensible. He picks up the end of the cable again, waves it in the air. “Electro—electrocute me?” “So what?” I counter. His head jerks, stunned. The cable drops from his hand. “Is that a yes?” I feel my eyebrows tighten. “Well?” he continues. “Yes.” “What?!” “Yes,” I repeat. He stares down at the battery, then at me, then the battery. “Are you crazy?” he shouts. “You’re the psychopath,” I reply, stepping closer, angry now, thinking about Joey Roberts. “This is a car battery!” he groans. “So?” “You tried to kill me.” My lips tighten. “We don’t put up with bullies here.” “Bullies?” I nod. “Me?” Again, I nod. He laughs out loud. “What do you call electrocution?” No answer. I feel my fist clench. “First of all,” he continues. “You are stupid. A car battery without a generator can’t do anything. And, second—“ Something comes over me. I hear Joey Roberts voice in my head: Stand up for yourself. I swing at Martin’s head. He ducks. Before I know what happens, I feel his fist in my chest. The air goes out of my lungs with a grunt. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 27 of 133

“Second,” he says, calmly, like I haven’t even taken a swing. “What do you call attempted murder?” I catch my breath, and make another fist. For an answer, I aim at his head. He’s quick. I miss, badly. Now, he turns, elbows me in the rib. I wince, but don’t lose ground. He says, “I’ll tell you. Expulsion, stupid ass.” I swing again. This time he steps to the right, and my hand grazes his shoulder, barely. He shoves the back of my neck, pulling me down. My nose connects with the locker. “You better watch who you try to kill,” he says. Stunned, I grab my face. Blood. I want his power, his potency. “You shouldn’t pick on the gay kids,” I blurt, turning towards him. Martin makes a strange face. “On who?” “Someone will take their side.” “Great,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Their side?” I wipe my hand across my face. It stings. He steps back, out of range. “Yeah.” “And, what are you? Gay boy, the hero?” “You just shouldn’t—“ “Hey,” a voice calls from down the hall. “You two.” Martin and I both turn. School security, a fat guy in a blue uniform. He waddles towards us. Martin slaps his locker, loudly. It dawns on me that I’m screwed. I exhale, defeated.

# Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 28 of 133

Part II: Paradox

Martin turns towards the guard. I suppose I have the chance to take one last swing, but in front of security I don’t want to do anything. “Yes, sir,” Martin answers. He looks calm. The guard arrives, panting, ready to break up our fight. “What’s going on?” I twist my neck, stretching. The guard stares up at my face, the blood. Then, he looks down at the battery and cable. I see his eyes, rolling, roving, perplexed. Whatever anger I had dissipates, turns into anxiety. Next comes the arrest, expulsion. “If it’s worth it,” The Holy Darkness speaks in my head, surprising me. I haven’t felt or heard it, not this loud, not for weeks, not since…the library. “Are you okay, son?” the guard asks. It takes a moment for me to realize that he’s talking to me. Blood makes me the victim, even at six foot eight. I’m distracted from this crisis by the Holy Darkness, present but silent now. Martin answers before I do. “He hit his head on the locker. You should take him to the nurse.” While the guard looks at me, Martin yanks the duct tape off of the inside of his locker. “You alright?” asks security. I realize how old the man looks, maybe sixty-five, short, gray and balding. If Martin and I were fighting, he’d never be able to break us apart. At least, not without hurting himself pretty badly. I shrug, confused by Martin’s tone. “He do this?” the guard asks, pointing to Martin. I don’t answer. There’s all the cables and battery strewn in the hall at our feet. Martin pulls the metal coat hanger from his locker. He bends it up into a pile and starts wrapping the duct tape around it. Down the hall, behind Martin, I see another security officer turn the corner towards us. I feel a slow trickle of wet on my upper lip. Blood. Looking down, my shirt seems to glow with red. “And what’s all this stuff?” the guard asks. He tries to sound mean, with a deep voice, but his breathing makes him sound mostly old. For a moment, the hall feels really quiet again. The footsteps of the approaching guard click one at a time, rapidly. I feel now the Holy Dark, waiting inside, depressing, alive. I know I’m not quite a super hero, but something happens, like I suddenly grow bones. I lick the blood from my lip. The guard stares at me. “Well?” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 29 of 133

“Jumper cables,” I finally say. Martin tosses the ball of bent hanger and duct tape onto the top shelf in his locker. Martin bends, lifts the battery. “Raine,” he says, looking at me, “was helping me carry this.” The far off guard seems to be talking into a walkie-talkie. “Then,” Martin says, “he dropped it on his foot.” From in my head, the Holy Darkness: “It’s worth it if it brings good.” I haven’t heard that voice so clearly since the words came about killing Martin. “What?” I ask. “That’s when he fell and hit his nose,” Martin finishes. Suddenly, I’m alone with myself again. The guard with us looks at the battery in Martin’s hand. “What are you doing with a car battery in school? And cables?” “Borrowing them,” Martin replies without missing a beat. The other guard arrives. I realize it’s the woman, an older lady with short dark hair. “Charlie?” she asks. Officer Charlie, I guess, shrugs, shakes his head. As they look at each other, Martin raises his eyebrow towards me. Suddenly, I realize that he’s not turning me in. For whatever reason that I don’t understand, Martin doesn’t want me in trouble. “Nurse?” Martin mutters. He points to me. I groan, on purpose. I need to leave. “Go,” says the first guard, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. I turn to walk away, but look over my shoulder at Martin, who’s still holding the battery. “Give me that thing,” Officer Charlie says to him. He yanks it from Martin’s grasp. “You can’t cart that around school. There’s acid in it.” The woman security guard steps up next to me, personal escort to the nurse. “Pinch your nose,” she says, demonstrating with her own hands. I pinch dramatically with two fingers. Then, I tilt my head back. The blood flow’s stopped already, but I humor her. “No, lean forward. Your head.” As I turn my face down, I notice two things: a balding spot on the top of her head, and the spattering of blood across my shirt in a pattern. Not much, a few droplets in a perfect line that drops diagonally to my waist. I let go of my nose and rub the blood. Nothing happens. No smear. None comes off on my fingers. Too little. “What’s that all about?” she asks. I shrug. I don’t know. She stops to watch the other two walk away. The guard carries the battery. From a distance I notice the droplets of my own blood at Martin’s locker. “Fight?” she asks. I shake my head, wondering, why would he protect me? I know enough not to tell her what I’m thinking, which is, “why would anyone protect someone who tried to kill them?” “You sure?” I don’t answer. I don’t have an answer.

# Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 30 of 133

The nurse, Ms. Walker sits me in her private office. The bigger nurse’s office, with beds and chairs, is crowded with about eight kids. Mostly they look to be goofing off, pretending to have a headache or cramps in order to cut social studies or miss a math test. Ms. Walker wears short hair and stands only up to my chest. I plop into the chair next to her desk. She shuts the door behind me. “Hold,” Ms. Walker says firmly to me, indicating my nose even though the blood has stopped. Her reputation is no nonsense. She knows me well. My size alone makes me a special case, memorable. “Fifteen minutes squeeze, then ice,’ she continues. “Keep your head down, not tilted up.” I pinch again. For a second the thought passes through my mind that people can drown on their own blood. Then, Ms. Walker lifts the phone—call to mom. A few of the kids on benches look over through the glass window. Slowly, I lean to my right, lift my butt. With my left hand I reach back and take out my wallet. Ms. Walker punches the button for speakerphone, and I hear the ringing sound. From my wallet, I draw out the plastic picture holder. I can feel the need for reassurance now. There’s everybody’s face: the twins, Sarah, a family shot of the Sisters. The ringing changes to the answering machine. Mom must be out or sleeping off the night shift. My voice comes out the speaker. “We’re not home now, so leave a message.” “Ms. Abbott,” says the nurse, “I just wanted you to know Raine had an injury today. Nothing serious. A bloody nose.” She turns to me, indicating that I should talk. Loudly, I lie. “Just fell, mom.” My mother knows me, knows it’s possible. “Still growing into your body, huh?” I imagine her laughing over the phone. Ms. Walker again points at me as though I should say more. I shrug. Nothing else to say. Frustrated, Ms. Walker picks up the phone to speak into the receiver. What I want from my wallet is behind the picture of the twins, squished up in behind their faces. I reach my finger into the plastic and remember. I found it the day they were born, when I was rummaging through all the old photos at home in the basement, looking for a picture of Aunt Jennifer, their mom. Jennifer was in the hospital and the girls weren’t even four hours old. I wanted to make some kind of card. So, down where all of the loose photos are kept, in this big blue Tupperware container that my mom has labeled as “Treasure Chest”, I started poking for stuff. She’s put my report cards and old Mother’s Day cards I made in 2nd grade in that box. And, of course, lots of pictures taken by many Aunts. Not the ones in the photo albums that my mother keeps upstairs, mostly the loose ones, no dates, the kind that don’t matter. I grabbed a stack of papers and photos, maybe eight inches high, and sat there on the floor, a few feet from my tuba. Then I started to flip through the shots looking for Jennifer. Most were of me. A bunch of my mom, her mother before she died, a lot of us at the beach with Sarah when she looked about ten years old and I was little, even my father and grandfather. But, then, right in the middle of that stack, was an envelope. The paper felt like a letter in a regular packet, the type you mail at the post office. But on the front something was printed in pencil, kind of faded. I pushed my face closer. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 31 of 133

“For Raine, when you are a man.” Underneath that was scrawled a little #1, like there were supposed to be a lot more letters. The envelope felt old. I looked for others in the box, but there weren’t any more. For a few minutes, I sat there, thinking, wondering if I should break that seal, imagining what my mother might have put in that envelope and why she would wait until I was a man to give it to me. What made me decide to open it was thinking about my mom. She wasn’t doing well then. Grandma was dead. My mother wasn’t working and wasn’t taking her medications. Even the excitement of the twins coming didn’t matter much to her. She didn’t want to go visit the babies in the hospital until the next day. Leaning against that basement wall, I realized I wasn’t the youngest anymore, regardless of what they called me. I guess every eighth grader thinks he’s a man. Opening that envelope changed my life. The note wasn’t from my mother. The Holy Dark moved in me that day. I knew I’d never be a superhero, but maybe something close. “You need to change your shirt,” Ms. Walker says, hanging up the phone and shifting me from memory to her office. I feel the paper folded up behind the picture of the twins. That’s enough. I don’t need to take it out or hold it. “Do you have anything other clothes here?” she asks. I shake my head. Then, I close my wallet. You never let me down. I expect security or the Principal to be in the main part of her office when I stand up, but no one is there but kids. Ms. Walker hands me a Maroon gym shirt from some hidden corner of her office. Then, after an obligatory ice pack, I sit on one of the benches for about ten minutes. The shirt, of course, barely fits, leaving four inches of my belly showing over the top of my jeans. I don’t care, not really. A few kids stare. They always stare. Just one more reason now. I leave without signing out of the office, which may get me in trouble later. Truthfully, I have bigger things to worry about today, like what to do next about Martin.

#

The hours roll and blur. Thursday night, mom’s doing another seven to seven, night shift. I pace around the house all afternoon, pretending that I don’t feel well. I keep waiting for something to happen. For the Principal to call and leave a message for my mother; for Martin’s mom or dad to phone the house with a rant about me; for the police to knock at the door with a warrant. Somehow I know that Martin will find a way to get back at me. No one covers for a kid who tries to electrocute him. While my mom gets ready for work, I make us spaghetti. Later, I can’t eat. I sit with my mom still faking illness and waiting. But nothing comes. I grab a book, but can’t concentrate. Read. Today I haven’t brought a book. Instead I try to remember all the details of the last one I read, Grendel about the great giant beast who fights Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 32 of 133

Beowulf. Monsters viewpoint. I like all the giants like me: Manny the mammoth from Ice Age, Raineenstein, King Kong, Grendel, the Hulk, Ben Grimm—the Thing. Life is different for us. Fortunately, the Phillies play, so I sit by the front door near the phone for hours, listening to the game on the radio, waiting and waiting, until finally the street lights come on outside. Then, I sit more, until about ten o’clock when the game ends. A walk-off home run. I sleep in my clothes, staring at the mammoth.

#

I bolt awake the next morning, anxious about what happens next. Before my mother arrives home from her shift, I’m out the door. I don’t want to deal with morning pleasantries or whatever else she’ll bring home with her. I get to school early. Martin’s move. I know I’ll see him at the Resume Project last period. But, I expect a pass to the Principal’s office in homeroom. Nothing, not even a request from the nurse to see me about my nose. No fat little security guy summons me. The police don’t arrive with cuffs and a warrant and pictures of all the cables in Martin’s office. The hours pass as I wait for security to show up, to ask questions about batteries and electricity and premeditation. I sit, edgy and silent, through four classes before lunch. I don’t see Martin in the hallway either. Maybe he wants me to wonder, suffer. Ten o’clock, and still no indication of trouble. My cell phone doesn’t ring with a message from the police. No anonymous Internet descriptions of what happened on myspace that people tell me about. No kids asking for details because Martin’s been bragging about how he beat up the Moose baby. School isn’t what I expect. Actually, I’m not sure what I expect. Something. It’s Martin’s turn. It’s just how and when he manages to get the authorities. At lunch, I walk slowly into the cafeteria, hunching myself over. I want to see him before he sees me. For the most part, I sit pretty far from him. Then, as I look towards his end of the room, I remember that I don’t even have any food or money. I left the house in such a hurry that I didn’t plan lunch. I go back to my normal spot, by the back door, near the two girls in the corner. No Martin. No Bethany either. Today I could use the distraction. I just sit, nervous and not eating. Nothing. At one o’clock, when Mr. D’Ascenzo’s voice comes over the PA, “Junior boys report to the small auditorium.” Time to face the proverbial music, firing squad, Martin. With the hallway crowded, I drag my feet and head South, I suppose. “Find your buddy,” Mr. D’Ascenzo says, as we wander into the small auditorium, which seats about two hundred people. Martin, I see right away, is down in the front row on the right, sitting upright in a chair. Most of the other kids work their way towards the back of the room, away from the stage. Martin spots me, waves, like we are friends. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 33 of 133

As I walk forward, Mr. D’Ascenzo says, “Make sure you have something to write with today.” “Hey,” says Martin, smiling. I’m surprised at the greeting. “Hey,” I mumble. Turning, I drop my back pack in front of me, take the seat next to Martin in the front row. The arm rests dig, a little uncomfortably, into my sides. “Sorry about the nose,” he says immediately. Mr. D’Ascenzo flicks the lights, an indication that we should quiet down. I stare at Martin. He keeps grinning. I shrug. “Okay,” D’Ascenzo says, turning on the projector. “We’re passing out sheets with a list of groups. These are all of the activities at Toms River South. Athletic events. After school clubs. Organizations.” Our papers come immediately because we’re so close to the front. Martin hands me a stack of paper. I notice a dark bruise on his hand. Mr. D’Ascenzo keeps talking. Another bruise, it’s hard to tell because of Martin’s dark skin, seems to be fading from his forearm. Looks older than the one on his hand. “To start us off for today, everyone should be sitting with their buddy. If you’re not, go to the back corner and find another one.” For a second the thought crosses my mind to walk away from Martin. Instead, he turns to me, grins a stupid wide smile, and nods his head. “Nose don’t look bad”’ From the microphone, Mr. D’Ascenzo continues. “So read the list, and pick five activities you’d consider joining next year. Remember this is to build your resume.” On the screen flashes a long list: fall sports—soccer, cross country, football; yearbook, play, student council, gaming club, chess, film, more like that. “Why didn’t you turn me in?” I ask him. Martin folds his paper in half. “You have enough going against you,” he laughs. I know he means everything about me, size, reputation, every atom. “Besides I know what happens to people who do jail time.” “Jail?” The lights dim a little, just enough to make the screen look brighter. Involuntarily, my hand shakes. Martin doesn’t see. “Check off five,” D’Ascenzo says, again. “Just interest.” “Yeah, if I turn you in you go to jail. At least Juvie. Felony offense you know.” I swallow, slow and hard. I glance down at my Resume paper, then I check off the first thing I see: Football. Martin holds his paper and pencil not moving. I decide to change the subject. “You should mark some things on that list,” I say. He looks at me, smirks, then stabs his paper with his pencil. The point goes straight through. “Yeah. Like I’d take advice from you Big Baby Bully. B3.” “Bully? Me?” “Yeah.” “Me?” “Yeah. Who…no. wait. Let me get this straight. You don’t think you’re the school bully? “No. I’m not.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 34 of 133

“No?” Martin leans back now, eyes bulging. “No.” “Oh.” He crumples his paper. “You are,” I blurt. He laughs out loud. So loud that other people look. “Me?” “You hit Joey with a tray.” “What?” Again, he laughs. His face opens up, teeth so wide that I see his tonsils in the dark. “Yesterday,” I continue. “In the cafeteria.” “You have got to—“ “You stole French fries off some kid’s tray. And you pick on gay kids.” From the front of the room, Mr. D’Ascenzo says, “One more minute.” Martin clicks his teeth together, chomping. “You are out of your mind.” I don’t answer. Instead, I scan my activity list. I check off Lacrosse and Film Club. “You’re the one who always does things to everyone” I still don’t look at him. Martin slaps my paper, jarring my attention. “I may be a punk,” he says. “Even an ass. My dad calls me arrogant. I may even—“ “Homophobe.” “Whoa. Big word. But get your facts straight B3” “Don’t call me that.” “Oh up yours. If the shoe fits, stick it in your butt B3. Big. Baby. Bully.” “Thirty seconds,” Mr. D’Ascenzo shouts. I straighten my paper. Martin’s sheet wiggles in his left hand. “Check something off,” I say, again trying to change the subject. “You don’t really have to do the activities.” He shakes his head slightly. “No.” he answers back. I grunt, like a question without words. “Fine. Don’t take my advice on anything.” “That’s stupid. I’m not leaving this blank to spite you.” “Whatever.” “Eat it,” he says. “This ain’t about you. I’ll just be disappointed.” Then, he doesn’t say anything. I shrug, and keep reading. I end up checking off mostly sports: wrestling, baseball, Frisbee club. Mr. D’Ascenzo gives the next direction. “Turn to your partner when you are done, and share your lists. See if you have anything in common.” “Guess not,’ says Martin, grin subdued and paper blank. “Maybe attempted murder club.” I wince, as though he’s hit my nose again. “Am I supposed to apologize?” “You think?” “I don’t know what to think,” I say, loudly, louder than I thought, turning a few heads including Mr. D’Ascenzo. He looks towards us, and Martin waves. Mr. D’Ascenzo grins. I want him to stop talking about yesterday. “You didn’t check off one thing, Martin.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 35 of 133

From the back, I hear someone shout. “Mister D’Ascenzo?” Joey Roberts always has a question, something, anything, to be in the spotlight. Today, he’s more visible than normal, a blue or green tint to his hair. “Yes?” “What if you’re already in the activity?” Joey asks. Mister D’Ascenzo runs his fingers through his hair as though the answer requires a lot of thought or perhaps because he’s unconsciously effected by Joey’s hairstyle. He looks at Joey, then the list, then Joey again. “You can mark those, but mark at least two new ones.” Joey shouts, “You rock, dude.” A few people chuckle. Suddenly, Martin slaps his paper into my lap. “Here. You pick some for me. Fill it out. You owe me.” I feel my jaw clench but don’t say anything. He shakes his head. “Not that it’s your business, B3, but my dad won’t let me do anything like that, nothing at school, only at church.” I glance at his paper. “Why?” He grunts. “Huh?” “Why am I even talking to you B3? I’m not allowed to do school activities. Period.” My mind and mouth go blank. Martin snatches back the paper. “Nothing?” I ask. “You mean like sports, yearbook?” “Prom. School play. I’m only in public school because we can’t afford religious school,” Martin continues, moving his hands to crease the paper. “If it was up to him, I’d be home schooled.” “Oh” I reply. “What’s on your list, B3. And don’t lie to me.” Suddenly, I’m self-conscious, aware that my mother wants me to go out for as many things as possible. Cheap baby-sitting, even though I’m a year from graduating and big as a grizzly bear. She treats me like a baby. “Football,” I reply, thinking of the fall. “Played last year.” “What else?” “Nothing really. Isn’t there something you want to do?” Martin fingers stop moving on the paper. He moves his hand, and I spot a bruise across his knuckles. “Football. Brian Dawkins was my favorite player growing up.” “Your dad lets you watch football on tv?” I laugh, sarcastic. “But not play?” Martin moves, and the lights grow brighter. I notice his neck muscles, thick, strong. “Actually,” I grin. “You should go out. You’re tough.” “I’d rather wrestle.” “You could do both,” I reply. “Different seasons.” Martin grimaces and curls his lip upwards. “My dad will never let me. Besides, why am I even talking to you?” Then, with his other hand, Martin turns his paper, one more time. With a quick movement, he creases it twice. Suddenly, a paper airplane. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 36 of 133

“Start to wrap it up,” Mr. D’Ascenzo says. He adjusts the lights, brighter still. “Don’t mess with me again,” Martin says menacingly. “I mean it. I’m a black belt.” “You’re making that up.” I reply. “No. For real. Tang soo do.” He pokes the airplane at my eye. I startle. He smirks and holds the airplane still. “Why do you think I could hit your nose? Is it broke?” Suddenly, I want to slap him. I want to know karate myself. I shake my head in response to his second question. “Why’d you try to kill me?” he asks, nonchalant, like he wants to borrow a pencil. He doesn’t pause to let me answer. “You want an apology?” “Forget it, you’re just a bully.” “What?” “Like that time you messed up all the toilets. You crazy.” He zooms the paper plane in front of my nose. Quick as I can, I reach out. Martin yanks it to the left, way out of my reach. My fingers grab air. His eyes never leave mine. He tosses the plane, which flies just beyond Mr. D’Ascenzo’s shoulder, but the counselor doesn’t notice. It lands on the stage. “Besides B3, you my slave now.” “What?” “Yup.” He smiles, too big. “You do what I say.” And, right then, as if I’ve opened an electrified locker, I feel something move in me, not the Holy Darkness, but a break, a crack. I want to speak, but only dumb words come out. “You’re a Bully, see?” Martin snaps his fingers in my face, then raises one finger, a warning. “Listen, I’ll turn you in if you don’t do what I say.” And he’s got me. “Fine,” I whisper. Mr. D’Ascenzo calls out. “Anyone interested in Art Club, come to row B.” Martin stands. “So first thing. You don’t call me bully anymore B3. Ever.” I nod. “And you need to learn that you can’t get everything you want. So you’re coming to church to meet the Reverend. You can see for yourself about the whole football thing.” I suppose that church is a kind of penance for my sins.

#

The idea is stupid. I dial information, even though my mother hates to spend the money for that kind of phone call. I’ll hear it from her later. I plop down at my desk, knees settling onto the bottom of the drawer. “City and state?” A woman’s voice. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 37 of 133

“South Toms River,” I say, guessing. Most of the black families live there. “New Jersey.” “Listing?” “Henry Adams,” I reply. “Checking.” Quickly, I grab a pencil and paper from the desk. I know it costs extra money to be connected without dialing. I don’t want to do extra chores to pay for that one. I jot the number down when the operator comes back on the line. As soon as she hangs up, I punch the phone number and sit down on my bed. The idea still feels stupid. It rings three times, then a cavernous voice answers. “Hello.” “Hello,” I reply. “Yes?” The voice sounds deeper than any I’ve ever heard, like a disc jockey, underwater. “Can I please talk to Mr. Adams?” “Speaking.” In his answer, I hear an accent, southern, even in just a few words. “Mr. Adams?” I pause, picturing him. The voice gives a few hints, or so I think. He must be an enormous man, bulking but fit not fat. I picture his hands wrapped around the phone, gigantic fingers. “Yes.” “This is Raine. Raine Abbott.” A mumble, like a hum from his end of the phone. “I go to school with your son Martin.” “Yes.” Suddenly, the idea feels stupid. Lots of my ideas feel stupid. Who tries to electrocute kids in school? It was stupid to try to make a chemical bomb, stupid to buy that car battery, stupid to call Martin’s dad, stupid— “Can I help you son?” His voice interrupts my thoughts. Oh well, I think, calls already been made. If I can get him something he wants, maybe he won’t turn me in. Un-huh. Bad idea. “Mr. Adams,” I begin again. “I don’t know your son Martin very well. As a matter of fact,” I say, “we’re just starting to know each other.” I pause, listening for some response. None comes. “And, well, sir, we are…I mean, we’ve been assigned to each other as high school buddies.” And I tried to kill him. And he’s a bully. Outside my door, I hear the girls run past, screeching. For a moment, I’m distracted and stop talking. I forgot they were here tonight. “I’m still listening, son.” “Well, sir, Martin and I. Oh this is stupid.” “Out with it son,” he asserts with that voice which feels like a command. “What have you two gotten yourselves into?” For just one instant, I feel like telling him the whole story, like confessing all the stupid things I’ve done towards Martin in the past few weeks, the ammonia and car battery, the slave Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 38 of 133 thing. Maybe it’s his voice, the no-nonsense authority in his tone. Instead, I keep to my original plan. “Oh no, nothing like that. Nothing bad. That’s not why I called.” “Well, then?” “Mr. Adams,” I say. “I know Martin is a strong kid. He’s fit, you could say, like a fighter.” “Son, I’m sorry, but is there a point to this phone call?” “Could you let him play football for us next year? We need some guys. He said you wouldn’t let…” My words trail off. “Football?” Mr. Adams repeats. Slowly, I kick my shoes off. Each lands with a thud. Size sixteen makes noise. “I’ve played Junior Varsity for two years now, but, we don’t have a lot of good players. Martin looks strong, like—“ “Did he tell you to call me?” the voice interrupts. “No.” “Are you sure?” “No. I mean, yes. Martin said you wouldn’t let—“ “What I do or do not let Martin do is family business,” he replies, voice sounding, again, like a command. “I just—“ “I’m sure you have good intentions son,” he interrupts again. “But we have family standards and rules here. That is what we base our activities around.” His voice stops. I look around my room, spying for inspiration. The posters seem empty today, just pictures without meaning. “But he’s quick and strong. Don’t you think you could let him try?” I ask, feeling as if my words lack conviction. “Thank you for your call. This isn’t a discussion for us to have.” The line goes blank. I stare at the phone for a minute, then slam it into the bed. “That went well,” Sarah says from behind me. She holds the door half open. “Girlfriend?” I shake my head. “Boy friend?” she says, stretching the word, sarcastic. I toss a pillow at her. “No!” From down the hall, I hear the twins again. Then, more yelling. Sarah laughs. “Jamie’s early, today.” She’s right. Suddenly, the sounds of four kids distinguish themselves. I rise from the bed. Time to head outside. “Maybe you should let your mother make that phone call,” Sarah says. I realize she heard more than just the last few lines. I shrug. I hate being a momma’s boy. I’d do anything to be a man like my dad. Unexpectedly, the phone rings. Sarah lunges for it, but I get there first. She shakes her head and leaves. I press the button. “Martin?” “Hello?” a girls voice. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 39 of 133

“Sorry.” “Not Martin. Bethany. “Oh, hello.” I lay on the bed. “Is Raine there?” “It’s me.” “Hey, hi. I was wondering, did you bring the lab home today?” I haven’t even brought my books home, I’ve been pretty distracted. I think I’ve stopped planning his murder, but I’m not sure, at least not completely. What the hell? “I’m sorry, Bethany. I don’t even have my book.” A rather long pause. “Okay, she says, softly. I can tell she wants to talk. She’s a girl. “Can we work on it soon?” The one thing I’ve definitely learned from the Sisters is that girls want to talk. But, I’m not in the mood. “Okay.” She must be able to tell I’m distracted. “After school tomorrow. Two o’clock in the library.” “Fine.” “Don’t stand me up.” A few more words, and then she hangs up. I don’t have time for her today. Got to deal with the Martin issue.

#

“Meet me downtown,” Martin says, at lunch. I’m sitting in my normal spot. I barely have time to look up, before he walks away. “Ralph’s Deli at two.” That’s it. No other words. He doesn’t even wait for me to nod or say ‘yes.” He’s so confident, arrogant. Hell, I can’t even tell him, I can’t say anything. If only I had his guts, his self-assurance, his balls. I arrive first at Ralph’s, and wait a few minutes fumbling with a menu in a booth near the front. I try but can’t read, can’t concentrate. Maybe he’s not coming. Or maybe he’s getting a gang of friends to come after me, revenge. Five minutes pass, then ten. I sit alone at a table, not one of the booths because I don’t fit well. A group of freshman girls huddles near the front window pointing out people walking by. Another bunch of kids, mostly in black though it seems so stereotypical, hides in the back corner. A few more minutes pass. Eventually, I order fries. Martin doesn’t arrive by the time the food is done. Now, I’m convinced he’s cooking up some scheme. Then, right as I pick up two French fries. Martin walks in the door. No posse. No gang. He grins that goofy grin. “Why’d you call my father?” “To get you something you wanted. Isn’t that what slaves do?” “Jesus Christ!” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 40 of 133

He pounds the table lightly. “You made it worse by calling.” He drops his bag next to the table and takes a chair. “How?” I ask, chewing. “You are just plain stupid,” he says. “Truly.” “What?” “Stupid.” “Well.” I grab a fry and chew. “I figured if I got you to play football, we’d be even. You could have something you want and—“ He waves his hand to stop me. “I’m gay.” “What?” I blurt, a mouthful of food splattering across the table between us. “Gay,” he repeats. “Joey’s my friend.” It takes me a moment. He places his hands, palms down, on the table. They look like the hands of someone about to make a speech. “You don’t understand how strict my father is,” he says. “He doesn’t like people telling him what to do.” Slowly, his hands move to the edge of the table. Martin leans back, rocking. “Do you mean gay like faggot, queer gay?” I ask, trying not to sound judgmental. I’m sure my face looks confused. “Not happy gay?” My voice goes up a little, squeaking, and I feel self-conscious. I start to stand, but bang my knee. He laughs, nods, shrugs his shoulders a little, and half-rolls his eyes. “Yeah.” “For me?” I then ask, incredulous. He laughs way too loud. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. No.” I breathe easier. And look at the mess of food that’s spattered between us. Quickly, I reach out across the table and wipe the mess onto the floor in one motion. Martin raises his eyebrows, like asking me a question. The waitress comes over. I order a chocolate milkshake. Martin asks for water. I exhale, and eat. “Does this mean I’m free?” “Hell no. You made it worse. You owe me more.” “Like what?” He shrugs. “Apology for trying to kill me cause I’m gay would be nice, B3.” He grins, stupidly, like a flirt. “And,” he continues. “I have a list of things for you.” Frustrated, I shake my head. Can’t even begin to deal with that. Suddenly, I feel everyone looking at us. I glance around. The waitress smiles then turns away. No one seems to be watching. Martin reaches out his hand, like he wants to touch me. I jerk my fingers away. Instead, he laughs, out loud, and pulls the plate from in front of me to the center of the table. He takes a few fries, dumps salt onto the plate of food. I don’t say anything. Somehow I find another French fry and pop it into my mouth. I keep talking, chewing at the same time. “You sure?” Martin nods. “You straight?” he asks, grabbing more, food. “Yes!” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 41 of 133

“How do you know?” “I just—“ For a moment, I stop talking. “I never told anyone else,” Martin says, then pours some ketchup on the plate. He dumps it right on top of the fries. I hate them that way. I prefer to dip. Again, I don’t say anything. “No?” “Joey Roberts guessed.” “You knocked him in the head, and cut his ear with the tray.” “Yeah,” he winces. “That wasn’t on purpose.” Suddenly, I understand the words between Martin and Joey in a different light. A secret code. “What does that have to do with me calling your dad?” “He’s the only other person I told.” “You told your dad you were gay?” I ask. I think my mouth hangs open at that point. Behind us, I hear the door open and another group of people enter. The deli always does good afternoon business. I start to turn and look, but change my mind. Martin nods. “Why?” “Bad choice I guess.” “So let me see if I have this right? You told Joey and your dad, but not one other person. I could out you,” I say menacingly. “Nice try,” he laughs. “You gonna blackmail me with that.” “If you keep telling me to do stuff for you, yeah. Equal blackmail” “Hardly. Yours is felony. Mine is inconvenient. Besides what could anyone else do worse than my dad?” “I don’t know.” He unzips his backpack, pulls out a piece of paper. “So here’s your list. Your job description. Your new name is B4.” Martin slowly smoothes the note onto the table before me. His fingers seem more elegant than I’ve noticed before, but the bruises are still there. “Before?” I don’t look at the paper. “B4. Remember B3. Big Baby Bully?” On purpose, I belch, loudly. A way of reprimanding him. He doesn’t bite. Instead, he turns the paper so that I can read. “B. 4. Before I make you human, not some bully freak murderer.” Still, I don’t make a move for the paper. I glare up at him. “So how long is this supposed to take?” “You’re my slave until you earn your freedom.” “Which is going to be how long exactly?” I feel my ears redden. “How long you plan to be a jerk?” That’s the next question I was planning to ask him. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 42 of 133

# Bethany pushes my shoulder. My right hand slides into the ketchup. “Ka lump.” “What?” I raise my sticky fingers and turn to look at her. Again, she pushes my shoulder. I’m so big that I barely move. From the corner of my eye, I see Martin lean back aware of her anger. “You—“ Her voice stutters, breathy and loud. Martin pushes what’s left of the fries to the far end of the booth, out of harms way. “Twice!” she says. Awkwardly, I move my fingers as ketchup drips onto the table. I look for a napkin and try to listen at the same time. “You…twice you left me.” Then, I remember our plans to redo the lab. It’s due soon. “I’m sorry.” “Not sorry enough,” she blurts. “Or you would’ve shown up.” I do feel bad. I shouldn’t have ditched her for Martin. I just didn’t remember. I guess someone blackmailing you for felony-attempted murder is distracting. “Lover’s quarrel?” Martin interrupts. Bethany shoots him a look. “No.” “Don’t start Martin,” Bethany says firmly, glaring. He raises his hands. Then, loudly, she plops a folder on the table, right on top of Martin’s note. “Here. You do it. The whole thing.” “I’m—“ She pushes my shoulder again. “No. I don’t care what you say. You owe me.” Martin laughs. “Give us a minute,” she says to Martin, looking him full in the face. Her lips purse together tightly. I’m not sure if she’s mad at me or trying to be tough in front of Martin. He laughs, nods. Then, Martin rises with a great sweeping gesture of his hands and bows in front of her. “Surely.” Her lips turn up at the corners, just barely. Martin walks away towards the bathroom. Bethany slides into his seat at the Deli. “You promised that—“ “Something came up,” I reply. I’m not sure how to explain attempted murder, blackmail, and the minister’s son outing himself to me in one sentence. With my left hand, I finally manage to pull a napkin out of the holder. The ketchup turns the paper red. “I don’t care. You shouldn’t promise things if—“ “Fine. I’ll make it up to you.“ “You shouldn’t—“ “How’d you even find me?” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 43 of 133

“Quit,” she yells. Then, she grabs the napkin from my fingers. She tosses it at my face. “Interrupting me.” She’s right. “Don’t promise things to people you can’t do. Enough people hate you already.” That remark stings. “You’re a big freak show, but you don’t have to make it worse by lying about labs and standing me up.” Her voice rises and the skin on her neck turns blotchy and red. Her lips, her lips just… “I need you to—“ “I’ll make it up to you.” “Don’t interrupt!” From the back of the Deli, Martin starts forwards again. “Everybody knows where you are, like a bad…like a bad. Hell, you’re like a stupid bully for Christ’s sakes.” Bethany shakes her head, then she slaps the table. Her bracelets jingle. “Stupid?” “Lousy. Too coward to…oh forget it.” I feel the color drain out of my face, whatever strength I’ve felt, whatever hope for being a hero by getting rid of Martin simply disappears. “Fine!” she exclaims. “Do the lab.” “Okay.” I reach out to touch the folder. “And walk me to lunch.” “What?” This is unexpected. “We’re in B hall together.” “What?” “Some girl thinks I hit on her boyfriend. Which I didn’t. And I think she wants to fight.” “Great. Girl fight,” Martin interrupts, sliding into the booth with Bethany. She pushes him out before he gets comfortable. “Who’s the girl?” Martin asks. Bethany slips out of the booth. “No one.” Martin makes his eyes real big, on purpose. “Whoa.” Again, I find myself wishing I could be him for one second. Not be him, but be like him. Not really like him. Just bolder. “I just need a big escort to—“ “Francoise, right?” asks Martin. “I heard about this. Saturday night. Bobby’s girl, right?” “How’d you—“ “Drunk and sloppy.” “It wasn’t like that at all.” She turns to look at me. I’m self-conscious of the remaining ketchup on my fingers. “He was all drunk and trying to get with me.” “That’s not what I heard. You were—“ Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 44 of 133

“Of course,” she says, loudly, “that’s what you heard. Who the hell do you think told you. Bobby. Or one of his suck ups.” “Well—“ “It’s just not true.” Her neck turns from pink to red. “I just want someone to walk me—“ “Bodyguard,” says Martin as he sits again. “You need a bodyguard.” “What?” I say, trying to get in on the conversation. “Yeah,” Martin answers, “Francoise plays Lacrosse. She’s an athlete. Tough ass. Real bad girl crowd.” “What is it with boys interrupting women when they are talking?” “Not me,” I reply, having learned my lesson. “So, what’d you do with Bobby?” Bethany’s hands clench. I try counting her bracelets, the one pink elastic one, three, four others. “Nothing! I got…he…everybody was drunk. He tried to kiss me. Not the other way around.” “We’re talking ‘bout Bobby Abate, right?” She nods. Martin looks at me. I remember—our negligent senior buddy from the Resume project. “He’s a mean s.o.b. Him and Francoise. Consider Raine your protection from now on,” Martin says. I want to say something, something brave, cocky, full of self-assurance. Instead, I bang my teeth together a few times, like I’m ready to bite. Slowly, I wipe the ketchup on the bottom of the table. “Fifth period lunch?” asks Martin. I nod. Bethany just stares at me for a minute chewing on her bottom lip. She taps the lab papers once again, then leaves without a word.

# “She’s beautiful,” Martin says. “Thought you were gay?” “Yeah. But not dead. So that’s one of your jobs from now on B4.” I’m not sure what to say. Today is not going how I expected. I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m just tired of being on the shitty end of the stick of having people hate me. Time for some retaliation. Retribution. Revenge. Time to get off this train by hook or by crook. Without Bethany in front of me, with just him there, sitting, I feel stronger. Maybe he’s rubbing off on me. Like what happens when the Holy Darkness speaks. “I’m not,” I say, “going to be your slave. I’ll out you. High school isn’t built for gay boys.” “Hell, you can be my bodyguard.” He laughs. Eats more fries. “Besides I don’t give a crap. I know karate.” “You care.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 45 of 133

“But,” he laughs. “unlike you I’m not afraid to defend myself, punk.” I know he’s right. I don’t defend myself. I don’t know how. I can’t do something. He pushes the list towards me. “You can’t blackmail me. I am a black male.” I don’t laugh even though it’s supposed to be a joke. “Besides everybody knows. Even that Bobby kid, Francoise’s boyfriend, the one who wants to fight Bethany. Why’d you think he called me a fag that first day?” Now, I remember. In the gym. I thought he was calling me a fag and Martin the punk. Martin keeps talking. “So, punk, bully. Here’s the rest B4. Stupid stuff. Until I think of more.” He’s won.. I hate that. I’m supposed to be the hero here, fix him, make him stop being mean to Joey. Hell, was I that wrong? Was he nice to Joey? Am I that stupid? And do people really think I’m a bully? I unfold the paper. Homework. A math sheet. More advanced than I know. A yellow post it note reads, “Come rebuild the church steps on Saturday morning. Saturday afternoon mow lawns. Church on Sunday.” “I can’t do the math.” “I can,” he replies. “So why do I have to do it?” “Because I’m supposed to be dead. And dead people can’t do homework.” “How am I supposed to do it?” He smiles, shrugs, shakes his head. “Don’t care.” I want to pick up the plate of fries and push it into his face. I don’t like this at all. Maybe my mother. Maybe…Sarah. “Plus,” he continues. “Get a girlfriend.” “What?” “Kiss that girl Bethany or something.” “What?” “Yeah, time for you to stop being in my love life, my sex. You’re pitiful. Bet you’re a virgin.” Again, so deliberate. I grimace. Time to practice talking back. “Are you?” Martin shrugs. His fingers pick up a French fry, put it down again. “We aren’t talking about me.” “What’d your father do when you told him you were gay?” I wonder out loud, changing the subject. “He’s a minister,” he replies, not answering my question. “What do you think he did?” This time I shrug. “Punched me in the mouth.” Martin reaches up then and rubs his lower lip, remembering. My hand goes up to my face, reflexively. “Told me to rethink the situation. And Pray.” “Told you to pray?” Suddenly, I feel it, again. There. Like a presence, a person in a way, kind of cold like the sun going behind a cloud, but it’s not Martin. “While we were sparring, in practice.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 46 of 133

For a second, I can’t really respond. As if somehow the Holy Darkness, the presence, slows me. Martin stares at the food. Finally, I mumble. “He punched you in the mouth?” Again, Martin nods. “During class.” For a fleeting second, I hope that someone is standing between the deli door and the sunlight, simple shade not shadow. I want what’s happening to be outside instead of inside me. I force some words. “Did it hurt?” “Yeah. But that’s how I get punished. Extra time sparring.” Heavy. Wait, it may pass. No, surrender. Listen. “What?” “Tang soo do. He’s got some demons. Then we went to church.” “Martin, are you making this up?” He looks at me then, like I’m crazy. I see on Martin’s face, something changes in that moment. He drops the French fries from his hand back onto the plate. “Yeah,” he grins. “I’m joking.” I feel the sun returning, or maybe just the cloud retreat. “Hell,” I say, “just sounds, I don’t know. I never heard anything like that before.” “Reverend was not happy,” Martin continues. “Is he like fire and brimstone?” I wave my hands, pretending to draw down the wrath of God, like the Holy Dark inside of me. “Yup,” Martin replies, eyes down cast, head looking heavy. “Evil—gelical. You know a preacher. Right and wrong as he and God know it.” Then, Martin grins again. He picks up a fry and makes the sign of the cross before dumping it in his mouth. “So no football for me,” he says. “What does gay have to do with football?” I ask. Martin reaches for the last of the fries. “Discipline.” I raise my eyebrows in question. “Self-control?” Martin asks. “My dad doesn’t like football. Says the players are spoiled, arrogant.” “Does he mean us? Our teams suck.” We both laugh. I catch myself and stop. “According to the Reverend, if I play football I will feel entitled.” “Entitled? To what?” “That’s the point. To everything.” Water and milkshake finally arrive. I take a big long sip of mine. So does Martin. I notice sweat marks under his arms. He always wears button down shirts so he must be hot. I wonder if that’s his dad’s dress code. “Well,” I reply. “I don’t feel entitled to anything. I’d just like to win. You’re strong. You’d be good.” “That’s great,” he says. “Suck up to the master. You’re going to need to kiss my ass for a while.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 47 of 133

Suddenly, I hate him again, but for a very different reason. “I can’t stay,” he says, and kicks his book bag. “I lied about staying after school for math help. I’m not allowed to hang down town.” “Isn’t lying a sin?” I ask. Then, he stands up. “Funny. Do the lab.” He taps Bethany’s folder. “And the math.” “Isn’t slavery a sin?” He turns to go. “Thou shalt not electrocute.” “Thou shalt not play football.” He laughs out loud, and extends his hand for a high five. I slap him back. Damn, a part of me likes him. It’s pretty awkward moment of realization, discovering the paradox of needing to hate and wanting to help someone at the same time. I wonder if that’s the Holy Darkness. I have a lot to think about. Later, on the way back to the school, passing through the parking lot, I spot Bob’s bright green car. A Volkswagen. He must be staying after for baseball practice. Suddenly, I don’t like him very much. I reach into my pocket and pull out my house key. As I pass next to the car, I dig the key roughly into the paint, pulling it along the fender and door. The metal screeches. A deep, gray scratch appears behind me. Bodyguard and Avenger. Martin will be proud.

#

I ask my mother to lend a hand with the minister. I don’t know what else to do. “Can you help me mother?” I say formally, poking my head into her room. She doesn’t answer at first. She’s looking at something. I spy a photo album in her hands. It’s nearly three years since my grandmother died. “She took good care of us,” my mother says, holding the album, tears welling up in her eyes. I’m used to this kind of talk. Happens just about every month, on the 26th, moreso when she’s off her meds. With good reason too. My grandmother’s birthday was March 26th. She died on June 26th. She married her husband on October 26th. And Sarah’s birthday is on April 26th. Today, of course, is May 26th. Less than one month of school left for this year. I know this means I’m supposed to talk, look at pictures, even reminisce about my father who I never really met. The Trinity, as I’ve come to call them: Dad, Gram, Grandfather, who died before I could get to know them. I wonder if all the men here die early. My mother holds the book of photos in her lap. I don’t look at the pictures. Most of them are meaningless to me. Even my dad in his uniform. “Mom,” I say. She looks up. “I need your help.” I’ve learned that the key to making it not just with my mother but with the Sisters. Women love to help out the only boy in the family. She says something too soft for me to hear. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 48 of 133

“Can you call someone for me?” “Who?” “A parent.” Now, she raises an eyebrow, curious. She leans towards me, elbows on her knees, giving me her undivided attention. “What for?” That question irks me. For once, I wish she’d just say fine, not ask any questions. Like that’d ever happen. “A favor.” Now, she puts down the album. She places it on the table, then pats the couch with her hand, an indication for me to sit next to her. The flower design on the seat annoys me. I never liked it. “Tell me.” “Can you call him and ask—“ “No,” she interrupts. “Tell me the whole story. First time. Only time.” I groan loudly, but she doesn’t move. She’ll get twenty percent of the Truth, if she’s lucky. “There’s this kid in school, Mar—“ “Sit.” I drop onto the couch. It bounces under my weight. “There’s this kid in school,” I repeat. “Martin. His father won’t let him play football. He’s strict and he won’t let Martin play.” I don’t say: And if I get his father to change his mind, then I won’t be a slave anymore, and maybe Martin will forget about reporting me to the police. “And I’m supposed to change that?” she asks. I nod. “At least try. Talk to him.” “Sounds like someone already did.” “Martin.” “And?” “And his father is strict.” “And?” “Too strict.” She exhales, and leans back on the couch. I sit back as well. My head tips back over the top of the cushion all the way to the window. I tap my head against it lightly. “So?” “So, Martin wants to play. He’s a good kid. Does good in school. We need him. Our team is crap.” “Watch your mouth,” she says. “That was close.” I chuckle. She lifts the photo book from her lap, places it gently on the table in front of her. “Can’t you call and tell him to let Martin play.” “What makes you think, I can make any difference?” “You’re a parent.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 49 of 133

There’s no answer to that one, because it is true. She half smiles. I know the next one who speaks loses. Our silence lasts about sixty seconds. “What’s his name?” she asks. I tell her, then go look for the number. I run them both back into her room. She’s putting away shoes now. The photo albums are gone from sight. She takes the note from my hand, puts it on the dresser. “Well?” “In a minute.” “Mom.” She waves me out with the back of her hand. “Oh no,” she says. “This is grown up talk.” “I’m almost eighteen mom.” “Not until August.” “Almost.” “Out.” I walk backwards heading for the door, then turn toward my room. She doesn’t know that I can put my ear to the heating vent and hear her if she talks loud enough.

#

I lay on the rug in my room. In the far corner, the heating duct comes up. The vents lead all over the house, and the sound travels easy enough. I discovered this fact by accident once when I dropped a piece of candy down the vent in my room. When I lifted the cover, I heard my mother talking in the kitchen to Aunt Jen about dating. Jen kept telling my mother that she needed to date, to find a man. My mom pretty much avoided saying, ‘yes’ by telling Aunt Jen that I was her man for a while. Now, I lay down and lift the vent. I hear my mother close her dresser drawer. That’s not something I can hear easily. Then, I wonder if she’ll call now. The rug is green. I feel the fiber against my nose as I strain to hear her. For a second I feel like I will sneeze. I’m afraid that’ll give me away, so I grab my nose with my fingers. The sneeze stops midway in my face. I make a kind of silent snort. Then, I lower my ear to the vent. I hear something, her voice. But is she talking on the phone? Is she talking to him? I try to move, quietly, rolling my body so that my ear is clearly and deeply in the vent. With my left hand, I place my index finger in my ear so that the sounds from other places, cars, creaking, anything, don’t get in the way. A few seconds pass. Nothing. A few more seconds. Then, I hear her voice, again. Muffled, something something. “I’m not sure…” Just occasional words. I don’t like this at all. I want to hear. Suddenly, an idea springs to mind. I walk towards her door. Stopping outside of her room, I listen at the closed door. I know she’s in there, gabbing, saying something. Not much more sound comes to me though. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 50 of 133

Frustrated I walk into the kitchen ready to grab food. I grab the fridge door and reach for the first thing I see—an apple. Then, as I slam the door, I spot the phone. With great care, I lift it off the receiver. Her voice pauses for one second. I cover the mouthpiece so that I won’t be heard breathing. “—for several years,” she says, finishing some sentence that I haven’t heard. “I’m not sure why,” the deep voice of Martin’s father says, “that should concern me.” I close my eyes, imagining what the Reverend looks like in person. “School spirit?” I hear my mother say. Her voice is light, playful. “I know all about school spirit,” he answers. “It’s not always good.” Something in his voice sounds sinister, perhaps like a warning. My mother must hear it too. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. The phone feels heavy in my hand, like, perhaps, once again, I am making it harder for Martin. “I’d agree with that,” my mother replies diplomatically. “But we’re talking about football. Kids playing football. Didn’t you ever play?” “Did you?” he counters quickly. Of course, not I think. Girl. Hello. “No,” she replies. “But Raine’s dad did. In high school.” I know she’s sensitive about my father at the moment, the photo albums only ten minutes hidden. “You didn’t answer my question.” Her voice, now, sounds full of conviction, as if bringing up my father, his question, somehow justifies her asking. A slow response as if he is thinking. “I played.” Again, the voice sounds deep, only this time deeper still. “D one. It’s not…” He stops talking. I fidget, moving side to side, trying not to make any noise. “Football I can’t say is good for young men,” he finally finishes. My mother isn’t taking this from him. “Where’d you play?” she asks. “I’d rather –“ “South somewhere,” she says. “Where?” She hears his accent; “I played for Georgia Tech,” he replies. “But I am not going to keep on talking about this. I appreciate your phone call. Martin won’t be playing.” “No offense intended Mr. Adams, I would agree with you, if you were concerned about his safety or if he had some other commitments, but—“ Go mom. She’s not letting him end the conversation. “You seem to be cutting him off from this activity only because you had a bad experience with football. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he should find out what kind of experience he could have for himself” “I’m not going to argue with you,” he answers. “My experience—“ the word sounds strange coming out of his mouth, “was very bad, but not how and why you think. And because of it, I had a revelation, which changed my life. And I am not scared for my son. The Lord will protect him. Through me. I do not want him to fall into the hands of those who think they deserve everything for no reason. He will not become like that.” “And football,” my mother asks, “football? Does that?” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 51 of 133

“Martin’s other commitment,” he pauses, emphasizing the last word, “ is to the Lord’s work. Privilege and entitlement are often opportunities for corruption of young men’s souls.” “And football—“ “The unnecessary praise. False idols.” My mother has no response. “God bless you,” he replies. “Thank you for trying to help Martin. It’s just not the kind of help we need.” I hear him hang up. Again, quiet. I take my hands off of the mouthpiece. “I tried Raine,” she says to me on the line. “He’s pretty adamant.” I’m surprised that she knew I was listening in on her. “Thanks anyway.” “You better not be listening to my other calls.” I hang up, wondering what to try next. #

That night my mother pulls the evening shift. “You know the drill,” she smiles, putting dishes in the sink. “Homework?” “Done.” “Good.” “I should be here in time to take you to school in the morning,” she continues, “unless something comes up.” “Which it shouldn’t,” I answer, finishing what’s become her standard sentence for the seven to seven, overnight shift. I rise from the table and put away the ketchup. “Don’t oversleep.” “It’s Friday night,” I reply. She stares at me, dazed. When I was little she’d always make me do things on Fridays and Saturdays, sports, arts and crafts classes, music lessons. I ended up playing the Tuba in seventh and eighth grade because I was the only kid big enough to hold it. She used to want me to have friends. Nowadays, she doesn’t try as hard, doesn’t insist that I do something. “No school, ma.” She laughs. “True.” I roll my eyes at her. “What are you going to do tonight then?” she asks. “You want me to call Sarah?” “No,” I reply quickly, responding to the implication that I need a babysitter. She doesn’t repeat her question about my plans. She’s not really interested, I can tell. She knows me well enough to know that I won’t go out and will probably either be on-line or watch tv. “Load these?” she asks, pointing to the dishes, “so I can get ready?” I smile and she heads upstairs for a shower. Thirty minutes later, when she leaves, the house is empty. I suppose I could invite people over when she’s not here, but I never have. I don’t want people to get the idea that they should come here just because there are not parents in the house. I’m pretty worried that the place would get trashed. Even in seventh and eighth grade, I heard about some of the high school football parties, events where things got out of control pretty quickly. Someone whose parents Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 52 of 133 were gone and had a tank full of fish dumped into their swimming pool. A party where most of the football team lined up and urinated on a couch, at the same time. That’s a lot of players and pee. Drunks and houses being trashed. I never wanted that, not really. When my mother leaves, I prefer to check out the sports on television or surf the web. For some reason, I feel like a detective tonight. I decide to check out Georgia Tech’s website. The site comes up on my screen in a second. No more dial up for us. As I look, I see that it’s in Atlanta. Big city. Georgia. What do I know about the south? Not much. The website has everything. Admissions. Tuition. Courses. Colleges. Everything I don’t know about college. There’s a section, however, called sports. Men and women’s. Basketball. Football. I click that link. Wow. Georgia Tech is big time national football. At one time they co-win the national championship, before the Bowl Championship Series. I haven’t ever heard of the team, the Yellow Jackets. I suppose that’s no worse than the Little Indians. It takes quite a while, searching and searching, but I finally find the roster for when I think Martin’s father played on Georgia Tech. It’s twenty-seven years ago. He’s listed as a lineman, like me, a guard, on the depth chart, number three, as a freshman. Hometown of Dacula, Georgia. In college, you are playing against men. You have to be good and strong to play Division I football. You have to be a big in order to be a lineman. You have to be a monster, like me, in order to be on the depth chart as a freshman. There’s not much about him on the site, just his name and number, 71, and his place on the chart. Once more, I picture him in my mind. He towers over Martin in his khakis and denim shirt. I see the giant fingers curling into a fist and landing on Martin’s head. The screen changes when I click again. The next year, Henry Adams is not listed on the depth chart. Gone. I move forward another year, then another. He’s never listed again. Henry Adams played football at Georgia Tech for one year, and then he disappeared from the team. “Something happened”, I say aloud, louder than I want. My voice feels loud in the empty house. It dawns on me that Henry Adams did have a bad experience playing football. I just don’t know what it is. Frustrated, I Google search Henry Adams. 258,311 search hits show up. Even a nerd like me doesn’t want to read through a quarter million websites. I narrow my searches. Atlanta. Dacula. Georgia Tech. Anything else I can think of, like my guess about his year of birth, the year he played football. Looking back at the screen, the search is significantly smaller. One of the first ones to catch my eye is the Georgia Tech School Paper. I click. A small “Football Notes” section from twenty-seven years ago shows up. . It shows up about four paragraphs down. “Henry Adams, suspended, pending arraignment and court hearing. Declared ineligible for the rest of the season.” Now, that’s something to talk about with Martin. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 53 of 133

Mapquest from our place to his house, address available from the student directory. Directions come up in seconds. We live only 3.2 miles apart. I have never been to that part of South Toms River, not Manitou Park where Mapquest leads, just the edge, the junkyard where I bought that battery. However, I know the reputation: All black. Not a place you want to go according to the kids at school. Poor. Dangerous. Some weird stories, like when you drive to Manitou Park you find yourself in suburban Harlem. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Directions are simple: down Main Street, cross the river, bear right onto South Main. I know that’s where the Pine Barrens meet the river, a big swamp, past the junkyard. Directions say to bear right again on Maple which I see from the map will lead along the woods and bog for at least a mile. On my side of the river, literally, I know the bugs. The mosquitoes can be awful. Martin’s house, at least according to the computer, is only a few short turns off of Maple Avenue. Out in the pine barrens, the edge of the woods. The phone rings at eight o’clock, waking me. I grumble. Martin sighs loudly. “Bring a book. School book.” “What f—“ “Listen,” he continues, not letting me finish. “We have to do some school project, that’s what I’m telling my father, ok? Why else would you be coming over?” I grunt a yes into the mouthpiece. “And bring some good clothes,” he says. “We dress up for church.” “On Saturday?” “You are staying over B4. So work it out. I’ll give you an hour.” This just gets worse by the minute.

#

Part III: Murderer I don’t go to Manitou Park. Never. Except that one time to the junkyard for the battery. And, I suppose, that makes me feel different, like now I’m a minority. Our school is pretty balanced, I mean racially mixed, probably mostly white, but enough blacks, Asians, whatever else, that you wouldn’t call it a white school. Truth is I’m a little hesitant going into the bad area, the black section, not because of black racial black, but because of the stories, legends, myths that sound dark. Wild dogs that roam the edge of the bog. Homeless people who live off the train tracks that run through the Pine Barrens. More poison ivy than any other plants. I race past the junk yard on my bike, distracted by the thoughts of dogs. I wonder how the ’67 Mustang is coming along. Suddenly, the junk man steps in front of me. “Hey!” I swerve right, just missing him. My wheels go off onto the sand and I tumble towards a pine tree. Fortunately, I’m tall enough to grab a branch. The bike falls over, but I don’t. “Din’t mean to scare you,” he says, stepping out of the road, towards me. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 54 of 133

I mumble something I don’t even understand. Up the road, behind him, I spot a house. I wonder if it’s his place. “Knew it was you from way down the street,” he continues. Today, he’s wearing overalls. “Nobody your size rides a bicycle.” Actually, the house is a trailer. Not a mobile modular home, but an actual trailer, one of those old silver recreational vehicles. I know it’s a house, not a vacation pull thing, because of the yard, the bricks where the wheels should be, the laundry hanging. I don’t see any other people. I’m glad. “I could use—“ I stop him with a wave of my hand. I’m in no mood now—nearly hitting him, worrying about Martin. Suddenly, I don’t like him. He knows me. He recognizes me. He knows I came here for the battery, a witness for Martin if he decides to turn me in. He persists anyway. “—help with the seats. They’re awkward and big.” Then, he pauses for a second, laughs out loud. “Like you. Ha.” I realize that I’m still holding the branch. I let go. Without saying anything, I grab my bike and push it back towards the street. “If you change your mind,” he says in one final attempt. “I won’t.” In a moment, I’m sweating and pedaling hard. Martin’s house is less than one mile away. My bike bounces on the potholes more than I would like, forcing my butt up and down on the seat. That hurts. I stand to pedal. My backpack bounces hard once, knocking upwards against my head. No cars go by me. I pass eight houses, shacks really, small one-story buildings that look like they could be from the deep south, at least what I imagine or may have seen in history books. Old, dilapidated things probably with only two rooms, in need of paint and patched with wood that doesn’t match. A kind of development. Again, I don’t see people. Then, I realize that the bog opens up behind the houses, out towards the river, in a long flat slab of land. Far off, a dog barks. I don’t see it, but my heart startles, and I bike faster, thinking of pit bulls. Then, out in the long distance, I do spot people. I realize that the swamp is actually a cranberry bog, a few people, again far off, walking in the water about knee deep. The homes are for migrant workers, shacks for temporary lodging, probably similar to a hotel room I convince myself. In the shade of a small tree and what looks like a barn I notice fifteen or twenty people moving about some vehicles. People barely eeking their way through life. Again, the dog barks. Suddenly all the things they say in social studies strikes me: poor, black, hidden by the railroad tracks, bog, pine barrens. A different world from me just a few miles away. Martin’s turn comes upon me suddenly, a gravel road with a green sign, Simon Street, on my left. I turn. The homes become nicer here, though nice is a relative term. Ranch houses, these, too, need paint, but at least they appear to have more than one or two rooms. Front porches, a few porches. His house is number eleven. I don’t see any numbers on any homes. Suddenly, I realize how hot I feel. For May, I’m racing in the sun, sweating like crazy. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 55 of 133

I spy a group of kids playing in the front yard of one house. Two kids are kicking a ball. Another very small child, maybe three, stands in a baby pool. They stare at me as I go past. Then I remember that I’m white and that I’m an unusual sight here. Fortunately, Martin’s house is easy to pick out. His father’s truck, Adams Lawn Service, is parked in the sand driveway. Martin sits on the front porch, in the shade. I pull up, and as I do, my bike tire moves from gravel to sand. It catches. The bike jerks to the left. For a second, I move forward over the handlebars suspended in midair. Then, I lean to the right and pull myself back. The bike stops. I jump off and dump the bike in one ugly motion, narrowly avoiding disaster. My back pack bumps up onto the back of my neck. Martin shakes his head. And, now that I’m here, sweating, in what feels like a foreign country, I realize that I have no idea how to tell Martin about his father. More so, I’m not even sure I want to anymore. “Hey,” he says, as though he and the junk man have rehearsed their opening lines. The yard is neat, what you might expect from someone whose father is a minister and a lawn service guy. The yard’s also better kept than the other houses I’ve passed. “Do I really have to go to church?” I ask, laughing and walking towards him. The front door opens. An enormous man emerges. I stop in my tracks about halfway up the walk. Martin turns. The front door slaps closed. “Introductions?” the unmistakably deep voice says. I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it. Martin’s father must be six foot five, one of the few people I’ve met who are close to my size. I don’t know about weight, but to say two hundred ninety wouldn’t be a bad guess. He steps off the porch towards me. He’s wearing a gray lawn service shirt that’s dark with sweat. As a younger man, before he gained the belly, he must have been quite the sight. “Dad,” Martin says, “this is Raine Abbott.” Martin’s voice sounds nothing like his father. Mister Adams steps off the porch now, towards me. “Raine, my father.” I don’t move as he approaches. All I can do is picture him in a football helmet and imagine myself trying to block him. I rarely have trouble on the line, just because of my size. Nobody’s as big as me. As he extends his hand, I notice how worn his hands appear. Years of hard labor that even a kid like me can notice. Maybe, I wonder, even changing the color if that’s possible. His hands seem lighter than his arms and face. “Welcome to our home,” he says. I extend my hand. His fingers grip mine, firmly. “Thank you,” I reply. Then, almost awkwardly slow, I add, “Sir.” Turning to Martin, Mr. Adams points at my bike with one finger. Martin nods. “You should offer your guest some ice tea, Martin.” “I’m okay,” I answer, more so that I don’t have to stand face to face with his father. Martin grimaces. I realize I’ve spoken out of turn. I look back at his father. “Can I ask you to move your bike to the side driveway, Raine?” he says. Suddenly, I realize that their yard isn’t just neat, there’s nothing out of place. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 56 of 133

“Sure,” I say, looking up at him. Dumping my bike is another no no. “Thank you,” he says. The sound of his voice, in person, seems like I might be able to feel it, like deep vibrations. “I am a very big proponent of discipline. The easy way, with our possessions, with our selves, is one of the ways in which the Devil arrives every day. Laziness is humanity’s original sin. So even—“ Martin’s hand touches my shoulder. His father stops talking. “So even your bike is an opportunity to do the Lord’s work,” Martin finishes. Martin’s father steps towards the house knowing that his point’s been made. “Cleanliness is a statement that we are in charge,” he continues, “at one with the lord, in touch with our better selves. A daily act of protection from evil.” I walk towards the bike. “No problem,” I grin. “Meet the minister,” Martin says under his breath, so that his father won’t hear him. “He’s like that with everyone the first time they meet.” “There’s ice tea in the kitchen,” the Reverend smiles. “In case you change your mind.” He reenters the house. As I lift the bike, I say to Martin, “Is he always like that?” “He needs Jesus to save him. Personally. I think he’s too far gone for mere mortals.” I push the bike towards the side yard, and chuckle at his joke. Martin, I notice, isn’t laughing.

#

Martin isn’t kidding about the church steps. “Leave your pack. And take that,” he says, pointing to a wheelbarrow with two bags of cement and ten cinder blocks. No sense fighting. Besides I’ll move it much quicker than he will anyway. “It’s not far.” Martin starts off without waiting for me. Every time I catch up, he walks a little faster, staying just in front of me on purpose. Master. Slave. After almost a block, a small white building comes into view, basically a house with a steeple. Very small compared to the churches I’ve been in before. The steps are made out of cinder blocks that have been painted white, but they’ve come apart, cracked and crumbled, on a sandy front yard. Like his house, the church backs up directly to the pine barrens. A grassy area with three picnic tables, church outings, lines the side. An old playground set stands nearby. Not one of those wooden things that I see all around my neighborhood, this set is metal, in need of paint or replacement. So much his different here. Suburbia and this world so different. Like the hood in the woods. I want to tell Martin about his father, but that isn’t as easy as I hope. The words stick in my head, let alone my mouth. “Here.” Again, he points. There’s no mistaking who’s in charge here, even though I’m a foot taller. “Know where we were, right before you came?” I shrug. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 57 of 133

“Prison Ministry. Every third Saturday. Seven in the morning til nine. Ever build steps?” No, I haven’t I think. I don’t have a man to teach me that kind of thing. Just a mother who doesn’t do cement work. “No.” “Me either. Just unload the blocks, and dump the bag of cement in the wheelbarrow.” How does he do that? Just so matter-of-fact. Me either. But like he doesn’t care. He’ll just show up and give it a try. Oh well, blah blah blah. He’ll be your body guard. Yes, I’m gay. I want to say something like that…pick a winnering subject. I grab a cinder block with each hand and place them on the sandy front yard. Martin walks to the side of the church, grabs the hose, and turns it on. “Football,” I finally say. “Did you—“ “You gotta stop with the football talk B4.” “How come?” I ask. “Just won’t work. You heard him. He’s stubborn.” “Didn’t he play at Georgia Tech?” Martin stops, the hose moves in his hands. “How do you know that?” he asks. “I never told you that.” I grab two more blocks, drop them to the ground. “He played Offensive Line,” I reply. “Like me. He must have been good if he played Division One.” Martin doesn’t reply. “He told my mother, but I looked him up on the Internet,” I continue. “He only played one year. As a freshman they listed him—“ Suddenly, Martin hoses me. “Hey,” I cry out. “Why’d—“ He points the water at my face. “What’s—“ My mouth fills, and I gag. “What’s wrong with you?” Martin screams. The water stops. Coughing, I spit. “Are you a psychopath?” he yells. “Why are you stalking my whole family?” “What?” I call out. “First,” he says, “You try to electrocute me.” Again, he shoots water at me. I turn my head and the spray hits my shoulder. He’s mad as can be. The water stops. “Then, you start stalking my whole family.” “I didn’t—“ Spray. Once more in the face. This time in both eyes. I step sideways into the wheelbarrow banging my knee. “Why can’t you just leave it alone,” he shouts. I raise my hands to my face, blocking the jet with my palms. He stops. Slowly, I wipe my eyes. The sting feels harsh. “I thought it would help get you on the team,” I say. Blinking hard, I watch as he walks closer to me. “They used,” Martin begins, “firehoses during the riots. Civil rights riots.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 58 of 133

Unexpectedly, he lunges at me. I feel his fist connect with my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I go down next to the cinderblocks. I could seriously hurt him if I wanted. I could crush his skull with pieces of concrete. I’m at least a foot bigger, but he’s tough. I don’t fight back. “So digging up his past will make him let me play football?” Martin asks. He stands over me. “I guess,” I reply, winded, still on the ground below him. “I thought I could help you, save you.” Those words surprise me. “Save me?” “The Min—your dad sounds rough. Child abuse rough.” “Maybe you should spend some time saving yourself,” he whispers. I can tell he’s yelling inside, a silent kind of rage. I smile. “Just wanted to help.” “Then, why’d you try to blow me up?” He grabs the last two blocks from the wheelbarrow and drops them between my legs. That is the question of my life I suppose. The Holy Darkness. To be a hero. For a second it crosses my mind to read him the letter. “Thought you were a bully,” I reply slowly. “To Joey Roberts.” He laughs out loud, sounds like a beast. “And I thought you needed to be stopped.” I don’t tell him that the thought of killing him came like a revelation in the school library. The Holy Darkness rose up in me at that moment, calling the deep sadness and the need to make things right, like heat, like my blood sizzled. “So,” Martin chuckles, tossing another stick. “You help Joey by blowing me up? And then you save me from child abuse by digging up my father’s past?” “Yeah,” I reply, thinking about how vivid that library scene lives in my head. Two seconds. I see Martin’s teeth, white, grinning. Joey looks up, surprised, laughs, blows Martin a kiss. Martin gives Joey the finger. I hear the voice in my head. “That’s not right. Somebody should do something about that…take action to protect.” Then, Martin moves, bringing me back to the present. He points the hose at my face again. I wince. Gently, he turns on the spray and takes a drink. “He hits me,” Martin says. “But not child abuse. I always have a chance to defend myself. In gear.” I stand and walk towards him. He’s so much smaller than me. “The fear is enough,” Martin continues. “The Reverend is a scary guy.” That reminds me of the Internet notes on Henry Adams: suspended pending arraignment and court hearing. For a moment, I am dazed, daydreaming of how to tell Martin about his father. All the options run through my head, like a movie, like a text message: Just tell him. Don’t tell him. Write him a note. Find out more first. Try again. Get him to trust you. Reveal something personal. Have someone else tell him. Ask mom. Tell him about your dad. Trick him into bringing up his father again. As I bend to drink from the hose, I feel the words coming. My hand shakes. “Tell him about the Holy Darkness.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 59 of 133

With a quick motion, I bury my head in the water and I let out a long, loud howl. “Nooooooo.” Martin laughs. “Did he do time?” I ask, desperate not to reveal my own secret. Martin yanks the hose out of my hand. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again, then exhales deeply. “Yes. But we don’t talk about it. Isn’t your dad dead?” “In the war.” “No wonder you got a hero complex B4.” I wait for him to squirt me with the hose again, but he just points to the wheelbarrow. “Reverend told me what to do. He always does.” I think, but don’t say: Just like the Holy Darkness.

#

The stairs don’t take too long, maybe an hour. After that, we head with the minister out to Holiday City, this retirement place where they cut lawns. “We appreciate your help,” Martin’s father says as we unload the mowers from his trailer. “We do twenty lawns today,” Martin says. I’ll be using a regular push mower. They each have bigger ones, but not the ride on machines I’d expect. Just big, heavy mowers. No one says anything about money or pay. Three bag lunches sit on the front seat for later. What is there to say about mowing lawns on a hot day in May? The grass is brittle on most of the yards, in need of water. It’s been a dry month, driest in nearly twenty years according to the papers. My mother pays attention to that kind of thing. Every twenty minutes or so, I stop and rest. I’ll push the mower under a tree and wait in the shade to catch my breath. Sometimes, I grab one of the hoses and take a drink. Both Martin and his dad don’t stop. Ever. I watch them. We have a continuous circuit of ten houses on each side of the block, and they keep going and going. Part of me feels pretty pissed to be here, doing something I don’t want to do, hard, hot work for someone else. Slavery. But another part… There’s Martin, and his dad, both pushing, sweating away, non-stop. I realize that I admire their strength. It’s what they do to survive. It’s a kind of crazy thought, but maybe slavery made them strong. Almost like what black people had to do to survive slavery back in the day, the will, the determination to stay alive, like that’s inside them somehow. From their ancestors. That gets me to thinking about my dad. And that’s what there is to say about mowing lawns. You have a lot of time to think, especially without an Ipod or a cd player. And, I wonder if I should start telling the truth about my father. Funny how one word can make such a difference? IN the war really isn’t DURING the war. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 60 of 133

# We walk around back where I hope to tell him something, get started right away. Before I can say much, Martin empties my pack onto the back porch floor. He pulls out my pants and shoes, the dress shirt, then lays them on the side table. I don’t say anything. “We’ll leave this stuff. Here,” he says, tossing me a bundle. “We do it all the time.” “What?” I reply, catching, I realize, a sleeping bag. While I sit holding the bag, Martin loads things into my backpack, a flashlight, some matches, a bottle of water. “Camp. We go about half a mile in.” Martin points to the woods behind his house. “Didn’t think your father would let you. He seems strict.” I don’t tell him that I’ve never been camping. My mother’s not the outdoor type. “Ha,” Martin laughs. He starts out the door. “Strict? He’s ridiculous. Everything is discipline this, discipline that. We walk out past the swingset. No neighbors or development, just the Pine Barrens. At the edge of the grass, a small path cuts into the trees. The sun shines light shadow through the trees. Martin heads towards the trail. I follow. “Your father’s—“ the words don’t come. I don’t know how to start. I realize I’m scared: of Martin, of camping, of telling about his father. But apparently,” Martin continues, not hearing my voice or my hesitation. “Spending time in the wilderness is good for the soul. Builds character.” “It does?” I ask. The sleeping bag feels light, so I wrap the cord around my wrist and let the bag dangle. “No escaping the consequences of your actions to quote the Reverend.” He grins, like he’s pulling one over on me. “Besides, Jesus spent time in the wilderness.” I want to think of some smart come back to his comment, but have nothing. He’s smart alecks his own response. “So did Thoreau and Buddha, but you don’t hear him talk about that!” A few steps into the woods, and the house disappears from sight. I’m not really a camper, so Martin has packed for us both. We don’t need much. And, as we walk, I feel like I’m going back in time somehow, to a more primitive era, where something basic and primal in me lives. The trail is narrow, and winds through many trees. Most of them aren’t taller than my house. But since it’s a slender path, Martin walks in front of me, leading. At one point, we pass close by the railroad. I hear, far enough away, a few dogs down the tracks, probably the junkyard. We don’t talk until the path opens up into a small clearing. Martin drops his pack, and then motions for me to do the same. “Tent?” I ask. “Nope. We sleep out under the stars.” “What if it rains?” “Get wet. Or we’ll just go back. But—“ he continues. “We should gather wood for a fire.” The sun is just beginning to settle into the sky, behind the trees. Again, before I can start or before I can figure out how to start the conversation, Martin walks away. He steps out of the clearing and bends to pick up a branch. I do the same. Eventually, we gather a small pile of Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 61 of 133 twigs and sticks, enough for a camp fire. Martin arranges the twigs in a pile, then takes out matches. The twigs light quickly. The weather’s been dry. Then, he reaches into his pack and pulls out a small, metal canteen. He lifts it and sips. I don’t say anything at first. Suddenly, it feels stupid. “Well?” he asks again. I must spend more time thinking than I realize. Later, about an hour, Martin is still sitting at the fire. The sun is gone. “I’m just as big,” I say as I step into the clearing. His hands sit on his lap, legs crossed. I realize that he seems to be meditating. The sky’s dark enough that I need to step towards the fire to see him clearly. He turns slowly towards me. “What?” “I’m just as big, bigger than him.” Martin scrunches up his face, thinking, until he realizes that I’m talking about his father. “But you’re a girly man,” Martin laughs, unfolding his legs. “You’re one strange kid.” Easily, he stretches, then he hands me the canteen. Still standing, I tilt back my head, drink. “Whoa,” I shout. “This isn’t water.” Again, Martin laughs out loud. “Fire water,” he says. “We’re part Cherokee, like one eighth somewhere in the past.” “Nothing wrong with that,” I reply. I sip. I’m not much of a drinker. “Well, if you’re a Baptist there is,” he answers. Martin takes back the canteen, sips, returns it to me. “Did he say that to you?” Martin shakes his head. “No matter.” He offers me another drink. I shake my head. “I’m not Baptist or Cherokee Religion.” “What?” He laughs. “Yeah. I’m Buddhist.” “You’re lying” Martin cracks a stick in two. “No. I’m just not a good one. Met some guy in jail during prison ministry, my father would love that if he knew, who’s a Buddhist. I’ve been one for three weeks.” Then, he whacks me with another stick. “Haven’t got that vegetarian, non-violent thing down yet. But I decided to practice compassion on you. You are one pitiful boy.” I don’t know if I like what he’s said or not. Pity doesn’t exactly make us friends. I grab a stick and toss it high in the air so that he looks up. Then, when he’s distracted, I toss another at him. The twig hits him on the neck. Martin winces, then laughs. “Just leave my father out of this, okay?” “Can’t really,” I say, but don’t follow through with more. “Yeah, he’s a force it’s hard to leave.” The fire is low and the canteen is empty. Martin picks up a pinecone. “See this,” he says. “It’s you.” Then, he tosses it onto the fire. “Yeah, I know. I’m going to burn in hell.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 62 of 133

Martin snorts a laugh. “Not what I had in mind.” “Then, what?” “Pitch pine.” He laughs again. Then, he holds up another pinecone. “See how it’s all closed up?” “No.” “Like tight?” He reaches for another, different one, tosses it to me. “That’s one’s all loose. You can pull it apart.” “Oh yeah,” I reply, and stroke the pinecone. Pieces come off in my fingers. “These other ones, the closed ones, Listen.” He lobs the pinecone onto the fire. The crackle changes. “Hear that Raine?” “Yeah.” “It only opens up when the heat is on. That’s you. Up tight.” “What?” “Pitch pine. Really thick bark. They survive the forest fires easily. Put up with a lot of heat. And the high temperature is what opens the pinecones. After a fire, they reseed themselves. Fire is good for them.” I crumble the pinecone in my hand, ripping all of the seeds out of it in one twist. “What are you talking about?” “I think you’re like that.” He grunts the words, sounding cocky. “You don’t open up easy. Probably takes a lot of heat.” Suddenly, I don’t like what he’s saying, feels too weird to have him thinking about me too much. So I don’t say anything. Then, we climb into our sleeping bags. My arms don’t fit well. In fact, my shoulders stick up out of the sleeping bag. Martin turns so that his head is nearer the fire. His feet point directly away from the flames. I do the same, moving in my bag, like a caterpillar. If I wanted to I could take some coals and light his sleeping bag on fire while he was asleep tonight. But, I don’t think I want to hurt him anymore. I want to change the subject, to talk about him. “Did you ever have a—“ My words stop. Then, I blurt, “boyfriend?” For a moment, silence. Then, “No”, he continues. “If I did my dad would kill me.” “He looks big enough,” I reply. “Bruiser.” “No,” says Martin, “I’m not kidding. He can hurt.” This time his voice sounds serious. “What does that mean?” “It means he knows where to hit.” “I’ve heard a practiced martial arts master knows all the pressure points where—“ Martin exhales, loudly, frustrated. “Shut up. Will you? Listen.” I don’t reply. “He knows where to hit,” Martin continues, “so that bruises don’t show. Where to hurt, but not get child services involved.” “Wow,” I reply. “For real.? Thought he didn’t hit you. Just twice.” “True. But he also told me never to complain. Just take my punishment like a man. I think he’d kill me if…” His voice trails off. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 63 of 133

Suddenly, I feel sorry for him. I look up at the stars. The crickets screech real regular and loud. With my arms out of the sleeping bag, the mosquitoes feast. I swipe a few off. “He’s a good Reverend,” Martin continues. “But really tough for a father. We spar, full contact, Tang Soo Do.” A mosquito flies into my ear. I whack myself on the side of the head. Martin laughs. Slowly, I dig the corpse out of my ear canal. “You’re tough. Thought you were a Black belt.” “Ha,” Martin calls out. “He’s a five degree black belt. Practiced for years. Twice my size. Very controlled.” “You’ll just have to get bigger,” I say. “Ever consider steroids?” “Ha.” Martin calls out, mocking me. “Or hire a bodyguard.” “I’d hire you but you’re too stupid. Besides I already have a slave.” At that, I slap his bag. He’s speedy and rolls away. “See, you should just avoid him. You’re quick.” “No,” says Martin. “I don’t run away. I wouldn’t dare. When he wants to hit me, it’s strictly for a lesson. Planned. Exact. Like a punishment.” “Huh?” “Yeah,” Martin continues, rolling back into range. “He’ll tell me in advance. ‘Martin, you’re going to be punished now. Prepare yourself. Get your gear.’” “And then?” The fire sizzles at my feet. Suddenly, I wonder if I’m going to catch on fire. I sit up, looking. “And then?” he says, “Then, we spar, and he doles it out.” “That’s wrong,” I say, touching my feet. Hardly warm. The flames are all gone, just coals. I lay back down. “I suppose,” he replies. “Suppose? What’s worse than knowing it’s coming?” “A surprise attack by someone in your locker.” I hear his point. “Joey doesn’t need you, you know, “ Martin continues. “Joey can take care of himself pretty well.” I don’t answer. “Most people can.” “Not from bullies.” “What’s with you and the have to be a hero thing?” That’s a good question. All of a sudden, I feel like I have an awakening, something inside of me moves. I bolt up in my bag, again. “Raine?” “Wow,” I exclaim. “I’m trying to be my father.” “What?” I stretch, and yawn, and feel the air, like something new, entering me. “He died in the army, saving somebody,” I reply. I feel the lie bang against my teeth. I hear Martin yawn. “Hero, huh?” “That’s what my mother said.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 64 of 133

“No wonder you tried to kill me,” he laughs. “Killer army blood.” “Yeah, how many times do I have to apologize for that?” He laughs again. “Until your jail sentence would be over. Twenty years. Heck, Moses was holy and he wandered around for forty years. Twenty is letting you off for good behavior.” I pause, wanting to say something about his father, and jail. But the words don’t come. Instead, something I don’t expect happens. “My father,” I reply, “was twenty years old when he died. Twenty years and four days. I was twenty months old.” My father’s memory or the memory of a memory. I don’t talk about him with anyone but family. “Well, I’m not going to grow up and be a minister,” Martin says. “Not if it means being like him.” At that, Martin grabs his canteen again. I know it’s empty, but he tries to take a sip anyway. I stare at the coals. The fire’s gone, at least the flames are out, only the heat and the red is left. Martin climbs into his sleeping bag. I try. My shoulders stick out of the top of the bag. I sit upright. “You know all the school killings?” he says. “Hmm?” “How come all the white kids who kill people in school are like: they don’t like me, so I’m gonna kill them? They pick on me?” I shrug. “With black kids,” he says, “it’s different. It’s always about turf. Like it’s my house, my school. And I don’t want you here. Get the hell out. Drug wars. Gang crap.” For a long time, I watch the coals. “White kids are wimps.” I know he’s talking about me. The bugs make constant background noise. And the dark feels friendly, not the enemy anymore. Not like my mother. Not like before when the darkness wasn’t my friend. “I think my mother is seriously depressed,” I say. Martin murmurs, as if he’s sleeping. “I don’t want to turn out like her.” “She wouldn’t work, if she was depressed,” he replies. “She’s working tonight, right?” He rolls, now turning his face away from the fire. Clinical terms: Bipolar and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She told me one day, like I was a grown up, opening up a folder at the kitchen table. I’m not sure the Psychiatrist who evaluated her did a good job. When I looked up both of those diagnoses on the Internet, my mother didn’t seem like either one. I whisper. “Well, whatever she is, I don’t want to be.” “Trust me, you don’t want to be your father.” That’s the last thing he says before we fall asleep. Trust me. Interesting words. “You probably don’t want to be your father, either” I say. Martin doesn’t answer. Then, I realize I need to know if that’s true or not. Tomorrow, I’ll find out more about Henry Adams. # Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 65 of 133

“Sorry about the tie,” I say to Martin, tugging at the collar and borrowed neckwear. I was hoping to avoid church, head home right away to do more research. “I knew you’d be a pain,” he laughs. “Black people dress up for church.” He’s right. Martin’s family is all jazzed up, a tie is a requirement for the men and boys. A few steps in front of us, Martin’s stepmother holds hands with both girls, all of their dresses brightly colored. I notice hats, too, as we walk down the street, on the other people headed for worship. The church, Martin’s father’s church, is only one block away. I don’t think my mother would wear a hat to church. I certainly wouldn’t, although Martin’s father and a few other men on the street wear them on their heads. In my church, some people look nice, wearing that so- called Sunday best, but not most. Most look like regular people. In the summer, shorts are pretty common. “I’ve never been to a Baptist church.” Martin nods. “Figures.” We lag behind his family a few steps. “When am I free from today’s duties, master?” I exaggerate the accent. Martin frowns. “Don’t try and be black Raine. That’s not funny.” “Sorry.” “After the service,” he grunts, softly. The Reverend holds the door and together we walk enter. Martin’s family moves to the front pew, right side. There’s not many pews, maybe eight rows, and four or five seats to each row. My mother’s church seats many more. The whole family waits while I slide in first, then move all the way across the pew to the seat closest the wall. Inside, quite a few people are sitting, maybe thirty. I’m the only white person. Everyone is dressed up. I’m glad Martin lent me a tie. “He likes to talk,” Martin says. “Probably should have gone into radio.” A few people greet Mr. Adams as he walks to the pulpit. In the front a few people in maroon robes stand. Right away, without any introduction or program, they start singing. I don’t know the song. Everyone rises. To say the least, I’m not really sure how this works. They sing loud, people call out, and the whole crowd joins in. Not quite a Catholic organ. “Amen.” Then we sit. I scan the room. Martin whispers in my ear. “He preaches about being good,” he says, “every single week.” I hold the armrest next to me with my fingers. In the back, I spot a familiar figure wearing a tan suit. The junkyard man. Great. Now, he knows who I know, why I’m in Manitou Park. That makes me uncomfortable. “Mostly I think these sermons are supposed to be lectures for me.” Martin gulps, loudly, then sneezes loudly. “Bless you,” says Mr. Adams, looking at the front row where we sit. A few people in the congregation chuckle. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 66 of 133

The Reverend seems right at home on the pulpit. “Praise Jesus, good morning everyone.” He opens his Bible. In broken unison, similar callings. Amen. Praise Jesus. Good morning. The Reverend’s hands clench and unclench the sides of the podium. I picture them sparring with Martin, hitting him. “On a morning like this,” he begins. “Let us praise God. Thank him for his blessing.” As he speaks the word “Praise” a little bit of spit comes out and flies across the front of his pulpit. His mouth opens wide and his teeth seem remarkably far back in his mouth. “Won’t be long. I give him three sentences. Blessing to a curse,” Martin says, like a kid talking while the teacher is giving a lecture. “Huh?” “Blessing that we are saved from our selves and our own evil natures by God, Lord Jesus, amen.” Again, the chorus calls back. “Oop, see,” Martin says. “One sentence. E-vil.” His voice distracts me from the Reverend’s words. “Amen,” a woman’s voice calls out from the back. I have to keep turning my head, looking for who’s speaking or rather calling out. It’s quiet in my church. Can’t imagine somebody shouting out Amen at Saint Joseph’s. Maybe white people bottle up their religion more. Hell, that’s probably racist thinking. Martin leans over one more time. “This is about your phone call,” he sighs. I’ve missed what the Reverend has said, daydreaming and distracted by the others. I turn back my attention to him again. “The Devil calls, saying: Take it easy. Don’t worry about this. Calling out: Don’t worry about that.” “See?” Martin says, elbowing me. “I told you not to phone.” On the Reverend’s forehead, I see a vein bulging. “The devil calls us to frivolous wastes of time..” Ah, football. I think. “Football,” Martin coughs into his hand, pretending he’s not talking. Wow, like a mind reader. I glance at Martin, who points to himself. “Yeah.” “He,” Martin says very softly, “talks about me every week, especially since I told him I was gay.” Slowly, I see sweat form on Mister Adams, lots of sweat. On his forehead, staining his shirt, wet marks all over him. Priests don’t perspire like this guy. I realize that I’m sweating too, just from sitting. I wonder if he’s talking to me or to Martin now. Talking at us. “Do not answer the Devil’s call. Do not cling to false idols. That which is not true.” The reverend’s eyes open wide as he speaks. Once he looks right at me, his gaze so intense that I can’t hear what he’s saying. Martin touches my shoulder. I haven’t realized that I’m leaning forward, far, pulled by his words. I relax, exhale, sit back. “Buddha would love all this fire and brimstone crap,” Martin mumbles under his breath. I bite my tongue to keep from chuckling. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 67 of 133

“Do not put pride above humility before God.” As he preaches, a strange intuition hits me. The passion comes from somewhere. Reverend Adams hasn’t just done jail time. Not something like failure to pay parking tickets or drunk and disorderly in college. He has some sin to atone for, most people do, but the Reverend’s, I’d bet on it, his is big. Fifteen or twenty years later big. Still trying to fix it big. And, what scares me about him, what scares me about me, is that we’re alike: something inside of us isn’t right. He lectures for at least thirty minutes, all the while performing a strange baptism of sweat and saliva on the congregation, the water of his being washing over us. All the while, the congregation calling out and Martin narrating. Then, as church ends, choir singing, I peel Martin’s tie from my neck. “I gotta go,” I mumble. Martin grabs my arm. “Tomorrow,” he says. “What?” “Three o’clock.” The people start to stand. “What are you talking about Martin.” “Just meet me...” He pauses. “Outside of Ralphs.” “You’ve got—“ He squeezes my arm, hard enough to hurt, but I pretend not to notice. “Before I set you free or call the cops. Can’t decide which.” “Why you doing this?” I ask. “Revenge,” he laughs. I can tell he doesn’t mean it. “Raine. B4,” he continues. “I told you. We’re gonna make you human so you don’t turn out like the Reverend. Or try to off someone again.” I shrug. “Three o’clock.” “Whatever.” I don’t remain with the family. Without waiting for anyone else I scoot out of the end of the pew and door. No good-byes. Time to see what the Devil wrote about Reverend Adams on the Internet.

#

Bethany walks down my sidewalk as I pull into the driveway. She waves as if I shouldn’t be shocked to see her. However, I am surprised; she’s never been here before. “Hi Raine,” she smiles. I notice her hair’s pulled back, a dark, almost black, brown. She’s wearing an old school Led Zeppelin tank top, one with the picture of the Hindenberg blowing up. Her sneakers and running shorts make her look a little like a track star. I lean my bike against the garage and walk across the grass towards her. “Hi,” I smile. Bethany’s a little bit sweaty like she’s been outside in the heat for a while. The top part of her chest glistens and I notice for the first time how pretty she looks. Her body is Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 68 of 133 perfectly rounded, not skinny or fat, but great in proportion. Of course, she’s smaller than me, maybe five foot four, but she stands looking up, shoulders back with confidence. Part of me wonders what she wants. The other part wants to get rid of her quickly so I can jump onto the Internet and look up Reverend Adams. “Tried the doorbell.” She motions with one finger, ringing the air between us. “My mom’s probably sleeping off the night shift.” She scrunches up her face. “Sorry.” Our size difference becomes apparent when I reach the walkway. She’s chest high. As she leans up to look at me, I notice how dark her eyes appear. Black. Deep. She blinks once in the sun, and I can’t look away. Why haven’t I noticed before? Suddenly, I realize she’s speaking. She stops and I haven’t heard anything. “What?” “I really have to go. Probably drank too much before I ran.” I realize she’s asking to come in the house. Again, I’m torn. Make this quick, but something else too. I haven’t had anyone at my house, not friends, not my friends, not since seventh grade. Not since when everyone in your class was invited to school parties. Not since people stopped feeling obligated to invite me. There are people. Family, yes. The Sisters, the kids. Obligated relationships. But no one wants to come into my house. I must not answer because she asks again. “Raine?” I nod and open the front door for her. “Down there,” I point, past the computer, “to the left.” She grins. “Thanks.” Not knowing what to do in the meantime, I walk to towards the computer. I push the on button, but then decide not to start searching until Bethany leaves. Quickly, I walk towards the kitchen. I notice the medicine shelf first. The bottles are disordered, cough medicine in the front, aspirin to the right. I grab my mother’s psych meds. In one motion, I pop the top and dump all the pills in my hand. Right as I count ten, I hear the toilet flush. Frustrated, I put the meds back in place. Bethany walks into the kitchen. “Nice house,” Bethany says with a degree of social grace that I lack. Suddenly, I’m suspicious of her. “Did I wake your mother?” I shake my head, not having heard any movement from upstairs. “You can be quiet.” Bethany frowns. “Doesn’t make things easy.” “Huh?” “Seriously, you have a quiet streak. Makes you seem distant. Hard to approach.” She slides out a chair and sits without being asked. I know I’m supposed to reply, but nothing comes. She stares up at me. From the living room, the computer sounds a quiet beep, ready for me to visit Georgia again. “Raine?” “What?” She lifts her hand to her mouth, tugs on her lip, frustrated. “Oh Christ, I’m just going to have to blurt this out.” Bethany runs her tongue across her teeth, chomps them together one or two times. “I need a prom date.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 69 of 133

Silently, I wait for more. Bethany exhales, closes her eyes. She shakes her head. “Okay Raine, let’s try this again. Will you go to the prom with me?” I have never really imagined going somewhere with a girl. Ever. Freaks like me don’t date or fall in love or marry or have children. “Why you asking me?” I reply. “I’ll be honest.” She sighs, and places her hands out in front of her on the kitchen table. She picks up a piece of paper and turns it upside down. I know she’s nervous. “I had a boyfriend who went to college, Rutgers, but its been ending slow for a long time.” She pauses and looks directly into my eyes. Suddenly, I feel a burn, have to look away. I know it’s the truth. “I already bought tickets.” “Can we deal with this a little later?” I reply, thinking about the Reverend. “Prom’s next weekend, Raine.” “So I’m the freak show left over?” “No,” she blurts. “No?” “Well, no. Yes. Not like that. I need a date. It’s over now with…with my ex.” “And someone like you couldn’t find any one else?” I feel my ears turn red, angry, nervous, something. She looks up, eyes widening. Her voice raises. “Someone like me? What’s that mean?” “Regular. Popular.” My own voice feels loud now. I stare straight into her eyes. “I’m hardly popular,” she snorts. “The only thing I do at school is take pictures for the yearbook.” And her eyes sting, right through my own eyes, into my throat where words burst. “Beautiful,” I blurt. A rush of blood and heat run to my head. I know my ears are red, but now I feel it in my cheeks. “Oh,” she replies, relaxing her voice. Suddenly, a whole bunch of things happen for me. I realize I could like her. Very slowly, I walk towards the refrigerator. I want to be doing anything else but this, looking up the Reverend, riding my bike, watching a movie. She keeps talking. “You’re nice.” I don’t look at her, but feel her watching the back of my head. “You hardly know me,” I reply, head still turned. “I saw you sticking up for Joey.” I hope she doesn’t mean with the bomb. To make sure, I say something else. “Wouldn’t you be—“ I want to say embarrassed, but nothing comes. I feel cowardly. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks. The fridge handle feels cool as I open the door. Without a glimpse at her face, I grab a pitcher of ice tea, and two glasses. “I know you didn’t buy tickets, Raine. You’re not on the master list. I checked.” Surprisingly, she matters. I don’t want her to think I’m a bad guy, someone who would kill someone. I pour us both a drink. Hers I place on the table in front of her. I’m too nervous to sit, so I drink and walk and put the pitcher of ice tea back in the fridge. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 70 of 133

“Well?” “Well, what?” I ask, finally looking at her. “Don’t make me beg.” She looks up, puppylike. “Don’t mess with me,” I practically moan, not sure if it’s a yell or sob. Again, she picks up the paper on the table, this time quickly. She waves it at me. “What?” “I don’t want to—“ “Fine.” She says, flipping the paper onto the table. “No.” Bethany stands, pushing the chair back with her motion. She grabs her glass of ice tea, tilts her head back and drains it in one gulp. “Fine.” “No. Wait. I mean—“ “What?” She looks up at me. The words move slowly towards her. “I don’t want to—“ I pause, “— get all excited.” My breath feels short and the words don’t sound right. “Especially if this is a joke or a set up.” Her eyes never look away. “I know you’re still pissed about the lab. Me standing you up.” “Don’t stand me up for this.” Her eyes darken. And then she moves her lip, real small, probably she doesn’t even know as if she’s chewing, in slow motion, the inside of her mouth. Her bottom lip protrudes and I want to reach out for her. Bethany lowers her voice to a whisper. “Please.” There is a sadness that lives in me, about the point where her eyes meet my chest, the Holy Darkness. From there, the worst of sorrows turn to acts of bravery, as big as killing as small as the prom. Summoning all my courage from that sacred space, I smile politely. “Would you like to stay for a bagel?” They sound like the dumbest words that have ever come out of my mouth.

#

“I saw your movie collection,” Bethany says, standing and holding out the piece of paper she’s been mauling. “Can I look?” I nod. She hands me the message, then heads for the living room, a good excuse for me to head back towards the Internet. I’m surprised by the fact that I watch her leave, feeling roused. Fortunately, she doesn’t turn around to see my staring. The paper is a note from my mother. “Picked up an extra shift. Should be home by 7:30. Eat or late dinner. XO.” Too much working for my mother. That’s not good. Once again, I lift the medicine bottle from the shelf. Final count: seventeen. Again, not good. “How many do you have?” Bethany calls from the living room. “A million?” I walk towards her voice. “About three hundred.” Behind her, I spy the computer, flashing with the screen saver. A tiny reflection of Bethany’s back is visible on the monitor. “Favorite?” she asks. “Too many.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 71 of 133

She holds a few in her hands, turning over two or three cases. “Oh pick something. Better yet, pick a few.” I walk past her to the computer and hit a few keys, thinking. The screen changes. Maybe I can look up Reverend Adams while she looks at a few movies. Funny, now I want her to stay. I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Twenty Eight Days Later.” “Zombies?” she asks with a light tone, laughing a little. “End of the World.” “What else?” She moves along the shelves, bending, picking up another case as she talks. “Alien. The Thirteenth Warrior.” Bethany smiles and nods. As she does so, she reaches up and undoes her hair. The blackness drapes over her shoulders, then she shakes out whatever tangles she has. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at the titles. I sit and start searching on-line. The Internet is a fascinating place that allows you to do anything. Once, I did look up a site about how to kill people, which is probably stupid, especially from my home computer. I know if I had really killed Martin in the first place, I wouldn’t have been able to hide it, not that I really wanted to hide it. I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe that I was a hero or something. Or could be. Like my dad. Rescuing somebody from being captured. I don’t know what I was thinking, because in addition to that idea being stupid, all the police would have to do is take my computer and they could look back at all of the websites I visited and find out that I’d been planning Martin’s murder. I’ve never liked having the computer in that room, but my mother always said that way she could check what I was doing. She doesn’t though. We got the computer when I was in about second grade. Even my grandmother used to email her friends before she died. As I take a bite of my sandwich, I wonder what Martin is like with his dad. Does he stand up to him? Does he fight him back? I would doubt that. I don’t think anyone would stand up to his father. He’s just too big, too scary. “I’m going leave my cell number,” Bethany calls out. “On the table.” “Okay.” “What’s yours?” “Don’t have one.” The computer sounds a beep. My mother likes to keep the volume up loud so that she can hear if something I’m doing sounds, to quote her, inappropriate. But now that she’s not here, I don’t care. Usually, to do things that she wouldn’t approve of, I come downstairs late at night, while she’s sleeping, and then I turn off the speakers before I turn the computer on. The thing I always do is clear the history trail before I get off the computer. She’s smart enough to check where I’ve been, but trusting enough to not have bought one of those programs that lets you see everything that’s been on the computer. Immediately, I go back to the Georgia Tech website. And for the next few minutes, search and search. Nothing. Frustrated, I search Dacula county records. Then, other football sites. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 72 of 133

“What’re you doing?” Bethany asks. I see this time she has more boxes in her hands, maybe six or seven. “Football stuff,” I reply. “Oh.” I expect more but she turns around again. I hunt Atlanta newspapers and search the Archives. Once more, I type in the date range, for the year, that Martin’s father played at Georgia Tech. Using one finger on my right hand, and taking the last sips of soda with my left, I type in his name and Georgia Tech football. Instantly, something pops up. A bright blue headline and the first paragraph of a newspaper story jump onto the screen. “Any luck?” Bethany asks. “Hmmm,” I mumble not wanting to be interrupted. I see Henry Adams highlighted in bold type in the first few sentences. There’s no picture, but I know what it would be if it were there. A big, bulking nineteen year old with gigantic hands. What strikes me, however, freezes my hand on the keyboard, is the headline: Georgia Tech Player charged in Felony Murder.

#

I lean back from the computer and stare at the screen for a second. The date on the paper is over twenty-five years ago. The first paragraph, actually only the first few lines of the story, appear. “Georgia Tech freshman, Henry Adams, 19, was charged Tuesday with felony murder in the death of Mark Jamison, 21, a Georgia Tech Junior. Jamison’s death, the result of an apparent altercation with Adams, a Yellow Jacket offensive lineman, last week followed an after- game celebration at…” MORE… The article ends there, in mid sentence. I feel like someone hits me in the throat and I can’t breathe. More. Of course, I want more. I click the link for additional information. The page changes. “All the movies you like are monster movies,” Bethany says, stepping towards me. I jump, startled by her voice. Accidentally, I bang my soda glass. It falls onto the floor with a thud, thankfully empty. “Scare you?” I hold up my hand to make her stop. I don’t want her to see the screen. She’s holding “Aliens” in her hand. Awkwardly, I reach for the glass. “Check out “King of Hearts””, I mutter quickly, remembering the name of some old foreign flick my mother recently watched. Anything to keep Bethany from the computer. “You want—“ “Seriously,” I cut her off, pointing towards the far corner of the shelves. Frowning, she turns back to the movies. Rapidly, I spin back to the computer. “Welcome to the Archives” reads the screen. “Searching the archives is free, but we charge a nominal fee for access to the entire text of stories and for reprints.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 73 of 133

I click the link for more. Again, the Welcome Screen appears. I click one more time. “Please select the 24 hour/one day pass, the weekly or monthly subscription to the Archives.” “No,” I say out loud. “What?” Bethany answers. I look up. “No. Sorry. I don’t even know if we have that movie.” What am I saying? “What?” she repeats, and again steps towards me. “I don’t know,” I babble. Quickly, I shrink the screen. “What’s that about?” she asks, noticing that I don’t want her to see. “Nothing.” “Really?” Her voice raises, disbelieving. I shake my head in agreement. “Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks, holding out two or three choices. “Or is the porn more interesting?” “What?” She doesn’t answer. “It’s not what you think.” “No?” She flips her hair back over her shoulder, and spins. Then, she takes the stack of movies in her hand and places them back on the shelf. “Then, what is it?” I don’t move. She walks over to me at the computer. Seated, I realize she’s looking down at me. I’ve never seen her from this perspective. The eyes narrow. “Raine?” “Lay off,” I reply. She steps back, offended. “Please,” I murmur, too late. Her eyes fade. “Bethany. It’s private. Its—“ I stop. “Look, forget it,” she says, plainly. “You’re doing me a favor coming to Prom. I’m gonna go. We’ll catch up later.” I should, but I don’t stand. I also don’t talk. Instead, I let her walk to the door. The hinges never sounded so loud as when she opens it. “See you later Raine,” she yells. For a second, I don’t reply. Then, I call out. “Want to stay and watch a movie?” But the sound of the door slamming drowns out my voice.

#

I type in the story line for a second time, the date, the name. Again, the same headline and few sentences appear. I click “More”. Welcome to the archives. Frustrated, I bang on the table. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 74 of 133

I grab the phone. By now I know Martin’s number. I punch the keys. On the other end, the phone rings, and rings. Eight, nine, ten times. I want, at least, an answering machine. Nothing. I stare at the computer screen, at the access code, user name, password, billing options. Then, I dial my mother’s cell phone. “Hello?” her voice says, simply. “Raine?” “Mom, can I use your credit card to get onto a website?” “Nice to hear your voice too,” she replies. I stand up, impatient. “Mom.” “I’m at work Raine. Are you okay?” “I need to get onto a website, but you have to pay.” “What are you talking about Raine?” She sounds unhappy. “I’m doing research, for school.” I lie. “And I need to get some information.” School’s always another good trick. Ask for help, say it’s about school. “Raine,” she says, softly. “I can’t do anything right now. I’m in the middle of moving someone. In about two minutes.” “Can’t you just give me your credit card number?” “Are you nuts?” she says deadpan. I don’t answer. “For you to use, online? Without me even seeing what you’re doing?” “Mom,” I moan. “Raine” she mutters back. “This is crap!” “We can talk when I get home. Besides, I don’t even have my wallet with me now. So I can’t help you even if I wanted to.” “Fine.” I say, conceding defeat yet again. I’m beginning to feel like a loser. “Glad you’re doing some homework.” I hang up. Then, I dial Martin again. I punch the wrong numbers, twice. My nerves are wound up. Finally, I hear the phone ring at his house. “Come on,” I say. “Come—“ Someone answers on the second ring. “Hello. Adams household. This is Martin.” “Martin!” I shout. “Raine?” “We have to talk.” “Why are you calling here?” I pace with the phone in my hand. The walls in my house suddenly feel like I’m trapped. I move to the computer, and look at the headline again. “Remember about Georgia Tech?” I say. “I thought I told you to forget about it,” he says loudly. “Why can’t you listen to me?” “There’s more,” I reply. “Forget it.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 75 of 133

“No.” “Forget it.” “You have to—“ “What are you, a stalker?” he shouts. “I told you forget it. Leave me alone. I don’t have to do anything.” “Martin,” I plead. I notice my hand clenched in a fist. “NO. You already proved you’re crazy with that battery.” Angered, I slap the side of the computer screen. The sound surprises me, more hollow than I’d imagined. I’m lucky it doesn’t break. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you with the chemical bomb.” “What?” “Forget you,” I scream into the phone. “Figure it out yourself.” I slam the phone down into the cradle. Frustrated, I grab my bag and head towards the door. Maybe the library has access to the truth.

#

Sunday afternoon. The library’s open until six o’clock for May and June. The bike ride takes less than fifteen minutes. I pedal towards downtown, and as I do I pass one of the signs for South Toms River and Manitou Park. South Main Street. I think about turning left, going straight to Martin’s house instead of to the library. All I have to do is make the turn, head out past the junkyard, and keep going until I hit his driveway. At the intersection, traffic seems backed up. Rush hour, dinnertime for most. A line of five cars waits at the turn off. That decides it for me. With too much traffic and too awkward of a turn with all the cars, I tell myself I’ll be back later. Instead of turning, I raise my hand and wave up the road, towards his house. “I’ll be back after you chill out.” A car beeps at me and someone waves as if I’ve been signaling them. I park and lock my bike outside, the head into the library. I head straight for the reference desk. Fortunately, Ms. Allen is working. I know her the best from years of coming here after school while my mother and grandmother worked. She’s the nicest of the librarians. She looks up, over her reading glasses, as I approach. “Hello, Raine,” she smiles. Her red hair makes her look younger than she actually is. Last year, she told me she turned fifty. She could be thirty without the glasses. I’m anxious, but don’t want to appear too nervous. I don’t want to let anyone know what I’m looking at. “Can we get on to a website here, if it costs money to join?” “You don’t know how to do that yet?” The librarian smiles. “I thought you worked here.” I smile back, a little. I don’t much feel like joking today. “No. I mean, not for paying. Just does the library ever pay for websites?” She stands behind her desk. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 76 of 133

“That depends on the site,” she says. Without speaking, I know that she is thinking of pornography, though I couldn’t tell you why. “Nothing bad,” I whisper, letting her know that I’m following library rules for quiet conversation. “Research.” “We have subscriptions to lots of search engines, data bases and other websites. Most are free—“ “Could you help me with one?” I ask. I know women like to help men. She moves from behind her desk towards me. Together, we walk from the reference desk to one of the computer terminals. As we reach the station, she pulls out my chair, just like she used to when I was in fifth grade, and sixth. For as long as I can remember. While I log on, she puts her hand on my shoulder. I’m used to that, too. Her fingers have always seemed so pale to me. “What site, Raine?” Unfortunately, I don’t have the exact web address. “Hang on.” I go through the same searches I did previously. Georgia Tech, Atlanta Newspaper archives. As she stands next to me, I don’t type in the same search criteria for Martin’s father. Instead, I punch keys for Yellow Jacket Football, a year later. “Oh,” Ms. Allen says, when the credit card screen comes up. I lean back. “Maybe,” she whispers to herself. She does that often. Starts sentences, then fades out. With her hand, she taps me, meaning for me to rise. She takes my seat. “What if we…” Too quiet to hear. I step back and watch for a minute. She’s moving from that site to other ones: college search engines, some library data base. “You need newspaper archives, correct, Raine?” “Yes,” I say. “From the 80’s?” “Uh-huh.” “Did you ever try…” Her words fade again, as she types something else. The screen changes. “Nope,” she blurts. “Maybe if we…for Atlanta, correct?” “Yes,” I reply. “Let’s do one more thing,” she says. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Martin. “What are—“ He raises his pointer finger, like he did the time when he caught me with the car battery. “Shut up,” he whispers. “How’d you find me?” I blurt. Ms. Allen turns then, glancing at us. She doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the computer screen. Typical librarian—researches stuff not real life. “You’re predictable,” he says. I must make a face because he keeps talking. “At least sort of.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 77 of 133

“But I rode my bike.” “I called the house.” “So?” “When no one answered, I just guessed.” I stare at him now. He doesn’t seem mad. He seems curious, I think. “Yes,” Ms. Allen says, pushing herself away from the computer. Martin and I turn towards her. She stands and offers me the chair. “We don’t have a subscription to that Archive through this library,” she says. “But the county belongs to the educational network and they have a subscription.” “I’m not sure I get all that,” I reply. Martin moves aside as Ms. Allen walks past and I take back the seat. “Don’t worry,” she smiles. “TMI.” She giggles and makes a T sign with her two hands. “Too much information. I set you up with the site you wanted. So long as you just forward and back pages and don’t log out, you’ll have what you need.” “Thank you.” She smiles, then looks at Martin, nods to him. He pulls a chair over from another station, and sits down next to me. I don’t say anything. My fingers start typing. Georgia Tech. “Why’d you do this?” he says. I shrug. “He says the past is the devil.” Again, I don’t answer. “And we fight, all the time, when I ask.” My fingers keep moving. “Do you want to know?” I ask, stopping and looking him in the face. I’ve never told anyone that their father is a murderer. “Probably not.” I exhale loudly, and sit back. The cursor on the screen blinks in one of the search categories. “He did time,” Martin says, softly. “In jail. But I don’t know the rest.” “It’s not good,” I say, wondering how he’ll react. “Just press the damn button,” he says. So, I do.

#

The headline and first few lines of the story appear again. The screen flicks once, but then stays. I watch Martin’s eyes as he reads. “Hell,” he says aloud. “Yeah.” I mumble. “No. I mean it. Holy Hell,” I click on the link for the full story. In a moment, the text comes up. “I think—“ Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 78 of 133

“Let me sit there,” Martin says, and yanks me from the chair. I half fall onto the floor. “Hey—“ “Did you see this yet?” He pushes past me into my spot. “No.” I reply, unfolding myself, rising and moving into his chair. Martin takes the mouse, and moves the cursor. From beside him, I read more of the article: “Atlanta District Attorney, Brain Smatterling, announced the charges following conversations with witnesses at the scene, including other Georgia Tech football players. “The death of Mr. Jamison was the direct result of Mr. Adams actions,” Smatterling said, outside of the courthouse where Adams was being arraigned. “As such he is being charged with felony murder and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” “Several witnesses reported that Adams and Jamison came to blows last week outside of a local tavern in which both had been drinking. Adams, who is underage, apparently became angered at Jamison’s remarks about the freshman’s playing time during that afternoon’s Georgia Tech football game. When Jamison followed Adams outside, more heated words were exchanged. “Then Adams punched Jamison in the face. The junior fell backwards, striking his head on the curb, and began convulsing. “Emergency services dispatched to the scene reported no vital signs on Jamison and he was pronounced dead at the scene, apparently of traumatic brain injury. “Adams was not initially charged, but later, during questioning admitted to striking Jamison. Presently, he is being held in the Fulton County jail on $200,000 bail. “Georgia Tech Athletic Director, Michael Els, announced that Adams would be suspended indefinitely from the team pending the investigation. Team… Martin clicks out of the page before I am done reading. “What—“ I start, but I stop myself before I finish the sentence. It’s a pretty awkward moment when someone finds out something that changes how they see the world. Especially, when you have a chance to witness it. I can feel the shift, right that instant, like the kind of change that happens when your ears pop in a car when you change altitude. Something is just clearer, you hear better, like Martin now understands something important. He doesn’t move, just sits there holding the mouse and the edge of the computer table. I have to look carefully to make sure he’s breathing. His eyes stare straight ahead at the screen. “Hell,” he says softly. “Did you know?” I ask. He shakes his head, but doesn’t look at me, eyes fixed on the computer screen. “Guess that’s why he doesn’t want me to play football,” Martin mumbles. “Yeah.” He pushes back a little from the desk. “What do you think he’d do if I told him I found out?” Martin asks me. “About this?” I ask. “Yeah.” I shrug. “What do you think he’d do?” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 79 of 133

“Good question.” He moves the mouse and the cursor on the screen jumps to another search. “Martin?” I say, leery of what he’s doing. “I have to find out what happened. I don’t want to half know.” “Won’t he be pissed?” Martin turns to look at me. His eyes seem darker, more intense, angry. “He’s a minister Raine.” He pauses, then repeats. “A minister who killed a guy. With one punch.” I bounce on my toes. “Accident.” “When you kill someone, you can’t just go around and pretend it didn’t happen. Not talk about it. That’s what you do. You ask forgiveness. You…you do something. But you don’t just yell at your kids to be perfect all the time.” Ms. Allen’s hands wave, catching my attention from the corner of my eye. From the motion, I know she wants us quieter. I wave back, signaling okay. I whisper to Martin. “It’s a long time ago.” “Probably not for that kid’s family. Plus he punches me. For punishment.” “Don’t you wear sparring gear?” The words feel stupid as soon as they come out. “He punched someone to death.” I nod in agreement. “He became a minister, in prison, because of this,” Martin continues. “And I think I’m entitled to the full story now.” “Agreed,” I reply. Then, he surprises me. “So, let me look this up. I don’t want to do this with you.” “What?” “I’ll tell you all about it, I promise,” he says. I sit back in the chair offended. “But,” Martin continues, “I think its more dignified if I do it alone.” I understand his meaning. Then, I glance up at the clock. 4:50 pm. “I have to leave in an hour,” I reply. He nods. I walk away wondering if he’ll really tell me what he finds.

#

I move one table to the right, away from Martin, giving him a little more space. I could probably use the same data base, explore about his father at the same time. But I decide against it. He asked for privacy, so I’ll give it to him. Instead, I click onto the Internet again, a familiar site ESPN. I find a link for the Phillies, who played yesterday. Chase Utley, my favorite, had two hits even though the Phils lost. Chase’s my favorite because he’s number twenty-six, like the Abbott family mystery. My football number is sixty-two, the reverse of twenty-six. I want wear the family number but offensive linemen have to wear a number between 60-79. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 80 of 133

While I’m waiting for Martin, I search a few other databases: Famous football players with number 62. No one notable. Same with number 26, except for Ladanian Tomlinson, San Diego Chargers. That’s decent. Famous baseball players with number 62, none. Baseball players, Wade Boggs, Red Sox. Billy Williams, Chicago Cubs. Hall of Famer. Sixty-two. Twenty-six. It strikes me that I don’t know what number my father wore in high school. I wonder if I would be able to find that out. A few moments and I have the school district web page. Schedules, sports, teachers—but nothing that would give me his football number from nineteen years ago. “How’s it going?” I ask Martin. He glances over at me. I can see his computer screen, definitely a different web page. He mumbles. “Martin?” “Shhh.” I never heard anyone sound angry making that sound before. “What’s—“ “Shut up. He made a plea bargain,” Martin replies, not looking up. His face seems dark. “A what?” He shakes his head and waves. “What?” He glances with an evil eye to me. “Let me finish.” Then, he turns back to the computer. I decide to leave him alone, and as I do, an idea strikes me. “I’ll be back.” Martin doesn’t seem to hear. I walk over to Ms. Allen, again. From behind her desk, she looks up at me. “Any chance you have high school year books from sixteen years ago?” I ask. “Sure,” she smiles. “Every year from 1908 until the present. Local history. All three high schools, plus the two private ones.” “Oh” “But you can’t take them out. Local reference room only.” She points to the back of the library. A few doors, mostly empty rooms, with old books call me. “On the right. Room on the right. Wall on the right.” Again, she smiles. The yearbooks are easy to find. Like old encyclopedias, all the same title with just a different year on the spine. I pull out a few from his era. I’m not sure what year he graduated. I sit down at the only table in the empty room and open one at random. Flipping through the pages, all the people look so different. I guess time changes everyone. My guess for the right year is good. And there he appears among the seniors: Robert Douglas Abbott. He looks like other photos I’ve seen, unkempt hair, dark, like me, only he’s in that classic senior portrait pose wearing a shirt and tie. Smiling. He has big teeth, long, and a big grin. I don’t spot pimples, but I know he has some. Runs in the family genes, says my mother. I get acne even on my back sometimes. I flip to my mother’s page. They graduated the same year. Ellyn Alexandra Samuels, farther back in the alphabet. Her hair is short, also dark, and her smile seems brighter than I’ve Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 81 of 133 ever seen it. Beneath her picture are several clubs listed: photography club, future teachers of America, ultimate Frisbee club. Fascinating. A knock on the door behind me. “Find it?” Ms. Allen says, poking just her head into the room. I nod. “Thanks.” Over her head, I notice the clock. I should leave in fifteen minutes. I flip the pages to the football section. The football team has two pages, a team shot, action photos, and varsity individual head pictures. My father, I discover, wore number 23, probably in honor of Michael Jordan, and played cornerback. In his picture, he’s trying to look tough with black liner under his eyes, but in reality the photo looks staged. He looks silly, eyebrows drawn up, grimacing in a fake menace. As I return the book to it’s spot on the shelf, I notice that I’ve only got a few minutes before I should leave if I want to be home by the time my mother arrives. When I walk back towards Martin, he’s still holding the mouse in his hand. Someone else has taken the spot next to him. I step up, behind his chair. “Hey,” I say. He jumps. “How’s it going there?” “Come back later.” “Fine.” I spot his phone on the table next to him. “Let me borrow that?” He waves me off with his hand. I grab the phone and head outside. With a strange confidence, Martin rubbing off on me, I dial Bethany, just to tell her I’ll go to the Prom. I don’t know if I’ve answered her yet. “Was it you?” she asks as soon as the phone rings. “What?” “Did you do it Martin?” I know she’s looking at caller ID, seeing his number, thinking he’s calling. “It’s not Martin. It’s Raine.” “What? Oh, even better. Was it you?” “What are you talking about?” Her voice rises, louder. “Somebody keyed Francoise’s car. Scratched it all up. I am screwed. Totally. Was it you?” “ I don’t even know what car she drives.” “Everybody does. That bright green thing.” “I thought—“ “I know it was you. It’s just like you. It’s—“ Suddenly, I realize my mistake. That wasn’t Bob’s car; it was his girlfriend Kim’s. And now, Bethany’s in deeper crap. Surprisingly, I answer. “Yes.” She screams in the phone. And somewhere inside of me the Holy Darkness cries.

# Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 82 of 133

The conversation with Bethany doesn’t end well. Just meet her Tuesday morning, early, before school. I head back inside to Martin. “Well, any luck?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he exhales real loud. Then, rubs his face like he’s wiping something off of his forehead and nose. He moves his fingers, motioning me to come closer. I lean in. “I don’t know how to deal with this,” he says, calmly. “The worst is over,” I reply. “What’d you—“ He shakes his head. I watch him roll his tongue across his lips as if he’s trying to say something. “Does it—“ He cuts me off, again, with his hand, waving for me to stop talking. I do. I step back a little. He stands, and logs out of the computer. I make some stupid remark while we walk towards the door. “Found my father in the yearbook. He wore Michael Jordan’s number.” Martin pauses, like he won’t speak, but then asks, “Did you know that before?” “Don’t know much but his name and what I’ve been told. He died when I was one year old.” “It’s always something,” he comments, being vague. I wonder if he’ll tell me more. “He’s picking me up in fifteen minutes,” Martin says, as we walk out the front door. “Your dad?” He mutters, looking down. “I have to leave in a few anyway,” I continue. “No,” he says, frustration in his voice. “You’re missing the point. What am I supposed to do now?” “Is it that different?” I ask. We keep walking towards my bike. He nods, exhaling, keeps nodding. “You knew he’d been in jail.” Martin’s head keeps moving up and down, but he doesn’t say anything. “And now you know why.” “Yeah,” he mumbles. “How long was he in for?” I ask, as I bend down and unlock my bike. I wrap the cable around the seat and refasten the lock. “Ten years,” Martin says. “See?” I answer. “That’s a long time. He had a spiritual conversion or whatever it’s called. In jail. Became a Minister. That’s probably where he learned karate.” “It is.” “So what’s the problem? Now you just know the details. Do what you did before. Act the same.” “It a different problem.” I move the bike, and toss my leg over it, ready to go. “Why’s that different?” “No.” he grunts. “There’s a different problem.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 83 of 133

“What?” I say. “What’s worse than he killed someone and did ten years? My father’s dead.” I feel my fingers wrapping around the hand grips. Something about talking about my father stirs up a feeling I don’t like. “He did ten years, yes.” Martin repeats. “Released on December 1st ten years after sentencing.” Now, I’m frustrated. “And the problem is?” “I was born in October.” I shrug, asking for more. Martin grunts, loudly. “For a smart kid, you are stupider than anyone I ever met. Think about it.” I would probably be angry at him, if I didn’t know his situation. I hate being called names. He stares at me. I move the bike below me like I am about to pedal away. Then, it hits me. “He was in jail when you were born.” “Yeah,” Martin mumbles, moving his lips into an awkward pose. “Hell,” I mutter. “He’s not your father.”

#

Right then, Martin points to the driveway. His father’s Lawn Service truck pulls into the parking lot. “Early,” I say. Martin sighs loudly. “Shit.” “Minister’s kid curses. That’s bad.” “No kidding,” he says angrily. We watch the truck turn, pulling closer. “Come on,” Martin says, yanking my arm, hard. I’m off balance as a result of his tug. My bike tilts. I drop it onto the ground. Martin runs towards the trees at the side of the library. “What?” I yell. “Come on,” he shouts. I gallop after him, sure his father has seen us. Martin ducks around the corner. I make the turn and spy him near a few bushes, ducking into the bank parking lot. “Martin!” He looks back over his shoulder and waves me forward. I run faster. Martin moves, has speed. He keeps going between cars, up over a small wall, and down the street away from the library. When I get to the wall, I glance behind me expecting to see his father. Nothing. No one giving chase. No truck careening after us. Martin keeps running. The distance between us grows. I sprint. Again, I shout his name, only this time much louder. “Martin.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 84 of 133

He turns, waves once more, then ducks past a dumpster into an alley between two other buildings. I won’t catch him. The only way is to keep going, hope he stops or slows. A minute later I turn the corner, sweating, and tired. My throat hurts. Up ahead, Martin sits on the ground next to some old car tires. He hasn’t gone far, just away from his dad and the library. His backpack lays in the middle of the alley. He’s holding his head with both hands. Some weird noises come from his mouth. I slow down, walking now, and step towards him. “What are you doing?” I say, “What…” I stop talking, to breathe. He drops his hands from his cheeks and looks up. I notice his face is flush. “You can’t just run away,” I mutter, gasping for air. “This is messed up,” he blurts. “What?” I lean, heavily, against the bricks. “Totally. I mean totally totally.” “Martin?” Suddenly, he bangs his head back against the wall. It thuds. “Mar—“ “No,” he shouts. He slams his head back again into the bricks. Once. Twice. “Ouch,” I say, not sure what to do. “How does—“ Instead of talking, he kicks out with his right foot, connecting shoe with the backpack. “At least he took you in,” I say, still wheezing. “For whatever—“ “Shut up!” Martin yells. Next, he pounds his fist on the sidewalk. I expect a noise, like sound effects in a movie, something metallic or loud. Nothing really but a dull thwop. Two, three, four. A long silent minute passes. An uncomfortable minute. Finally, I speak. “What are—“ “I can’t go home,” he blurts. “How can I?” His fist clenches, then opens, closes again. In the dimness, I notice his knuckles. Some skin hangs funny. “Want to fight?” I ask. “Up yours,” he replies, frowning. “No,” I answer. “I mean, like, maybe it would help. Tang soo do?” He gives me the finger. I drop down onto the pavement, sprawling my legs out in front of me. “You can—“ “I don’t even know who he is,” Martin cuts me off again. Then, he growls, like a moaning, roaring grunt. Something strange and wild, an animal. I place my palms flat down on the pavement wondering if he’s calling some animal somewhere, maybe from deep inside of him. Sometimes I feel like that myself, like deep inside is something I don’t know and understand, left over from evolution. “I’ll give you first shot,” I say, grinning. He snorts. “Seriously.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 85 of 133

Martin grabs a piece of trash, a wrapper of some kind, and chucks it at me. Weirdly, the paper flutters between us. “Everybody has issues with their dads.” “He’s not really father. He’s a liar.” “He’s been your father.” Suddenly, it feels quiet. My breath feels slower. Maybe there’s not as much traffic nearby, but for whatever reason everything feels still. “Martin?” “Hmgh,” he grunts. Nothing. “Seriously, everyone has something with their father.” “How can you say that?” In the quiet, an idea comes. I reach for my wallet. “I have to show you something.” “What?” his voice sounds short, angry. Carefully, I remove the pictures and reach in behind the twins for the paper. “Here, take this.” I pull it out, unfolding, and extend the note. “What’s…” “A letter from my dad.” I know the words by heart. Martin keeps his hands down, palms on the pavement next to his legs. “I don’t want to—“ “No. Seriously. You’re making me do all this stuff. It’s my turn to—“ “Not now, Raine.” “No.” I move the note right in front of his face. “You need to see this. Everyone has issues with their dads.” He snatches the paper from my hand. I grimace and make a fist. “Gentle.” “Oh, like I’m supposed to care about what my almost murderer values? Whatever B4.” I’m about to say something else, but he looks down and unfolds the note. I know all the words. “Dear Son, Your mom and I didn’t expect you, and it’s not easy being a parent this young. But you are worth it. Watching your mother with you, that’s worth it too. Who knew I could love someone so much when they didn’t even exist two years ago? Martin looks up. “He wrote this to you when you were a baby?” “Died when I was two.” Deeply, Martin exhales. “What does this have to do with me? I mean right now?” He drops the letter, carelessly. I swoop it out of mid-air. “Did you read the whole—“ “No.” “All right. Then at least listen to this part.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 86 of 133

Slowly, Martin taps his head backwards against the wall, a much lesser version of his earlier frustration. “Love changes things,” I say, quoting the letter without reading. “What?” “Yeah, you know your dad loves you.” Martin stands. I catch sight of blood on his knuckles. “Okay,” I continue. “Then how about this? I am sad to be leaving you for a while. It is a deep sorrow, a kind of holy darkness, sadness that means something, taking—“ “Stop Raine.” Then, he grabs his backpack. “It’s really important Martin. More than you know.” My voice seems to rise and creak. “Raine, it’s really cute that you want to be so…so frigging vulnerable.” He pauses. “But now is not the time.” “Martin.” He steps across my legs, standing above me. “I am ordering you to stop. Understand? You owe me.” “Where are you going?” He doesn’t answer. Unexpectedly, he punches the wall. A karate blow. Again, the lack of sound disturbs me. “Martin!” Rapidly, he steps away. I rise. At the corner, I catch up. I put my hand on this shoulder. He turns, ferocious, knocking my elbow with a fist. “Leave me alone.” I pull my hand back. He starts away again. “Martin?” “I don’t’ care about your dad,” he yells, not looking at me. “It’s not about my dad—” I reply, walking a few steps behind him. He moves fast. “Everybody has issues with their fathers.” Martin stops. He turns to face me. I halt in my tracks. “Go blow up a school you moron. I don’t even know who my father is.” “Mar—“ “No! You tried to kill me. You don’t even know what a bully you are.” His words, surprisingly, sting, like whatever friendship we might have made in the past few days is done. Meekly, I reach out for his shoulder again. “No.” In one motion, he grabs my wrist and twists. My arm bends and I flop awkwardly onto my knees, wincing. “Okay,” I manage to say. He doesn’t let go. “Listen carefully. I live with a murderer and have you to deal with. So, the hell with Buddhism or whatever I was thinking. I just want to be alone now. Got it?” I nod. He lets go, and storms off. Painfully, I shake out my arm. On the ground behind me, my father’s note feels strangely unfamiliar. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 87 of 133

# Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 88 of 133

Part IV: Night

I can’t sleep. I hear every creak in the house, the breeze blowing outside my window, even an owl really far away someplace. But sleep doesn’t come. I can’t get my mind off of Martin. I can’t imagine what it’s like to find out that the man you live with, a minister, is really a lie. That your dad isn’t your dad, and that your father is killed someone with his bare hands. For an odd reason, I walk to my mother’s room. Her door is always cracked open, never all the way closed, so that she can hear me. Even so, she sleeps very soundly. I push the door open a few inches and stick my head in the door. She doesn’t stir. I listen for her breathing, very soft, any quieter and I would wonder if she was alive. The room is totally dark so I can’t see anything. What would I say to her if I found out that she wasn’t my mother? What would I say if I found out that she killed someone? Quietly, I back out and head to the kitchen. I’m not hungry, just hoping that food will settle me down. I reach for a box of cereal. Then, I spy the medicine shelf. With great deliberateness, I walk to the table and open the container. I count her pills again, one at a time, sliding them across the table towards the pile of mail. Angrily, I reach seventeen. Maybe I should leave her a note, put it right in the pill box. In one motion, I sweep the pills back into the little green bottle. Suddenly, an idea comes to mind, a way to make the Reverend lighten up on Martin. I reach over to the counter, grab a pen and paper, then lean over the table.

Saving Martin: 1. Stop Reverend Adams from hitting Martin. Confront him about the murder. 2. Make Reverend Adams lighten up. Get him to let Martin play football. 3. Find out about Martin’s real father.

I grab another piece of paper and start writing. Dear Reverend Adams, I know what you did in Georgia, and why you have come here to restart your life. How

My mothers voice interrupts me from behind. “Why’re you up so late?” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 89 of 133

I turn. She’s in her purple robe, but wearing sneakers. Her hands tie the belt around her as she approaches. Coolly, I slide my paper and pen off to the right so that it looks like a piece of mail. “Couldn’t sleep.” “Me, either,” she says. “Too much going on.” Insomnia’s one of the signs that she’s cycling again, off her meds, thinking that she’s okay without them. Manic. She steps towards the table. Her prescription bottle sits right in front of me. I palm it, so she won’t see. “Why aren’t you sleeping? Didn’t you just work a double?” She walks to the refrigerator. “I slept,” she says softly, “from about nine until—“ She glances up at the clock. “One fifteen.” Big grin. Too big. Another sign that she’s not doing well. I glance over at the note I’m writing to the Reverend. Maybe she could help me with some ideas. “Mom?” I look back at her and spy hands full of things from the fridge: milk, eggs, butter, even a liter bottle of soda. “Let’s make some cookies. Maybe it’ll tire us out.” I feel the heaviness in my chest. She’s gone. It’ll be days now before she comes back, before some crash where she can’t get out of bed and cries and one of the Sisters, probably Aunt Jen, convinces her that she needs to start taking her medication again. “You know I could use your help sometimes,” I blurt, unhappy. She stops in mid-stride, hands still full. “What’s wrong Baby?” I squeeze the pill bottle in my hand. Unexpectedly, it cracks. I feel a piece of plastic jab into my palm. “Shit.” I call out. Then, “nothing.” Opening my hand, I see that only one side of the bottle is broken. Cap still on. No blood. My mom hasn’t even noticed. “Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to call you that anymore was I?” She fumbles around with the food, while I walk to the shelf and place her meds back where they belong. There’s a tiny hole in my hand, doesn’t hurt. “I don’t’ want to cook mom. I’m trying to do something.” “What?” she asks, giddy, like a kid. “Nothing.” “No. Tell me. I’m pretty wound up.” “Mom,” I say, moving near her now. I place my hands on the counter next to the eggs. “This isn’t good. You need to—“ “I know what you’re going to say,” she interrupts. Purposefully, she talks away from me as though the milk is capable of listening. “Really, I’m fine. I’ve been great for a long time. I— “ “Which is proof you should stay on the meds.” She shakes her head. Very slowly, she licks her lips in one of the telltale signs of her frustration. Without looking at me, she re-gathers the things from the fridge. No cooking tonight. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 90 of 133

Martin and his father come to mind. “I can’t afford for you to lose it now mom.” She turns towards me, quickly. Her eyes seem pink. “That’s not fair,” she whimpers. “That was right after my mother died. That had nothing to do with medication.” I exhale loudly and step towards her. “Don’t come near me.” Suddenly, she steps back towards the fridge. The eggs and milk tumble from her hands, crashing onto the floor. The milk pops open. The white spreads quickly. Remarkably, the eggs land upright, container in one piece. “Ooh,” she calls out, stepping farther back. “Look—“ Her voice stops in mid sentence, shaky. I raise my hands above my head, like a sign of surrender. “It’s okay. I got it. You’re just on too little sleep today mom,” I lie, unwilling to keep going. Awkwardly, she waves the butter as if trying to say something. “Mom? She closes her eyes in a long, slow blink. “Go relax. Go to bed. Go do something quiet.” She nods, slowly. Then, she steps forward and hands me the butter and walks out. I can’t think of anything else to say to her. It takes me a few minutes before the milk is cleaned up and I can get back to my letter, that is, if I can think of anything else to say to the Reverend.

#

After about twenty minutes, I have not seen my mother, but I have come up with a letter. I reread it three times. Dear Reverend Adams, I know the truth about why you moved up here from Georgia and tried to restart your life. I do not think it is right that because of what you did that you make your son Martin go through all the things he has to. He has a right to know the truth about his life. Just because you made a mistake, doesn’t mean that someone else should have to pay for it. We make enough of our own mistakes to pay for someone else’s sins.

I take a bite of cereal and say, out loud, “good one about the sin”, and some milk comes down onto my chin. I wipe it off with the back of my hand, but a few drops land on the paper. I don’t care. And he has a right to play sports like football and wrestling. To live his own life. I’m not sure how to sign the letter. For a few minutes, I sit there reading and re- reading those few lines, chewing cereal. Finally, I write: From, a friend Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 91 of 133

What do I do with this letter? I think. I glance up at the clock. 1:40 AM. I’m still not tired. My mother keeps the envelopes in the living room, the computer desk, so I go get one and write the Reverend’s name on the outside. Carefully, I fold the paper into four sections and place the note in the envelope. I’m not going to sleep I decide. Instead, I am going to deliver the mail. I take another piece of paper and scrawl: Mom—couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk. Don’t worry. Love, Me. I place it next to my cereal bowl, which I leave on the table. How would a man handle this situation I ask myself? What would a man do? How would a soldier deal with this kind of thing? Just show up. Surprise attack. Sneak attack. Show up and make all sorts of things happen. Go pound on the door. Demand to talk to the reverend and hand him the letter. Read it to him like a telegram. Let whatever words come out come out. Drive right up to the door and ….drive? That’s not a bad idea. I haven’t driven before, only go carts and a jet ski on the river, but I’ve watched my mother enough. I spy her keys on the counter. Quietly, I walk back upstairs. Her door is still open enough for my head to fit inside. I walk to her bed to listen for her breathing, but the room is empty. “Mom,” I call out. “Mom.” I walk the house for five minutes, starting upstairs where she might be showering. Nope. Basement, doing laundry? No. I check the closets and even the garage. Eventually, I find her in the backyard. She’s digging in the garden. I notice that the dirt looks black. The hose is on. “Mom?” “Oh hi,” she smiles as if everyone gardens at two o’clock in the dark. At least she’s wearing gloves. “You should get some sleep,” I say. Without missing a beat, like I’ve been talking to her already, she replies, “Yeah tomorrow is a long day. Parade. Picnic.” Memorial Day is a big deal for her. My father’s always remembered at one of the high school ceremonies as a local soldier killed in service to our country. She drops her hand shovel and stands up. “Coming to the park?” I shrug. “Please?” “What time?” I don’t like going. The parade is long, mostly old soldiers, people from the Korean War and Vietnam War. Gray, in suits that seem too tight around their bellies. And little kids on bikes with red, white and blue crepe paper, streamers. The parade route winds downtown and out Main Street, winds up down in Huddy Park, next to the cemetery. On Memorial Day, the VFW puts flags on all of the veteran’s graves. At the park, someone always gives a little speech. The Student Council President places a wreath next to some marker in Memorial Field. My mom only makes me go to the cemetery twice a year, my dad’s birthday, August 26, and Memorial Day. She stands. “Sister’s will be here about two. Parade’s before that. Eleven.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 92 of 133

Without commenting, I walk to the hose and turn it off. I’m not as interested in seeing family today, but I probably need to talk to someone about my mother. “Have I told you how much I love you lately?” she says, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Mother,” I groan, and lean away from her. I want her asleep so I can get to Martins. Her arms cling to me. “Come inside.” “I’ll start cooking when they all get here,” she smiles. I can’t get Martin off of my mind or maybe his father. Martin puts up with a lot, almost heroic. Like he knows the Holy Darkness. That makes me think about my father. “How come you make such a big deal about this mom. Dad wasn’t really a war hero. I mean not like they make it out to be in a big ceremony.” Her arms drop. She steps back and looks at me, disappointed. “Raine?” “I mean, not like I thought. Right?” Slowly, she wipes her gloved hands together, dirt falling to the ground. Without speaking, she takes them off one at a time. “He was my hero,” she says softly, barely a whisper. “Yours too.” “I don’t,” I say, cautiously, “even really remember him. All I remember is the pictures.” We stand silently for a minute. “We were kids really,” my mother finally says. “We started dating in tenth grade. Before you know it, we were grown up.” “So I was a mistake?’ I open the door for her. We step inside. “Ha,” my mother laughs. “No. You weren’t planned. But you weren’t a mistake. You’re a great—“ She stops talking, hugs me again. “I hate that word ‘mistake’. You were not an accident.” I lean back as she squeezes. “He joined the service so that we could pay the bills. His great grown-up plan was to do four years and then earn the college money. He wanted to teach science.” “You need to move on mom,” I mumble, stepping out of her arms. “Hard to beat a man who gives his life trying to pay for his family.” “Didn’t you ever have another boyfriend?” She avoids my question. “Oh that girl Bethany called again for you.” I ignore her, but feel my ears redden. “I’m serious, mother.” She looks down. “Oh my God,” I blurt. “What were you like a nerd in high school. Like me?” “You’re not a nerd.” “You have no clue.” “Are you?” she asks. I don’t answer. She doesn’t know about me, not really. We walk into the kitchen. She washes her hands as we talk. “Tubby the tuba. Baby Huey. Raineenstein. Why do you think I spend so much time alone?” “I thought it was a phase,” she sighs, rubbing her face with water, frowning. “Were you a nerd?” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 93 of 133

“I’m a nurse,” she laughs. “Of course I was a nerd. I had little sisters to watch. Then you. I grew up fast.” “You’re still young,” I say. “True,” she smiles. “I just…you’ve always been my first priority.” She dries her hands with a paper towel. “But,” I say, “I won’t be around forever.” “You’ll always be my baby.” She reaches her hand out and cups my face. They feel damp. I don’t pull away, but I don’t smile either. Instead, I let her hands rest there until she realizes I’m not playing. “I’m not a baby anymore,” I say. “That was Before. Be Four.” Something in my voice stops her. Suddenly, I’m saying something I think I’ll regret later. “You know I almost killed a kid mom.” Her eyes bulge. “I thought he was doing something awful to somebody else. Like he didn’t deserve to—“ Her hands drop. She steps back. “Raine.” “No, wait. Hear me out.” Softly, she nods. “I didn’t hurt him. But I could have. Thought about how to do it.” I realize how pent up I’ve been in that moment. How I’ve never really dealt with my anger. All those kids making fun of me. Never stood up for myself. I never thought about punching Martin, not really. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should be more direct. “I almost did something mom. Almost.” She touches my arm. “Do you…do you need help? Can I—“ Before I know it, I am thinking about Henry Adams. I am thinking about a nineteen year old boy, two of them, Henry Adams and Robert Abbott, who both think they know how the world works. How, in a flash, a Division One football player might strike out at someone. How in a moment, in an accident or a mistake, life could change. Forever. And then I am thinking about penance, making amends. I think about Henry Adams making up for what he did wrong. Or what I did wrong. Penance for wanting to kill Martin. Old Catholic words die hard. “A mistake,” I mumble. “What?” my mother asks. “I made a mistake,” I say, out loud. “Like a big one. Like a man. I’m not a baby mother.” She stares up at me. Her face changes. “Sometimes,” she eventually replies. “It takes a long, long time to make up for a mistake.” I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or my dad or just being philosophical. It doesn’t matter. She’s right either way. For some strange reason, I suppose to waste time, I head down to the basement, a bright place that the family converted into a playroom for me when I was little. I should have thought Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 94 of 133 about bringing the girls down here last night. Gradually, I walk to the back closet, and there in the corner sits my old tuba, the one my grandmother bought me off of eBay for Christmas in sixth grade. I’m surprised it’s not more rusted or dirty. Bending, I pick it up, not as heavy as I remember. I slide myself into the instrument and barely clear the ceiling. For a moment, I remember seventh grade. Tubby the tuba. Sitting on the stage during the holiday orchestra performance. That was the first time my grandmother didn’t come to see me at anything. I looked out in the audience and saw my mom. Then, I realized my gram wasn’t there. She wouldn’t ever be there, and I cried. One of the kids, I don’t even remember who, saw me and said something. Then, everyone started talking, pointing, laughing. “Cry Baby” I didn’t say anything. I just put the tuba down and left, out through the back curtain. The only time I’ve ever really been in trouble. I wandered around until the police found me and brought me home. Feeling that tuba around my neck, I wonder why I didn’t say something, anything, to those kids. Even back then I was about six foot tall. Gently, I remove the mouth piece. “Remember,” I say to the tuba, “how I put Tabasco sauce on everybody’s mouthpieces after that?” The tuba doesn’t answer. That was before the Holy Darkness, back when there was just darkness. Slowly, I put my lips on the metal. Without the mouthpiece, the instrument won’t make a sound, but I puff and exhale into the tube anyway. I press the keys and pretend. My mother won’t hear me. I wonder if I’ll ever make a sound.

#

Her breathing is louder, but steady, deep. She’s out. I walk downstairs again. The clock on the television blinks 2:13 AM. Quietly, I grab the keys and head straight out the front door. I devise a plan so that my mother won’t hear the car start. Dark outside, no lights on in the neighbors houses, just those outdoor lights in case someone sneaks up and tries to rob you. Fortunately, we don’t have sensor lights. I walk to the driveway. I open the car door and put in the keys, unlocking the steering wheel, but not turning on the car. From the front, I push on the hood, backing the car out of the driveway. I’m surprised at how easy it moves, forgetting, temporarily, that I’m the biggest person I’ve ever seen in person. Once the car hits the street, I lean in the window and turn the wheel, then shove the car down the block, a few houses away. Far enough to not wake my mother, I open the door and climb into the drivers seat. My legs clunk against the steering wheel. Deliberately, I push the seat back as far as it will go, just like the passenger side where I normally sit. Then, I start the car. For a second, I can’t find the headlights, but once I do, off I go. Fortunately, this late at night, I don’t see any cars at the end of my block and onto Hooper Avenue. I turn on the radio, which my mother has set to the oldies station, classic rock. I recognize the song, but turn it off right away. Too distracting. Without realizing it, I find my fingers gripping the wheel tightly. I loosen my hold. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 95 of 133

At Main Street, the light is red and I spy another car’s headlight’s coming at me. I’ll have to stop, then wait for them before I can turn, but just as I step on the brakes to slow down the light changes. The other car passes me—a cop. I swallow hard. Then, I glance in the rear view mirror. I haven’t turned it correctly, so I can only see a little. Quick, I adjust it and watch the police car continue behind me towards Hooper. I put on my blinker and make my turn, then, nervous as I am now, I step on the gas a little too hard. The wheels screech. Again, I look in the mirror. No cops. I push the gas, driving faster, away from him just in case he comes back. I’m relieved when my next turn onto South Main, appears ten seconds later. As I turn, I notice two other sets of lights approaching. I’m around the corner before they pass me. Again, I notice my hands clenching the wheel. I force myself to exhale and relax my fingers. “Five turns,” I say, “two left.” No one is listening. I pass the junkyard, and wave to the darkness, feeling a strange kinship. A few houses from Martins, I turn off the headlights. Down the block, a single streetlight gives the block enough of a glow for me to see. I don’t want to wake his whole family. Then, I drive past their home to see if anyone is up. No lights, not even on the porch. I keep going, headlights still off, and find myself at the church. Without thinking, I turn into the small parking lot and shut off the engine. For a moment, I listen to the night, wondering if I’ll hear police, or the dogs at the junkyard, if perhaps Reverend Adams will call my name. The night is louder here than near me, closer to the woods, more crickets, more of the hum that comes from being in the wilderness. They live closer to the edge of civilization, even if it is suburbia. For a second I wonder if that is racist. Am I the bad guy? Awkwardly, I unfold myself from behind the steering wheel and step out of the car towards the church. Maybe that’s why his family is so religious, believe in God more. The white church, which, in spite of the darkness, is easy to see. I walk to the door, and touch the wood. “I don’t really believe in God,” I say to the entrance. I guess. I reach into my pocket and take out the note. “What do you think I should do?” No answer. “Come on, answer.” I unfold the note and read it again. Yes, it’s true Reverend. And so is the fact that I don’t think there’s some guy with a beard that spends all his time wondering what my life is like. Why’d my dad die? It’s hard for me to believe that some carpenter who died two thousand years ago is God. What if God’s some big doofy fool, like me, doesn’t even know how things work? And, what about Buddha and Mohammed and all those other religions that I don’t’ even know about? What if they are right? For some reason, I feel angry. I start off towards Martin’s house. Then, I change my mind. Intentionally, I wedge the note into the door crack at the church entrance. “Let’s see what the congregation says about that, Reverend.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 96 of 133

I pull out of the parking lot and head home feeling smug and self-righteous. I think I’ve done a great thing. As I approach the traffic light at Main Street on the way home, police lights flash. In front of me. Unfortunately, I guess, you shouldn’t let your emotions get the best of you when you drive. I forget to put the headlights on and am an easy target for the cops. For a moment, I think of making a run for it, but the reality of who I am sinks in again: Big Baby. I pull over.

#

I’m big enough that it’s hard for anyone to believe I’m sixteen. The police officer approaches my window. Painfully, the flashlight hits my eyes. I wince. “License?” he asks, before I can even say hello. “Did you know you didn’t have your headlights on?” “Sorry.” I shrug. I notice that he’s a pretty big officer, over six foot tall, two hundred fifty pounds, a middle aged black man. “Been drinking?” he asks, shining the light into the back seat and over onto the passenger seat. My mother’s work ID is the only thing visible on the seat. I need to get out of this situation. I’m not sure mother can handle a call from the police about me. “No,” I laugh, nervously. He points the light into my face once more. “Turn the car off,” he says matter-of-factly. Again, I wince and draw back my face. “Okay.” I kill the engine. “License and registration.” One more time, he shines the light into the back seat. This time he steps back away from my window, positioning for a better view. I swallow hard. Don’t have it,” I reply, slowly, each word feeling hard, as if my jaw is freezing shut. The flashlight turns back towards me. “With me,” I blurt, finishing my sentence, but sounding utterly unconvincing. He notices. Cautiously, he takes a backward stride. “Step out of the car, please.” I close my eyes, exhale, then gently pound the steering wheel with my palm. Slowly, I open the door and make my way out. The officer steps back again when he realizes my size. He leans his neck over and speaks into a microphone clipped to his shoulder. I can’t make out the words. “Stand over there,” he says, pointing to the sidewalk. Another car passes by, headlights passing over the two of us. I shake my head and grin stupidly. “It’s at home,” I say, sounding even more desperate. The officer steps towards the car, sticks his head in the window. I realize he’s smelling the car, for beer, for drugs, for something. “Over there,” he points, again, about ten feet further from the car. “What’s your name?” he asks. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 97 of 133

“Martin Adams,” I exclaim, quickly and hating myself for being so instantly stupid. I back up. A line of cars, perhaps three or four catch my attention, seeming to be coming too fast. The officer walks to the passenger side door, opens it. “And where you coming from?” “Home” I reply. My answer sounds like a question. He bends into the car. “Where you heading?” I shrug. I don’t have an answer. He glances over. “I’d like you to walk along the curb,” he says, “can you do that for me Martin?” I sigh, loud enough for him to hear it. “Yes sir,” I reply, “but I haven’t been drinking.” “Humor me.” The curb is well lit. The traffic light adding a faint red glow to the street lights. I step to the curb, walk it carefully towards him. “Turn around.” I do. “Ten steps. Count backwards as you walk, from ten to one.” “Ten, nine—“ I hear the passenger door slap closed. “Martin?” he calls. “Are you related to Reverend Adams?” I stop in my tracks. The traffic light turns green. “Yes?” I reply. “eight, seven, six—“ “You can stop,” he says. “I’m his son.” The words feel as ridiculous as they sound, but maybe being a minister’s kid will prevent him from calling my mom. Then, I realize, in an instant that I have no idea how Martin ended up with Henry Adams. Was he kidnapped or stolen? As I turn around, the officer waves me over. “Funny,” he says, “you don’t look like Martin.” I grimace, caught in the lie. “First thing that came to mind.” Then, I shrug. A strange kind of courage is welling up now in me. I feel myself not caring about anything except helping Martin with the minister. “You’re a little short.” He laughs. I notice him holding my mother’s hospital ID in his hand. “Did you steal this car, son?” I shake my head. “Moms”, I reply, sitting down on the curb. “Real name?” I tell him. Again, he speaks into the walkie talkie. I can’t make out his words. “If that’s true,” he says to me, “no, wait—do you have a license?” I shake my head, no. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 98 of 133

“How old?” he pauses, voice deep, waiting. No answer from me. I hang my head, stare at his shoes. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll probably end up with a fine. And community service.” His voice sounds simple, kind, not a lecture or a reprimand. But, then again, he’s talking about a judge, not my mother. She won’t yell. She’ll just go crazier. She’ll want to see every web page, call the school counselor Mr. D’Ascenzo, email every teacher. I remember in eighth grade, after her mother died, she came to school and followed me around for a whole day, sat in every class. In the distance, I see another police car approaching, lights on, siren off. The officer holds out a cell phone towards me. “Want to call your mom and tell her to come get the car? She’ll have to pick you up at the station.” Whatever victory I won with that note to the Reverend is gone. Baby has returned. “Can you?” I ask, not wanting to deal with my mother in her state. I’ll never see this through with the Reverend if I have to manage my mother. She’ll cry and won’t go to work and follow me around like a two year old. Behind me, the traffic light turns red again. As the officer turns to look at the other approaching cruiser, I make a decision. I bolt across the road and into the edge of the woods. “Hey,” I hear him call out. I can’t wait to finish. The flashlight shines in my direction. I cut left behind a tree. Then, I duck down taking cover in the underbrush. I’m too big to hide behind any of the bushes, so I run, hunched over, as fast as I can.

#

After a few hundred yards, the light fades behind me. Underfoot, the ground feels soft and sandy, even though I can’t see it. I wonder if the police will be able to follow my footprints. Probably not, I hope, as I stand and slow to a jog. Unexpectedly, the red lights zoom across the trees a hundred feet away. I duck down again. The police car slows and shines light behind me. The cruiser must be driving on one of the trails. I duck down again, and run deeper into the woods, to my right towards the bog and the railroad tracks. The police lights head away. The night feels less friendly now, not like when Martin and I slept out, but colder. Even in May, even close to eighty-five degrees at night, my body feels the chill. The police, I imagine, not the weather or the dark. After only a few minutes, I find the tracks and head west towards Philadelphia. Maybe, I can cut across the pines and head to Martin’s house. The little moonlight that shines shows me just enough to avoid the bumps between the railroad ties. At first, I walk swiftly and cautiously, nervous that the police will come speeding out of the woods and grab me. But, after about ten minutes, I haven’t heard or seen anything. Suddenly, a dog barks. I jump. Then, another dog joins in. My heart pounds with adrenaline as I turn to look. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 99 of 133

The moonlight doesn’t show much. The woods have turned into a wall or a fence on my left, maybe twenty feet away, something hidden. The dogs, now it sounds like three, must be just beyond the dark. The first dog howls and snarls loudest, a deep resonating tone that feels dangerous. The sound grows closer. Staring at the wall of darkness on my left, I start to run, to put distance between us. A hand grabs my shoulder. “Whaaa-t?” I scream. I bolt away, but catch my foot on the train track. Awkwardly, I fall. My knee thuds onto something hard. I feel stones in my palm. The dogs continue barking. Again, the hand grabs me. I fumble on the ground, rolling away from the grasp. Only this time, I see the figure above me. “Son?” Just for one second, I hear my father, right there, the Holy Darkness joining us. “Dad?” “You alright?” Then, he turns, the man from the junkyard. I’m winded. I’m spent. Lost. “D-d-dogs,” I mumble. “I didn’t know…they were—“ I stop. I look past him towards the sound, expecting to be charged, but the sound has stopped growing. I roll to a sitting position. The man reaches out with his hand offering to help me up. “They loud alright,” he says. The dogs continue their noise, but it’s apparent they are behind the fence. Fortunately, my right palm doesn’t sting. I take his hand. He pulls. I feel my weight bearing down on him, but I stand. “I was just walking,” I start. “Not like I was coming over the fence—“ “No need to justify to me,” he interrupts. “Dogs keep people honest.” I let out a sigh. Strangely, he feels like a friend, some junkyard guy who I barely know, who surprises me in the middle of the night. I don’t usually like people, except the twins. “Plus, I got insomnia,” he continues. Now that I know where I am, exactly, behind the junkyard, I can definitely make it to Martin’s house. I brush off my knee, ready to start walking. I feel grit in my left palm. Carefully, I wipe the dirt or gravel off. It stings. “Have for years. Ever since my wife died.” I don’t comment. Slowly, I start walking, the way I was headed. To my surprise, he turns and strides with me. “Only thing that helps is walking. Maybe an hour or two.” He pauses as though I should respond. Nothing comes to mind. We take a few steps together. The dogs continue barking, following along with our walk from behind the fence. Now, from over the trees, past the junkyard, I spy a pink light. I startle. He must notice, but doesn’t say anything. I stop. He does too. The colors rotate a little, the way police lights do, and the car seems to be traveling fast. We don’t speak, both just turn and watch the lights move, lighting up the night above the tree line. Unfortunately, the light moves towards Martin’s house. Then, it strikes me that the dogs may be the reason the police have come. I keep walking. The man mirrors my step. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 100 of 133

But, the lights don’t slow down. They travel past. I feel my jaw unclench. After a minute, he continues. “Where you headed?” Slowly, I point west. “Lakehurst?” I shake my head. “Philly?” “Friends.” He breathes loudly. “It’s good to have friends. That’s why I have dogs. Even if they don’t get along, they need each other sometimes.” The first dog, I notice, keeps up with the yowling, but the others seem to have stopped. Again, I don’t speak, just keep walking towards Martins. “You in trouble?” I shrug, silent. “You’re an easy one to recognize.” He’s so right. “They’ll probably go to that friends house, I suspect,” he says. He slows. The dog sounds settle. Then, I realize we’ve reached the end of the fence. “Yeah,” I mumble. “If you’re going to wait it out til morning,” he says, “let me get you something.” I remember hearing some quote about the kindness of strangers. I just never believed it before. Slowly, I lower myself to the ground to wait for whatever he brings.

#

I remain in the dark. There is a comforting familiarity in the night, a place where I don’t understand things completely, like I don’t understand myself, why I do things, why I feel so desperate to make things right with Martin. The darkness is chilling but recognizable, like what my soul might look like if I could cut open my body and find it waiting there for me. I sit and breath and stare at the cloudless sky. When the junkman returns, the something turns out to be a bag: a pack of matches, two apples, a small bottle of bug spray, a can of warm soda. He hands the package to me. “Smoke?” he asks. My sight adjusts more and more to the darkness. Even the stars throw shadows if you keep your eyes open long enough. I spy a pack of cigarettes in his hand. “No, thanks.” “Don’t suppose you want to tell me about it?” Strangely, I do. But, what can I say? That I’m worried about getting in trouble for taking my mothers car? That I tried to blow up Martin? That a kid I know might get killed by his fake father, a minister-murderer? When I don’t answer, he says, slowly, “You don’t need any shelter tonight. Sky’s clear. Same with insulation. Don’t even need a blanket.” From the sounds of his conversation, he must think that I’m traveling quite a distance, not half a mile. But, I don’t correct him. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 101 of 133

He lights a match, then a cigarette. For a moment, we don’t move. In the far distance, I can see the colored lights of the police car racing far off behind the trees. “Manitou Park,” he says, exhaling smoke, “is full of people running from some kinda trouble or other.”

# Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 102 of 133

Part V: The Holy Darkness

The railroad tracks veer to the right, towards the bog that separates my life from Martins. I cut left through the bushes. Suddenly, I’m standing on the trail only a few feet from the train tracks. I know exactly where I am. We walked this path when we camped out. I turn one more time left and head towards Martin’s house. I plan to wake Martin and come up with a way to confront the minister. The walk, in the darkness, takes longer than I expect. The half mile, maybe more, feels awkward. The pine needles whisper in the wind, not like the rustling that the trees in my yard make. Leaves rustle, pine needles hum. The entire way, I walk with my right hand raised, protecting my eyes from some branch that might sneak up on me in the night. Interestingly, I do not feel tired at all. The woods don’t seem scary, even with no moonlight, crickets, other noises I don’t recognize. My mother’s deterioration is scary. The murdering minister is worse. Then, the woods end. Just like that, I am standing in Martin’s backyard. The yard is dark, except for the tiniest glow, probably the front porch light. That wasn’t on before. Maybe it wasn’t. I don’t remember. As I move towards the house, a police car pulls into the driveway. Fortunately, the headlights never hit me. I step backwards into the woods. Carefully, I lie down on the sand in the trail. The officer leaves the headlights and red flashers going, then he opens the car door. I listen carefully, but hear nothing. On my belly, I crawl forward onto the perfectly manicured grass. I’m about halfway to the house, when two lights inside flick on, both have curtains leaving me to see nothing. The thought crosses my mind that I should approach the officer. I should say, “This man,” and point to the minister, “killed a man, and he’s not the father of this kid.” However, I can almost hear the cop talking. “So what? You’re under arrest for stealing a car, resisting arrest, driving without a license, obstruction of justice.” Another light in the house goes on. The grass feels brittle on my belly where my shirt lifts, drier than I’d expect. Looking up, I see into their home. The minister stands, illuminated in the window, wearing a white t shirt. “Martin?” I can hear him. The window’s open. That means he’s able to hear me. I have to be careful now. “Martin, wake up.” I wriggle, more slowly, like a commando towards the police car and the house. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 103 of 133

“Come talk to him,” the reverend says. From science, I know that people can’t see out into the dark, only the light. They can’t see me if I stay in the shadows or out of view. I don’t hear Martin, but looking up I watch him stand. He rubs his eyes, tired. As they leave the room, I jump to my feet and run towards the front porch. The living room window is also open but a curtain hides me from their sight. “We’re looking for Raine Abbott,” the officer says. I recognize the voice as the man who pulled me over. I lean my back against the house. “Now?” asks Martin. I picture him yawning and stretching. “Yes.” “And you think he’s here?” Martin’s tone goes up at the end, a question, sounds almost mocking. “Martin.” That’s his father’s voice. A bug flies towards the window. I think it’s a moth. Suddenly, it’s fluttering in my face. I swat at it with my hand. “He was in this area, not too long ago. Is there any chance that you know where he is?” The moth bounces off of my palm and into the window screen with a ping. I flinch and duck. “You sure it was him?” Martin asks. The curtain moves as though someone is looking outside. I spot a shadow on the ground in front of me. “Giant kid, right?” The shadow moves a little, then I hear the minister cough. I freeze, afraid any movement will make noise and give me away. “What’s he doing around here?” Martin asks. “Why do you think he’d come here?” “That’s the question,” replies the officer, not answering Martin’s question. “Have you seen him?” The curtain moves back into place. Good-bye to the shadow. I exhale, quietly. “Not since school, a while ago.” He’s lying. I know he doesn’t want to talk about the library, the minister, the murder. “Is he in trouble?” “That’s another good question,” says the officer. “We’ll call you if we see him,” answers the minister. “Go back to bed Martin.” I start to walk back towards Martin’s room when I hear the cop say one more thing. “Thanks Henry.” No wonder the lie about me being Martin didn’t work. They know each other. “Try the church, if you really think he’s somewhere. He went with us to services recently. Might hide out there.” I picture them shaking hands. “I think Jonah knows him too.” Jonah? Too late to get the note, to change my mind. Maybe the cop will find the note and confront the minister. I don’t know. I duck back around the corner of the house towards Martins room, grass cracking under my feet. Behind me the police car pulls out. Now, maybe, I can talk to Martin. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 104 of 133

#

Martin’s light goes dark before I reach his window. I tap on the screen. “Hey,” I whisper. No answer. The light in the living room goes out too. Now the yard seems remarkably quieter, easier for me to get caught, even if the cop is gone. The pine needles shift in the breeze, which feels a little stronger. Strangely, I wonder if my scent somehow will alert the minister or the police that I’m here, hiding. I stand next to the window, just out of sight, tap on the screen again with my index finger. One, two. “Martin.” Cautiously, I step in front of the window. Martin’s face pops up in front of me. “Oh,” I blurt, just loud enough to startle myself. “What are you doing here?” His voice raises, in anger. I’m surprised that so much of what I do irks him. And, again, I don’t have a good, short explanation. “Let me in,” I plead. Behind him, I hear the bedroom door open. I duck. My head hits something hard, I think the pipes for the hose. The light in Martin’s room goes on. I squat low as I can, awkwardly balancing on my palms with my forehead stinging. “Martin,” the reverend says. “Yes,” he answers, voice low, pretending to be tired. “I want you to tell me if you see that young man.” I can hear the covers rustling. On the grass, the Reverend’s shadow moves towards Martin and the bed. “I don’t know him that well,” Martin replies. “You must be careful of the company you keep.” I want to laugh, to snort, to yell something in the window. You hypocrite. You liar. The reverend continues, “We don’t want you to end up in trouble because of him. You don’t need the police looking for you.” Martin says something surprising. “He needs friends. Everybody makes fun of him. Nobody likes him. Prison ministry?” “Well, he’s making friends with the police now. So you should steer clear of him. You don’t need that.” His words have a strange irony now that I know the truth about his past. My fingers start to ache. Slowly, I reposition myself, moving to lay down on the grass beneath the window. I roll close to the house, out of the light. My head still stings a little. Then, unexpectedly, the lights go out. Conversation over. I listen for, then hear, Martin’s bedroom door close. I don’t move. Suddenly, the screen drops down onto my head. It doesn’t hurt, and falls, noiselessly, onto the grass. “What?” A bag lands near my head with a quiet thud. Martin follows, stepping out onto my back. “Hey—“ “Shh,” he whispers. Then, he bends to pick up the bag. I move to my knees. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 105 of 133

“What are—“ “Shhh,” he says again. Then, he runs off across the backyard towards the trail. As I’m about to rise, I hear a car approaching. I quick crawl over for a look around the corner. The police car pulls slowly into the driveway again, arriving from the direction of the church. This time, the lights are all off, not even headlights. I hold my breath, and lay on the grass with my head at the very bottom of the house. Martin’s out of sight. Screen missing from the window, we’re sure to get caught. For a moment, I watch the cruiser. The tiny blue light from the radio is the only thing I can clearly make out. I feel like I’m in a staring contest, first one to blink loses. Where is Martin? For about five minutes, nothing happens. Then, the door opens. The light fills the car and I see it is the same officer who pulled me over. He heads towards the front porch. He’s holding an envelope, the note I left at church I guess, as he walks. I assume he’s going to knock on the door again. Instead, he’s only gone from view for a few seconds. Then, he’s back in the car, lights off, pulling out of the driveway. He doesn’t put on his lights until he’s a few houses away. Once he’s gone, I sprint towards the woods and Martin.

#

He’s not there. I figure he’s right at the edge, in the bushes, where he can see the cop car or me. But he’s not. “Martin?” I yell in a hushed tone. I step in further. Then, I’m running, thoughts spinning. Is Martin running away this time? What do I do about the police? Have the police called my mother? Did Martin talk to his father or is the reverend really not his father? Now, the trail is easy to follow even in the dark. Adrenaline maybe. The sand feels softer than the pine needles and branches off of the path. The trees don’t materialize from the blackness until I’m almost on top of them, but I find that if I run at a steady pace, not too fast, I can make out the shapes pretty easily. “Martin.” I figure he’s about ten minutes ahead of me, if he’s run as fast as he can on a trail he knows. The only question is how far he’ll travel. I’m wrong. In about two minutes, I spy the fire. Really, it’s just a spark, a little flame. Martin’s stopped just far enough from his house so that the light isn’t visible to his family. He’s kneeling right in the middle of the path over some twigs, lighting them up, when I approach. “Martin?” The little light makes his dark face very visible. He’s crying, I think. Then, the pine needles crackle. The light blooms into a full fledged camp fire. Martin’s not crying, he’s chewing something. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 106 of 133

Surprisingly, something catches my eye. Hanging, right above my head in the tree, is a noose. I stare at the rope, the hangman’s knot, by the firelight. It’s made of yellow nylon, something that you might find on a boat. The knots are perfectly tied, and the branch is probably big enough to support a body. “I thought about killing myself,” Martin says from his knees. “Put this out here last night.” I turn to face him. He’s eating a banana. “Tree of Knowledge. Should have picked something better than an apple.” He laughs, holds up the banana like Hamlet with that stupid skull. “You know cast out of the garden of Eden.” “What are you talking about? And what’s with the rope?” “Too much knowledge, too soon. Ruined Adam and Eve.” “Do you think you could speak English?” He crunches deliberately on his apple. Then, he reaches to his bag. Opening it, he flips a banana towards me. I catch it awkwardly “You might as well eat some forbidden fruit, too. You’re not innocent.” “Oh, come on. Speak like I can understand you.” Finding myself hungry, I peel and bite into my banana. My mouth salivates deeply. “And, at first I thought I should kill him for lying. Maybe trick him into somehow running into that noose.” I chew, slowly. “And, then?” He chucks his peel out past a few trees. I take another bite and talk with my mouth full. Martin shrugs. “No idea.” “And that’s the reason for the noose?”

SHIT with BETHANY I reach up and tug on the rope. The knots tighten around my hand. I yank hard and the branch shakes a little. With my other hand, I reach up and grab the rope above my entangled hand. I pull harder, both hands this time. The branch bends, a little. “Gay. Black. Baptist. You figure that’s an easy life? I can’t even play sports to work out stress.” “Thought you were a Buddhist.” “Up yours.” “This wouldn’t hold anyway,” I reply. Then, I pull as hard as I can. I lift my legs, putting all of my weight on the branch. “It’s too close to the ground, too.” The limb starts to crack. The circulation in my trapped hand hurts. Then, the branch bends and my knees hit the ground. I stand and undo my hand. He ignores my comment. “I couldn’t do it because of you,” he says, while I rub my red wrist. “I knew you’d blame yourself if I did. I hate you. Sort of.” “Hell.” I laugh. “I tried to electrocute you and blow you up. What makes you think this would bother me?” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 107 of 133

He tosses a piece of paper towards me. I know it’s the letter I wrote his dad, but then what was that cop holding. “You’d’ve been a hero then. Back when you thought I was Joey’s nemesis.”” I kick the paper in midair, not saying anything. It flutters to the ground at my feet. “You’re always trying to save somebody. Probably cause no one sticks up for you Raine. Only you don’t know how to save anyone. Not really.” I shake my head. Martin hands me a knife for the rope. “Anyway,” he continues. “This way you’re a hero. You saved me from suicide just by hanging around.” “Nice pun.” “See?” he laughs. “You’re smart when you want to be. You just have so little common sense.” “Yeah, ask Bethany. Made her situation worse.” Martin picks up the paper, and again tries to give it to me. “How’d you get this from the church?” I ask. He wiggles the paper towards me. “Internet.” “What are you talking about? I didn’t post that anywhere.” “What are you talking about?” he grunts, frustrated. “I left that note for your dad at the church.” With the knife, I cut into the rope against the branch. “What note?” he exclaims. The threads snap one at a time under the blade. I’m careful not to dig into the tree. “The one about Georgia. I didn’t say anything about jail or murder.” “What?” Martin’s voice practically yells. The branch snaps upwards. No more noose. As I turn to look at the tree limb, I notice that the sky is starting to lighten, not much, just a little. “Oh, no. Oh. You didn’t—“ He stops. “I didn’t get this from church.” “What’s this?” I snatch the paper from his hand. “I’m not ready for this yet,” he says. “I have to figure out what to do first.” “I’ll tell you what to do,” I say, with a force that doesn’t seem like it comes from me. “You get him to stop hitting you. Sparring. Whatever. And play football. And find out who your real father is.” “What gives you the right to tell me how to do that? Or when?” Martin picks up what’s left of the rope and noose. He wraps it around his neck, and holds the end up in the air over his head like he’s trying to kill himself. “Stop it,” I shout. Angrily, he throws the nylon onto the fire. “Every time I try and like you or do something nice for you. Why do you screw it up?” Rapidly, the flames climb. “Hell,” Martin says. “Read that! You deserve it.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 108 of 133

The firelight glows enough for me to read. It’s a print out of an Internet article, a newspaper archive. Martin, still fuming, grabs his backpack and tosses that onto the fire, too. “You don’t have to show me anything else, Martin. I don’t need to know about all your family. I’m just trying to help.” “Oh no,” he says, stepping back. “You have that wrong.” He motions with his finger for me to look at the paper. I glance down. The headline reads: Local GI Killed. I look up at Martin then back at the paper. “Your father. But the story isn’t heroic.” I suppose, somehow, I knew this was coming. The light grows bigger as the pack catches fire with a whoosh. I step back, holding the story out so I can see the words better, my father’s story.

#

“Wait a minute!” Martin shouts. I look back at him. “Did you put that note at the church tonight?” I nod. He grabs the article from my hand. “Then, forget this. You’re going to get it back. So I can figure out how to deal with my, with, with the reverend. With my life.” I know I can overpower him, take back the note, find out my father. Martin throws his shoulders back, readying himself for my challenge. I hold my hand out for the paper, for him to return it to me. “You keep messing with my life. So fix it,” he says. I don’t move. I hold my hand out, steady and still. “Then, maybe, I’ll let you read this.” He smiles, seems proud to have some power over me for a moment. I think it’s guilt that makes me feel so willing. This time, I agree. “Okay.” Quickly, Martin starts off down the path, back towards his house. I follow. “It might not be at the church,” I reply. I talk loud, while he answers backwards, over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” “I think the cop might have found it.” “Bryan Wright?” “Who?” “The cop at my house?” “I guess.” “Nuts.” “I think he might have brought it to your dad.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 109 of 133

Martin doesn’t reply at first. He just keeps walking. The first rays of dawn light the trail, bushes and branches visible at the sides. Again, the pines hum a little under the wind. The steady sound of crickets makes the background noisier than I remember. Martin kicks at the ground as he walks, spewing up clumps of things, pine cones, needles, sand. He mumbles a few times, but I can’t understand. “What?” “We’ll try church first,” he growls. We walk for a few minutes. Past him, I spot his family’s house as the woods thin out. On the lawn, right under Martin’s window, is the screen and the bag of stuff the junkman gave me. I’d forgotten I’d even had it last night. But, if the screens there, we’re not caught yet. Martin turns, and not stepping out into the yard, cuts through the trees. The pines brush against us both, but Martin walks as though he’s on the path, not bothered by a branch or the undergrowth. As soon as we’re about a hundred feet past his house, he cuts out of the woods and into someone else’s yard. We jog across the lawn and into the street. Martin walks fast. Even with my larger stride, he stays one step ahead of me. I stare past his shoulder at the potholed road. Every minute, the sky seems lighter. I feel more like a fugitive as if with the sun comes the chance that the police will spot me. I’m only one house away from where the cops think I’ll be, and I’m headed where they expect. For a second, I wonder about my mother, worrying about her. That thought passes. No matter how little or how big the drama, without her medication, she’ll be tough to handle. No time to call. Don’t have a phone anyway. Overhead, the only streetlight on the block goes off. “What were you trying to do, Raine?” Martin suddenly stops in the middle of the street. “Confront him with the truth,” I say boldly. “Then, why didn’t you ask me? Why didn’t you talk to him in person? Why’d you leave a note? At church? Where anyone could find it?” His eyes open wider as he speaks. Slowly, his lips tremble and the veins in his neck grow fatter. His voice, however, remarkably, doesn’t raise. I step up next to him, aware, that in his rage, he’s stronger than me. “I wanted to give you the chance—“ “No,” he interrupts. “That was not about me! You wrote that note because of you. Because you want to be some kind of freaking hero. You have a stupid superhero complex. And the truth is you’re a pussy.” He pauses, waiting for me to reply. Nothing comes. That seems to make him madder. “You can’t even have a direct conversation with someone Raine. If you were mad about me, because of Joey, you should have punched me. Hell, just threatened me. You’re a monster for Christ sake. You’re stuck in this giant body, and you’re a little chicken inside.” He turns away before I can reply. Behind me, I hear a car. I dart for the nearest cover: a truck parked in someone’s yard. Rapidly, I duck down behind the fender. Martin, I notice, doesn’t stop walking towards the church. I wonder what happens if the police ask Martin where I am now? Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 110 of 133

The car noise approaches, then turns into the driveway across the street. I peek a look through the windshield of the truck. Not the police. I notice a woman in a nurse’s uniform step out of the car and head inside the house. Her door closes, and I step from behind the truck. Down the block, Martin calls out. “Bawk, Bawk.” He flaps his arms in imitation of a chicken. “Come on.” Then, he waves me towards him. I jog back up the street. Immediately, when we reach the church, I see that the note is gone. There are only a few possibilities. The Cop. The Reverend. Someone who strolled by, maybe someone from church. “Well,” Martin asks, “where’d you put it?” “Gone.” I reply. He exhales loudly. Then, he moves to the steps and sits. I join him. “What next?” I ask. He shakes his head, and hands me the paper about my father. “Hell, just take it. I don’t know what to say.” “Is this going to mess me up?” I ask. My stomach churns. “Probably.” Martin smirks. “Not as much as my life.” I reach behind me and take out my wallet. Inside, I feel my father’s letter, the Holy Darkness. “I’m waiting until we’re done,” I reply. Then, I fold the article and place it in my wallet. Martin nods. For a moment, I feel exhausted and lean against the railing, shutting my eyes to regroup. Then, he shakes me. “Let’s go.” I yawn, and realize I’m lying on my side. I’m barely awake. “Come on, Raine.” I stretch. “How long was I out?” He shakes his head. “Dunno. An hour. More. It’s late.” Again, I stretch, exhale. Then, I sit up. “Your house?” He shrugs, a frown on his face. “Bawk, bawk,” I mutter. Now, I inhale real deep, still trying to wake. I rub my eyes. He elbows me in the thigh, hard. I wince, but don’t hit him back. “Maybe the cop put it in the mailbox,” I say. It’s possible, but I’m not hopeful.

#

The mailbox is empty. “Let’s head for the kitchen,” Martin says. I’m too tired to ask why. We walk behind the house, start in the back door and step onto the porch. Martin closes it gently so the door doesn’t slam. Suddenly, the Reverend appears in the back yard. "Martin." His voice booms, reminds me of Darth Vader. The two of us freeze. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 111 of 133

Then, with great slowness, Martin pushes open the screen door. He steps outside. I follow. The sun, appears over the trees, feels hotter than I've remembered in the morning. The wind blows slightly, but the pine needles still crinkle in the distance. "What is—" The reverend's voice stops in mid-sentence. "Yes, Henry?" Martin asks. I hear the sarcasm in his voice. The Reverend's eye's bulge, disbelieving. "Did you call me, Henry?" Martin steps towards him. I can hear both of them breathing, though I'm not sure who's louder. Martin stares into the Reverend's eyes. In the Minister’s hand, I spot my care package from the junkyard. With hesitancy, I step forward. "Mr. Adams?" He now brings his gaze to me. Lines of sweat drip from his forehead. He seems more menacing, perhaps his posture, shoulders back, feet apart. His empty hand comes up.

"The police," he says, pointing an accusing finger at me, "were here looking for you. You left this." He holds up my paper bag. "I know," I reply. "At four o'clock in the morning!" His voice raises again, loud, how he sounded on the pulpit. I don't break eye contact, but nod in agreement. "What were you thinking? What—" Again, he stops in mid-sentence. Slowly, he closes his eyes, shakes his head, and exhales quietly. Martin, I notice, hasn't moved. "Yes, Henry,” Martin answers, now, in response to the question. “It’s your name, isn’t it?” The Reverend turns towards him again. A distant noise disrupts my concentration. "Did he teach you to be disrespectful?” Mr. Adams glances at me quickly, then back towards Martin. "You're a liar," Martin shouts accusingly. Behind me, I hear a woman's voice. "Henry?" "Go back inside," the Reverend calls to her, his voice controlled and deliberate. "This doesn't concern you." In the distance, I hear sirens, far off, but approaching from the direction of town and the junkyard. I know I could simply walk off into the woods again. "You'll have to lie in your own bed." The Reverend moves towards me. I notice, for the first time, that I am taller than him. He stares in my eyes, but I don't look away. I feel the Holy Darkness, larger than him. "We all pay for our sins." "Did you?" Martin shouts. Mr. Adams turns slowly to face Martin. "Get your gear," he replies calmly. "What?" "Get—your—gear," he repeats, emphasizing each word slowly. Even I know what he means. Time for Martin to pay the price for me being here. "It's not his fault." I interrupt. "No?" he says. Again, face to face. I'm bigger than him, taller, heavier, but something more, inside. He keeps talking, but the words sound small. "We are the company we keep." Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 112 of 133

“That why we go to Prison Ministry?” Martin replies, but no one answers. Once more I hear the Reverend's wife from the porch. "Henry. They’re calling everyone in the neighborhood—" He shoots her a look, without speaking, and dismisses her with a wave of his hand. "Fine." she answers. “I’ll get the girls.” “Take this,” the Reverend says, tossing me the bag. “And go.” "No," says Martin. "I didn't do anything wrong." “And discipline will help insure that you don’t,” replies the Reverend. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his palm. The heat feels stronger as the sun rises. The sirens sound louder now, maybe half a mile away. No one seems to notice but me. No one cares. "I should go," I say to Martin, aware that the police are looking for me, that my mother might even have filed a missing persons report. He ignores me, but the Reverend says, "Perhaps you should." Martin circles to the right of his father. Something smells wrong. The Reverend cracks his knuckles, then wipes his forehead, again, to remove the sweat. "Martin," he practically whispers, the quiet in his voice showing his deep anger. "You've been on the wrong track. And we have talked about this—" "What about you?" Martin shouts now. "What about you on the wrong track? There's nothing wrong with being different than you. Thinking different." Suddenly, I feel the full Presence in me, right there. I can almost feel my father step into my body with me. Martin's face fills, changing color. He spits as he yells. "You don't know everything. I'm allowed to believe something different than you. Your sins are a hell of a lot worse than mine." The Reverend's chest inflates. His fingers open wide as if his hands want to grab Martin's head. The screen door slams. Mrs. Adams steps out. "Henry, we—" "No," the Reverend's voice explodes. I don't know if he's addressing her or Martin. Suddenly, his fingers are fists. Sirens sound from just down the block. I see the Holy Darkness rising above the Reverend's head, out in the Pine Barrens. A giant, smoking gray cloud that seems to move towards us with the smell of full smoke. That image gives me strength, power. I can feel my father's voice calling out, "protect the innocent." The Reverend steps towards Martin. "Fire!" Ms. Adams shouts. Suddenly, I am on top of him. I feel my arms wrap around his back and arms and chest. He goes down beneath me, barely missing Martin as we fall. Mr. Adams grunts, painfully, as he lands with my bag and soda beneath him. The can explodes with a bang. I push his face into the grass. "Fire! Oh my God." The Reverend mumbles something face down in the earth. "Shit," Martin says. He steps back. As I roll off, the sirens seem to grab my ears. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 113 of 133

I look up. Behind us, the woods smolder. The first full wave of smoke enters the yard. Deliberately, I push down on the back of the Reverend’s neck. He moans from the ground, then rolls onto his back. I stand. Martin calls out to me. "Raine." Unexpectedly, a fire truck pulls into the driveway. I jump back, staring. The siren drowns out my thoughts. It’s so loud. I hear another truck continue down the block. The Reverend begins to rise. I walk a few steps away. He moves his arms into a fighting stance, locks eyes with me. The front of his shirt drips soda. “What are you doing with my son?” He shouts, fighting the siren for attention. “Your son?” Martin counters, loudly. Something in the Reverend’s face moves, maybe his eyes or his mouth, just for a second, enough for me to know Martin’s tone has hit a nerve. “Your son!” The truck horn blares. “The woods are on fire!” Mrs. Adams yells. I look back at the woods, low and flat. No flames yet, just the smoke. Lots of it. Martin starts running. “Raine.” When the pines burn, smoke always comes first. I’ve seen the pictures in the paper. The underbrush ignites quickly, poison ivy, blueberry, and winterberry, whatever grows low. The smoke creeps, fog like, out from the trees towards us, heading east with the breeze. Eighty degrees and dry. The woods are ripe for an inferno. By the time I turn back, Martin is at the corner of the house on his way towards the street. The Reverend hasn’t moved, still ready in his stance to fight me, but his eyes are elsewhere. A fire fighter in full gear steps off of the truck. He yells, “Time to leave folks.” Suddenly, two others jump off the truck. One grabs a hose and heads past us towards the edge of the yard. "Martin," the Reverend calls, but Martin doesn't stop. The two little girls stare at him from the porch. Ms. Adams rushes to her husband. I rush to Martin with the Holy Darkness right behind me. The sirens blare.

#

This time I catch him on the street, way down the block, near the corner headed for the junkyard. The fire courses through my arms and legs, and the large strides allow me to gain rapidly. “Holy hell,” I shout as I reach him. He doesn’t break stride, heading towards town. “Where you going?” “Did you see his face?” “What?” “Did you see his face? He knows I know.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 114 of 133

We pass by other people now, coming out of their houses. Another fire truck approaches from the distance. I can make out the sounds of three or maybe four different trucks. A little kid on a bike sits, unmoving, in front of a pink ranch house. “Martin, we set the woods on fire.” He doesn’t slow. I wonder for a moment about the kid. He can’t be more than seven, a boy with a white shirt and a stupid little smile. “He knows about my…about not being my father. That I know.” Martin rambles. He’s running fast, so his words come out winded. I glance back at the child. A woman steps off of the porch towards him. “Martin, stop.” I say. “Where are you going?” In front of us, a police car turns the corner, lights and sirens blazing. I startle, afraid they are after me, until I see the growing cloud of smoke off in the woods. The fire isn’t little. Forcefully, I reach a hand out onto Martin’s shoulder. He keeps running. “Where are you going?” I ask, again, keeping stride with him, but now with my big palm on him. “He knows. He—“ “Stop.” I yell, drowned out by the approaching siren. The police car blasts by us, so fast that I feel the breeze. “Martin,” I yell as loud as I can. He gazes at me, rather right through me, then turns to keep running. Brutally, I grab his arm, then his chest and raise him in the air. “The woods are on fire. Stop it.” He head butts me right in the nose. The blood seeps out immediately. I don’t let go. “I have to—“ “Stop it,” I yell. “—get out of here.” He pounds my back with his fist as I hold him in the air. Angrily, he swings his forehead for another head butt. I lean back out of reach. I taste my own blood. “Where are you going to go?” I shout. The siren fades, somewhat, now a few blocks away. He pummels my back again, while I hold him off the ground. He squirms and wiggles an arm free. Then he manages a blow to the back of my head. I tremble from that one, and step towards the edge of the road. “Don’t—“ Again, he hits me in the head. I tighten my grip on him, squeezing. “Ungh,” he moans. Then, I feel a sting, a deep aching burn. His teeth clamp onto my collarbone. “Ooh,” I scream. He doesn’t let up. He bites harder. Flinching, I feel the skin break beneath my shirt. “Stop.” He doesn’t. Teeth. Bone. Pain. Dazed, I grip harder, crushing, and wobble across the street with him flailing and biting. Suddenly, the dogs bark. I spy a pine tree. A wave of smoke cuts into the road. Crazily, I smash him against the tree trunk. His mouth unclamps and he seems to go limp in my arms. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 115 of 133

“Martin,” I say. Slowly, I open my grip. He steps out of my arms, swings an empty fist towards me, and then falls forward. I grab his shoulders so that he doesn’t hit the ground. His voice barely rises to a whisper. “You shouldn’t—“ “The freaking woods are on fire Martin,” I interrupt. “Your house is going to burn down. Where are you going?” I hold up his face. He opens his mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. The smoke blows past again, then is gone. Martin coughs. I hold my breath. Heavily, he wretches, then vomits onto my feet. His whole body shivers. Again, he heaves. I hold him up, but away from me. More puke. “Nice,” I blurt, sarcastic but surprisingly not disgusted. “Hu—hurt,” he says weakly. Then, he drops forward onto his knees. Both of his hands land in the vomit. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh, no, please. Martin.” Eyes rolling, he tries to look at me. “Okay,” he mumbles. “It’s okay.” And, suddenly, he’s in my arms again, only this time he’s dead weight. I don’t have much of a choice. I run back towards his house, the Reverend and the fire.

#

A stream of cars pass by me, two, three. The fourth stops. “You’re going the wrong way,” a woman in the passenger seat says to me, sticking her head out the window. She’s a deep black. Beside her, an older man sits in the driver seat. He peers at me through thick glasses. “We’re okay.” I reply. I’m sure she doesn’t think so. Martin’s stretched across my arms, and I’m the only white face I’ve seen other than a fire fighter. “Get in,” she says, more forcefully than I would for a stranger, and opens the door. I keep walking, but also keep looking at her. Two children in the back seat move around behind her. “We’re good.” “I mean it.” “Martin!” another voice yells. In the back seat, I spy, Mrs. Adams staring wide-eyed at me. “What happened?” Then, without pausing for an answer, she continues. “Get in the car. We have to get out of here. The fire’s coming.” “No,” I counter coldly. “We have to do something.” She must think I mean helping with the fire not talking to the Reverend. She repeats herself. “The fire’s coming. If they don’t stop it, if they don’t…the whole block could go up.” Gently, I move Martin in my arms, repositioning him. He feels heavy, but not completely dead weight, like he’s trying to wake up. Bad dream, I suppose. “The trucks are trying to line up at the houses, to spray them down.” “We’re going to see the Reverend,” I reply, harshly. That seems to shut them all up. She doesn’t say anything. The woman in the front seat closes the door. I start to move again. Then, the car pulls away. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 116 of 133

#

Three other cars pass me leaving the fire. Still, I can’t see the flames, often in these fires you can’t because it’s so low that’s burning. The pine trees heat up, but the bark protects the tree. The underbrush is the problem. And, if the fire moves from the forest to the houses we’re talking big problem. More sirens approach. Then, Martin stirs, coughs. He looks up at me. “Hell,” he groans, garbles softly. His chest fills, like for a big breath, then he coughs again. “Yeah.” “Hey,” I hear someone call. Another car pulls next to me. Strangely, I see it’s the green mustang. Inside the junkman squats where he should be sitting. Martin closes his eyes in my arms again. I think he’s out once more. A small wave of smoke passes in front of me. The fire’s moving, seems to be sweeping south and east, should pass mostly by Manitou Park, except for a few small blocks. The ones near Martin’s house, down the block maybe into the church. “Hot enough for ya?” the Junkman laughs. He slows to my pace. “Put him inside. What happened?”

I shake my head, not answering. “That Martin?” I keep walking, but look back over my shoulder. It’s a small community out here on the other side of the tracks. Maybe everyone does know everyone. Even so, I want to carry Martin. Don’t trust someone else with him. “He all right?” I shrug with Martin still in my arms. “What happened?” Slowly, the words come. “I kicked his ass.” “Look at that,” the junkman says, ignoring my words, and pointing out the car window towards the woods. I turn. Remarkably, the first spot of fire looks harmless. The flames are small and uneven, a dull orange that hugs the earth, hovering over the pine needles and the low green bushes. Behind the fire, I see the bottom of a few pine trees blackened but all of the pine needles are still green. “Travels on the ground. Takes out the weeds.” “Oh,” I reply. “This your friend?” he asks, driving next to me. I know he’s referring to our conversation last night. Suddenly, those words feel so hard. Tears fill my eyes. Yes, I think, he is my friend. And that touches a wound deeper than I know. I step in front of the car. He stops quickly. I open the door without putting Martin down. “It’s easy to stop that fire,” he continues. Martin stirs, slightly. The inside of the car is empty, no front seats, no back seats, just a bare space. I see the junkman isn’t squatting. He’s seated on an empty bucket that’s been placed upside where the driver seat should be. “A road. Street. Railroad tracks. All that space just eats up the ground fire. Hardly ever burns high Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 117 of 133 enough in the trees to jump. Only crossed the parkway once in the past twenty years or so. Big wind did that. Big wind.” As he talks, I bend and place Martin where the back seat would be, on top of a tan, oil- stained drop cloth. “Don’t take me back,” Martin mumbles, rolling. “Hey, there,” the driver replies. I plop myself on the floor where the passenger seat should be, then pull the door closed. My butt lands hard on a piece of framing and I feel my pants rip. Amazingly, I can still see out the windshield, size the one benefit of being a monster. The car moves. “Jonah?” Martin calls out, one eye opening. “You boys smell,” Jonah replies. I know he means the vomit. “Don’t take me to my dad.” Martin coughs, slightly. He raises himself on one arm. Jonah smirks, looks back over his shoulder. He nods, but keeps driving towards Martin’s house. I see the fire truck still parked in the driveway up the street. The fire isn’t visible now, must be just past the house and the edge of the woods. Ahead, the Reverend’s lawn service truck, lawn mower trailer in tow, pulls off away from the house. “Can you follow him?” I ask Jonah. “Henry?” “No,” Martin shouts. He grunts. “You hurt me, Raine.” “You were crazy,” I reply, rubbing my collarbone. “You bit me.” “I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to—“ He stops, moans. “I can’t breathe...right. I think you broke my ribs.” The car pulls almost even with the house. “Keep going,” I say. “No,” Martin answers. Jonah slows the car. Now, I can see in the back yard. One fire fighter sprays the hose, full force on the roof of the house. I spy another one covering the edge of the woods with another hose. Two men hack at the underbrush with tools that look like machetes. Jonah looks from me to Martin to the house and fire trucks and then up the road towards the Reverend’s truck. “You sound bad,” he says. “Maybe I should take you to your father.” “He’s not my father,” Martin yells. As he does, he winces. I imagine a sharp pain grabbing him somewhere inside. “He’s not—“ “Excuse me?” says Jonah. He stomps on the brake. Even at a slow speed, with no seat, I shift forward on the floor. Martin rolls towards me. “Augh,” I yell. The metal frame digs deeper into my butt. Only now, I feel the sharp edge cut into my flesh. I know I’m bleeding. Martin starts to mumble. I speak for him. “The Reverend isn’t his father. That’s what he said.” Awkwardly, I raise myself and put a hand under my butt. I feel the rip in both my pants and flesh. The skin actually moves like a flap about the size of my thumb. “It’s true, Jonah,” Martin whispers, then he coughs. “We know a lot about the Reverend,” I say. “We know—“ “Don’t,” Martin interrupts. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 118 of 133

“No, Martin,” I counter. I pull out my hand. Blood drips from my fingers. “He’s not what he seems.” “Oh,” Jonah says quietly. I can’t control myself. The words spew forth. “He killed a kid. In college. With his bare hands. He hits Martin. For punishment. Like he could kill him. And when he was in jail, Martin was born. He can’t be Martin’s dad. Maybe he stole him. Or took him from someone. He—“ “Stop Raine,” says Martin. “Please.” “The Reverend,” Jonah says, with his voice sounding remarkably deeper, “set up this church. Does quite a job keeping his flock together.” “But,” I shout loudly, hearing my own voice echo in the car, “he’s not Martin’s father. Don’t you understand? That’s a big lie. Martin deserves—“ “To sort this out on my own Raine.” Martin reaches out. He grabs my fingers. The blood feels slippery. His voice is hard to hear over an approaching siren. “—The truth!” I squeeze Martin’s hand. “So he needs to confront the Reverend. And find out the whole story.” Jonah, more a witness than a participant in this conversation, looks at the two of us, from one to the other and back. He folds his hands on the steering wheel as if in prayer. I notice, for the first time, a big scar on the side of his head, behind his right ear. The siren stops right behind us. I turn. Two vehicles sit there, police car and ambulance. “Martin,” Jonah says. “You need to go to the hospital.” I slap the dashboard. Two small blood droplets spatter up onto the windshield. Martin, eyes opening wide, nods as if, comprehending for the first time, how hurt he might be. “Don’t you care about the Reverend, and what happened?” I ask both of them. “I know what happened. He saved this boy. And right now that’s what we need to do too.” Jonah opens his door, steps out. I look at Martin who closes his eyes heavily. “Saved him?” I shout. “He karates him for punishment.” “For discipline,” comments Jonah. “Are you all crazy?” I blurt. “Is it a black thing?” “You watch your tongue,” he snaps, pointing a finger at me. Abruptly, he turns away. Then, Jonah waves to the ambulance or the cop, maybe both. “I don’t mean—“ “You don’t know what you mean.” Jonah leans back in the car, moves his bucket, and reaches for Martin. “How’d you even get into this?” Suddenly, I don’t have a good answer. “He’s my friend.” “Well, then help,” Jonah says. I nod, and reach under Martin. It’s an awkward movement, but I lift him into my arms while edging towards the open door. “And, if you’re such a friend, why are you forcing him to…why’d you hurt him? Never seen his father do that in ten years.” I rise, lifting Martin out of the car. He seems asleep. An ambulance worker spots me, and starts towards us. I walk towards the rig. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 119 of 133

“He deserves…protection,” I mutter, sounding ridiculous as I look. “And to know who his father is.” “That’s not your business,” Jonah barks. He touches Martin’s forehead. Martin doesn’t move. I sigh loudly, feeling more stubborn than I’ve ever felt. “His father—“ “Is Henry Adams!” snaps Jonah. “Reverend. He took care of that boy since he was two years old. Adopted him. Moved here for the good.” The EMT worker stops, then quick heads back for the ambulance. I keep walking towards him, Jonah at my side, still talking. “That church does good work. Keeps boys out of trouble. Teaches them—“ “Lies,” I interrupt. “Teaches them dishonesty. Do they know the Reverend killed someone?” “I do,” answers Jonah softly. “Don’t be too quick to judge. Let ye without sin be the first to cast a stone.” Those words sound simplistic but somehow strong. At the ambulance, the worker steps out with a stretcher. I look at the police car. Fortunately, I see two white officers, not the cop who chased me earlier. “He still deserves to know who he father is,” I say to Jonah, looking him in the eye. “Henry Adams,” he repeats. “How can you say that?” “He raised him.” “That’s…that’s…but—“ Suddenly, Jonah stops. He grabs my arm. “Listen. I will tell you. Reverend Adams is Martin’s father. I know this. I know this with all of my heart.” “Come on,” calls the ambulance worker, waving. One of the police officers starts to walk towards us. And, in that moment, the Holy Darkness rises up around all three of us, Martin, Jonah and me. A cloud of smoke engulfs us from the back yard. My butt hurts. And from the blood that seeps I feel a presence oozing out into the world, not blood, but yes, blood, wisps of light. From Martin’s chest rises a blur of gray that seems to reach out towards me, to Jonah, to the sky above. A sad, empty void that is the world. “Father?” I say, looking up, into the cloud, calling out, needing the guidance only my history and ancestors can provide. Deeply, I breathe in. I breathe out. The change comes with an ease that is unexpected. I am the Holy Darkness. Jonah stops talking. The world is on fire. I am my father. “Henry Adams is the only one who knows,” Jonah continues. “Martin’s much more Henry,his father. Moses, he donated seed. Get it. Died five months after knocking her up, her mother. And she died.” And, everything makes sense. “Reverend Adams,” Jonah finishes, “is a holy man, in spite of his sins.” Maybe there is no escaping the wrongs of our past. There is only how we next live with them, how we create the future. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 120 of 133

“Time to go,” says the officer as he gets to us. The backyard flashes with color, underbrush finally igniting. The smoke dissipates, all of it becoming my breath. “What happened?” The ambulance worker reaches out for Martin. “I think he has a concussion,” I say. “Maybe his ribs—” “Go,” repeats the officer firmly to all of us. “Figure it out on the way.” He points to the Mustang. The EMT nods heavily. Jonah glances at Martin on the stretcher. “I’ll go with him.” Then, Jonah steps into the ambulance. The other officer, older than the first, arrives. “Might lose this one,” he says. He points to the house. “Reverend went to his church. Can’t spare any trucks for that.” They talk to each other. “He can’t stay there.” “Said he was just going to get a few things, then leave.” Looking to us again, the first cop speaks, angry. “Go.” Then, he turns to his partner. “House to house. They all got to go. Every house.” “Hey,” Jonah calls. He tosses me the keys to his car. The cops notice this gesture. Both nod their approval. Then, the workers lift Martin into the ambulance. The cop car pulls off, and turns down a different block. Jonah waves me over. “You know Henry won’t leave his church.” There is nowhere else for me to go.

#

I don’t fit in the car if I sit on Jonah’s bucket. Instead, I push it aside and land on the floor. My butt stings. I can see enough over the dash to drive. I’m at the church in 14 seconds. The Reverend is nowhere in sight, though his truck is parked directly in front. The driver’s door remains open, as if he’s gotten out in a hurry. Wisps of smoke travel sideways through the lawn around the church and the parking lot. The wind is picking up, which means the fire will move more quickly. I climb out of the car. The building looks smaller than I remember, just a white house really, a rancher, with a little steeple at the top. “Reverend?” Eerily, I realize that there’s no siren. I spy three fire trucks down the road, parked in front of a few houses, watering down the home. The smoke seems to deaden sound. From the woods, a small steady sound crackles: pine cones popping open, pine needles on the ground sizzling. “Reverend?” I call. The church doors stand open. The woods surround the church on three sides, with a much larger open area in the back, grassy, a picnic spot. On the right, the trees stand about thirty feet from the building—too close for comfort if the fire gets this far. He steps around the corner in the mist. I see him like an apparition, white t shirt with jeans and boots. Behind him, trails a small garden hose. Water flows from the nozzle. “Where’s Martin?” he asks, immediately. He steps towards me pulling the hose with him. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 121 of 133

“Gone,” I reply immediately. “Where?” For the first time, I hear fear in his voice. “Hospital.” The hose drops. I don’t move. He walks towards me. With each step, I can see more sweat on him, his neck, face, seeping through his white t shirt. “He left,” I say, pointing to the car, “with his…with his…with Jonah.” There’s a whole lot that’s not said in that moment. I guess you can say an awful lot by not saying something. Like I know you killed a man and that you aren’t Martin’s father. Surprisingly, the Reverend smiles. “That,” he pauses, “is probably a very good thing. Were they hurt?” I shake my head. “No.” In his silence, I hear him say everybody can make terrible mistakes. But it’s more important what you do afterwards. “He never married my sister,” the Reverend continues, surprising me with his revelation. “She died of a heroin overdose.” Why do you need villains? I hear the Holy Darkness asking me. Everybody has their own demons. “How did—“ “There was nobody else left,” he answers. Same as my mom, I think. Someone has to raise children. “It’s been time to tell Martin for quite a while now. Jonah has made his own amends. He has peace with me. With God.” And, suddenly, I feel like I’m in a family with them, somewhere I shouldn’t be. “You should go, too” the Reverend says, pointing to the woods and the smoke. “I’ll help you protect the church, if you let him play football.” Where those words have come from I have no idea. But, of course, I’m not the same person anymore. “What?” “From the fire. You need help.” “Son—“ I hold up my hand. “With all due respect Sir. That fire—“ I point. Unfortunately, when I want flames for dramatic effect, they don’t show up. Smoke, however, does hover just beyond the edge of the lawn.“—is headed here. The Fire Department isn’t.” “The Lord,” he says in that deep voice of conviction, “will protect us.” Smoke suddenly chokes me. “Maybe.” I cough. “Maybe, God sent me as insurance.” He stares at me. I cough again, then walk to the hose. I aim it at my sneakers, wash off Martin’s vomit. “You need to get this on the roof,” I say, lifting the end. “I can help.” He steps over and places a hand on the hose right near me as if we’re going to have a tug of war over it. “I won’t be extorted for assistance.” “Fine,” I blurt. “Let Martin play football. I know what happened to you…” The words hang between us. I can see him waiting to see what I will say. There’s no need to go into detail. I no longer want to kill him, if I ever did, or even humiliate him. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 122 of 133

“Your concerns.” I pause. “Help him. Teach him. For God’s sake, run a summer football camp. You played Division One.” I let go of the hose. He realizes that the church still needs to be wet down, and starts spraying the side of the building. Suddenly, I don’t care what he does. I don’t care if Martin plays football. I just need to move. The smoke feels even thicker; the wind feels stronger. I run to the nearest picnic table. Bending, I lift the front edge and drag it towards the Reverend. “Help,” I say. “What?” Awkwardly, I plop it at his feet. “Get the other one,” I say. “For the roof.” He doesn’t understand. I jump onto the table and grab the hose from his hand. The water sprays higher onto the building now. “Get the—“ “A ladder!” he says. Then, he jogs towards one of the other tables. I drop the hose, and run for the last one. After we drag the tables back to the side of the church, the Reverend and I stack them. There’s no other two people who I know who could lift those tables that high, one of top of the other, just too heavy. But we are giants. It’s with ease that we create a make-shift scaffolding, secure enough for him to climb onto the roof. Another siren sounds, a few blocks away. The Reverend ascends while I hold the tables. Then, I climb up after him. He knows what to do, but I tell him anyway. “Spray down the whole roof. Especially the side nearest the woods.” From the top of the church, I’m above the trees. I can see the fire. The visible flames stretch about a mile out into the distance. To my right, past the Reverend’s house, the bog stands empty, still, like a pond, untouched by the flames. The fire stalled on that side. The smoke, also, blows away from the junkyard, this way. Nearest us, the path of fire isn’t that wide, a few hundred yards. More smoke than fire, but still a lot of burning. I count eleven fire trucks visible from where I stand, most spraying houses or the edge of the woods behind houses. A helicopter hovers in the distance. The wind seems to be driving the flames south, angling away from most of the homes into deeper woods, but definitely towards some houses, the church, and us. Reverend Adams shuffles along the point of the roof, one foot on each side of ridge, pulling the hose. He points the hose to the right side of the shingles first, the part closest to the woods. “You can save Martin just like you’re saving this church,” I say. In the front of the church, a few cars drive past, leaving Manitou Park. The Mustang and the Lawn Service Truck both sit with their driver’s door open. “Why were the police after you?” Flames now appear between puffs of smoke about fifty yards away. “Ran away,” I reply. “I’m a chicken.” Suddenly, I flap my arms. “Bawk. Bawk.” “You need to face yourself Son. That’s how we serve God. Admit our wrongs.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 123 of 133

I almost snort, thinking about the chemical bomb and electrocution attempts. Then, I remember the Reverend’s punch. Unexpectedly, he turns to face me. From his back pocket, he pulls a piece of paper. I know it’s my envelope, my letter to him. “Martin needs strong guidance. All young men do.” Below me, in the trailer for the Reverend’s truck, I spy two riding lawn mowers. I wonder if any of the vehicles, anything with gas, should be moved before it explodes. “Guide me,” I say, “I’ll join your church if you let Martin play football.” “God doesn’t take bribes for souls. The Lord wants our commitment.” For the first time, now, I feel the heat. Not just the sun but the fire. The winds have changed. “Don’t make him suffer for your sins,” I reply. “I will take him in. So, there only 4 months until hhid 18th birthday.” And suddenly, I’m climbing down the picnic tables. To my left, the signs of fire start to erupt in the underbrush, that’s where the real danger lies. An idea strikes me. Maybe it was a moment like this that claimed my father. I walk to the back of the Reverend’s truck, and lower the gate on his trailer. Straining, I move one of the mowers down off the ramp. I look up. The Reverend holds the hose, back turned to me, towards the woods. “The low stuff—” I shout. He turns his gaze. “I’m going to cut it down.” Before he can speak, I press the start button and the engine jumps to life. I climb aboard. Third time I’m driving without a license in one day. My poor mother. Landing on the seat, the cut on my butt throbs. I press the pedal and the mower starts forward. With eases, I turn the steering wheel directly into the woods. Unexpectedly, I smack into the first tree. The engine stops. From the roof, the Reverend calls out. “Check the gas level.” I turn in the seat, looking for the gas tank. Nothing. He points, motioning, at his behind. I look under the drivers seat. Then, I spot the cap. Turning it, I gaze into the tank. I see gasoline inside. I wave at the Reverend. “Vaya con Dios,” he shouts. A blessing. Again, I start the engine. The nose overwhelms me. This time, I steer clear of the trees. With startling ease, the little bushes start to collapse beneath me. I turn between the pines, weaving, aiming for all the little shrubs, bushes, grasses. The mower bounces beneath me. I start nearest the church, cleaning out and cutting as fast as the machine will take me. I find the lever that lowers the blade, and switch it so that the cut is as short as possible. The heat builds. So does the smoke For a few minutes, I drive over anything that might catch fire. The mower vibrates and bumps. The underbrush seems to disintegrate below me, no longer fuel for the flames, but empty space under the canopy of the pines. Even so, the wind blows towards the church. I’m about fifty feet from the building. The Reverend’s words ring in my ears. “Face yourself.” From my back pocket, I pull the unread story about my father. I fold it open, and read as I drive. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 124 of 133

“Private Robert Abbott, 20, a Toms River native, died yesterday when a truck tire exploded at Lakehurst Naval Air Station. Abbott, apparently, was filling tires when pressure ruptured a tire sending pieces of rubber directly into the serviceman’s head, neck and torso. Medical personnel reported that Abbott was non-responsive, suffered from multiple wounds, and was pronounced dead at the scene.” The story goes on, but I don’t care. I already know. Have know for a long time. Just like me, not a hero, just a regular guy. I can feel small stabs of pain on my cheek. Heat. Embers on the wind. Tears. I don’t know. The smoke stings my eyes. The church may still go up. It’s obvious what needs to happen. More of a firewall. Cut down more of the brush. Prevent the fire from spreading. Then, I turn the wheel, once again. Only this time I head for what’s already burning.

#

I can no longer see. The darkness, the smoke, is too full. Every few moments, I see flashes of red. I steer towards them. Every few moments, a branch pokes me or a bump smashes the wound on my butt down onto the seat. Sweat drips into my eyes. I slow the engine, and feel the crushing beneath me. What’s on fire already collapses differently, more easily. I cough and drive and attack the flames. I have no idea where I am. To breathe takes great work. And, then, I am too tired to care. The mower sounds like sleep, like snoring. It’s as if the whole world is tired, and calls out for slumber. I close my eyes. And on the seventh day: we rest.

#

Wet. My first thought. I’m wet. The rain pours down on me. On my head. On my neck. I feel the flow of water on my scalp, then under my ears. The liquid streams down my back. Slowly, I lift my head. Voices. A Calling. The mower rumbles. I open my eyes, and turn the power off. The rain crashes upon me. Cool. The water feels cool. The air smells, sizzling, like the fire is dying, pain evaporating. Again, sound. Voice. Voices. And the rain. “Raine Abbott.” Darth Vader. That radio guy who does voiceovers for movie commercials. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 125 of 133

“Raine?” A hand touches my shoulder. The rain stops. I look up. Officer Chaser, Officer I ran from, Officer…right? Right? Wright. “It’s him,” he shouts. “He’s okay.” I hear a few others walking, stepping through the woods towards us. Consciousness comes back. The mower rests, head on, against a small pine tree. I’m still seated. Three firefighters approach along with an EMT, a young woman with long blonde hair. The rain must be from a fire hose. Behind them, I see Reverend Adams. His face and shirt, both gray, soot, smoke and soaked. The police officer still holds my shoulder. “You’re mom’ll be glad we found you,” he says, then laughs. I grin. The EMT steps up towards me. She grabs my chin without speaking, stares into my eyes. Still without words, she pulls out a small oxygen tank. I notice her nametag reads “Anna.” She places the tubes and straps across my face. Breath comes easy. The cop speaks again. “Henry, aren’t you glad we don’t have to carry this big boy out of here?” The firefighters push around the chopped and burned up brush nearby. Reverend Adams replies, “Saved the church. So I don’t think we can call him a boy.” “Hero?” the cop says. Funny, for a long time, I’ve been waiting to hear that, as though it would make a difference somehow. I no longer care. “Fire?” I ask. Anna the EMT takes my wrist in her hand, checking pulse. One of the firefighters replies, “We had to chase you down. Water everything. Including the church. Fire moved south.” “Is it bad?” Past him, and through the oxygen tubes, I see the church about a hundred yards distant through the blackened trunks of the pines. The ground smolders a little. I notice the heat is gone. So is the smoke. In the distant parking lot, quite a few red lights flash: police, ambulance, fire trucks. “Containable,” he answers. “Shouldn’t lose any buildings.” “We should take him to Community,” Anna says to the cop. “At least.” He nods. “I don’t feel that bad. I—“ Simultaneously, several of them raise their hands. I stop protesting. “I’ll escort him in the ambulance,” says Reverend Adams in his deep voice. That feels remarkably reassuring. His eyes look easy. “I’ll try and get your mother to meet you,” replies the officer. I step off of the lawn mower, ready to walk out. “Hell,” I say. “What time is it?” Anna answers first, holding me by the arm as if she could support me should I pass out. She’s lucky to be five foot four. I’d crush her if I collapsed. “Just after noon.” The Reverend steps to me. He puts an arm under me, opposite of Anna. I let him. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 126 of 133

“She’ll be unhappy.” I exhale, too loudly. “There is,” the Reverend answers, “no greater good than for a man to lay down his life for another, so sayeth the Lord Jesus Christ.” He pulls me tightly to him. I realize he’s smiling, crying almost, holding my letter. “Besides, with all of us here, she will understand.” Anna chuckles. “You were the parade big fella.” “Amen,” I sputter. And our whole little congregation of the fire laughs.

#

Martin’s still waiting to be seen when we pull in to the emergency room. The place is crowded with people in every seat, a few children sitting on the end tables, and even others sitting on the floor. Jonah sits next to Martin nearest the doors. My mother is nowhere in sight. Martin looks better. No coughing. Conscious. He rises. The Reverend’s eyes tear up again. Slowly, they embrace, hands pounding on backs. “Jonah,” Martin mumbles. Reverend Adams nods. Once more silence says more than words ever will. Then, Martin and I towards the glass doors and outside. “Sorry,” I say. He nods, understanding. “I think it’s my shoulder, not my ribs. Maybe a concussion.” The doors close behind us. Two ambulance workers, not Anna, stand smoking near a big outdoor ashtray. “We good?” I ask. Martin grins. “Gonna let me live my own life?” I nod, showing teeth. “I read that article Martin.” “What…oh.” “He wasn’t really a hero. Not when you think that a stupid tire killed him.” Martin nods, moves his left arm like it’s stiff. “I just thought the way you were dogging me…” He doesn’t finish that sentence. “I was angry.” As we stand there, another ambulance pulls up, lights flashing but sirens off. “My mom said he was our hero. Doesn’t matter how he died. I suppose it’s how you live that matters.” He reaches out and pats me on the back, like a puppy, like an accomplishment. “I threw the story in the fire, Martin. He—” “Raine?” My mother appears beside us. I turn. She looks haggard, still in her purple robe and sneakers. Puffy eyes stare at me. “Hi mom.” “Are you—“ I raise my hand, stopping her. “Fine. Really. This is Martin.” She barely glances at him. Her lip quivers, eyes fill. Tears start. “You sure?” “I need a band aid for my butt.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 127 of 133

Martin laughs. “I’m serious.” Then, I push out my rear end. My mother doesn’t’ look. She grips my arm. “Are you taking your meds?” I ask, forcefully. She sobs, now. Too loud. “That’s not—“ Gently, I reach out and embrace her. Her voice and mouth disappear in my bulk. “You’re right, mom. Cry all you want today.” She squeezes me. Martin taps me on the shoulder, and all the things friends would say are said. “This is Martin. He gonna stay with us while,” I say. “No questions.” Martins phone rings. He steps back inside without another word. “But,” I say, holding her away from my body now and looking her in the face, “you restart meds as soon as we get home.” My mother nods in agreement and squeezes me again. From the far ambulance bay, I spy Anna the EMT looking on. She winks at me. Suddenly, Martin busts out the door, running as best he can. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

#

My fight with Bobby is set for three o’clock. Martin walks with me, past the closed shops down Main Street to Hogan Park. Downtown is empty. In the glass windows, I spy our reflection: the giant white kid shuffling next to the black kid with a limp. More likely, Martin’s walking funny because of his ribs or lungs not his leg. “She’ll be there, you sure?” Martin mumbles something. “Seriously.” “Raine,” he replies, “She’ll be there.” I feel myself exhale. “And so will probably everybody else. Bobby. Francoise. The lacrosse girls. I think—“ “So long as they don’t hurt her, I don’t care.” “You should care. You—“ Unexpectedly, Martin grabs my arm. His face winces. I see him breathing hard, trying to control his pain. “You okay, Martin?” “Not really,” he replies. “You are a freaking brute, B-One.” That comment means I hurt him this morning, but I hear the drop in the numbers, too. B1. B4. Before. Big Baby Bully. At least to him I am not completely a monster, partially human. B1: Big? Another something inside of me stirs. Something sparked alive in that fire, part of me that knows I’ve been wrong. “I didn’t mean to—“ He waves off my apology and I know I am no longer his slave. We are square, even, friends. I am never any of those things with people. They are always foreign to me, strangers, Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 128 of 133 the enemy. Maybe it is the reverend or the Buddhist that has climbed inside of me somewhere, next to the Holy Darkness. Maybe there is more than the night. “Bobby will want a crowd.” Martin hangs on my arm as we reach the corner. The Park across the street looks deserted. “They’re not here,” I say. Martin steps gingerly off the curb. No traffic downtown either. “Maybe it was just a joke.” “Oh yeah,” he says, then points. At the far right of the park, near an old wooden bandstand, a group of people stand near the riverbank. Looks like about a dozen. We’re way outnumbered. I always am. One versus the planet. Even from here, I pick out Bethany. She’s by herself in a bright blue shirt and jeans sitting on a bench by the water. And it hits me what is gone: revenge. A part of my big, stupid heart is different. The part where I wanted revenge on Martin for hurting Joey; the part that keyed that car to get back at Bobby; the part that longed for retribution against the people who hurt me growing up. I may still be a beast, and a wounded one at that, but I don’t want to strike out against everybody because of it. It occurs to me that maybe I was a bully myself, a lousy one. And maybe I’m not anymore. “So what do you normally do?” Martin asks as we reach the path that leads to them. “I mean, in a fight?” “Nothing. I don’t…” “Yeah,” he coughs. “You’re that sort of get ‘em later. Well, it’s later.” Bethany stands as we approach. She looks fine, no bruises, no blood. Most of the people here are seniors, Bobby’s friends I guess, only three girls. I recognize Francoise from the cafeteria. She must be the one. “Glad to see you brought your other girlfriend,” Bobby says. He laughs, points at Martin’s hand on my arm, and then turns his head to look at the gathered crowd. Part of me burns, the protective fire that feels for Martin and Bethany. She doesn’t need to be mocked as though she’s with me. Neither does Martin. Suddenly, Bethany yells. “Knock this off Bobby. You’re an asshole.” His girlfriend, Francoise, steps out from behind him. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten drunk and hit on him. Slut.” Martin’s fingers dig hard into my arm, taking my attention from the girls. “Hit him first,” he whispers. “When he doesn’t expect it.” That’s probably good advice, but not necessarily for me. I’m not the blackbelt. “I’m sorry about the car,” I say to Francoise. “I’ll pay for it.” “Yeah,” jumps in Bobby, loudly. “You will.” He cracks his knuckles, smiling way big. Bobby, I notice, loves this situation: girls fighting over him. They’re not, at least Bethany isn’t, but it looks that way. Bethany tries to settle this without a fight. “How many times do I have to tell you, Francoise. He’s the one who—“ But the words don’t matter. The girls shout a few more sentences. Moving closer to each other, tempers rising. Another amazing awareness comes to me. This isn’t about Francoise or Bethany or Bobby. It’s about me. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 129 of 133

If Bobby and Bethany did drink and did hook-up at the party, everybody in this crowd could overlook it. Even Francoise. Whether they kissed or not, even if they had sex. Whoever started it. Maybe the situation would take some time, but they’d work it out. They’re all white kids. They’re all the ones that look like they’re going to college. This is part of a crowd that would find a way to fix the situation. But, Bethany has crossed the line. Telling the secrets. Hanging out with Martin, who might have been overlooked because he’s an interesting gay kid. But mostly, inviting me in. That is her sin. Even just as a servant, slave, bodyguard: Animals are not allowed in the kitchen. Martin lets go of my arm. Then, he glances towards the street. “It’s time,” he says. Bobby isn’t my size. No one is. Still he’s not Martin. He’s about six foot, maybe two hundred fifteen. Solid. Athletic. For Bethany’s sake, I need to let Bobby win. Without warning, Bobby lunges towards me. His fist connects with my stomach. Reflexively, I double over. He aims another punch up towards my face, but I move my head and it glances off of my ear. I step away. A few people cheer. Bobby, I notice, bounces on his toes like a boxer. “Come on,” he says. I lean back again, exhale and catch my breath. The punch doesn’t hurt as much as I think. Bethany yells. “Bobby, stop it.” I turn. Francoise stands next to Bethany, blocking her from entering into the fray. “Lift your hands,” Martin says. He raises his own fists in front of his face. I realize my arms hang down at my sides, making me an easy target. Story of my life. Slowly, I bring up my hands. The fingers curl into fists. “We’ll deal with girlfriend when I’m done with you,” says Bobby. He means Martin. Again a few others laugh. But, I notice, it’s not everyone. For the first time in my life, I notice it isn’t everyone. One of Francoise’s friends, I realize, has walked away. She’s moving down the path along the river with a boy, quickly, like they don’t want to be part of this situation. Two other kids shake their heads and turn away. Not everyone. And, that makes me feel better. Good. Happy. Light. “And then,” Bobby laughs, “maybe somebody will pee on you again.” It dawns on me that he was in the boys room, freshman year, when I broke the wall in the bathroom and my head ended up in the toilet. I feel the warmth, the humiliation, all over again. And it’s time for me to lose this fight once and for all.

#

Bobby steps up, swings at my head. Even with my hands up, I don’t have great coordination. His blow knocks my hand out of the way, and connects with the side of my head. Again, it doesn’t hurt as much as I think. I launch my hand at him, but he simply steps aside. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 130 of 133

“One, two,” Martin shouts. “Not just one swing.” Martin wouldn’t take this abuse. Not for anybody. Not for a cause. “Somebody shut him up,” Bobby says, pointing to Martin. Before I can respond, Bobby hits me in the gut again. That punch hurts. I don’t really want to fight him. It’s not my fight. Just let her go, I think. Forgive Bethany her trespasses. Just take her back home with you all, sit her at your lunch table and forget about me. Bethany, I notice, rubs her face with her hands. “Stop it Bobby. I’ll say what you want. It was my fault.” “No,” interrupts Francoise. “That isn’t enough. You talked bad enough about him. So someone’s gonna pay. What about my car?” Then, Bobby’s crowd moves. Another person turns away, walks away, as I watch, no longer interested. I’m happier already, even though breathing isn’t as easy. A boy in a green t- shirt heads towards Martin. Suddenly, a group of bodies appears on the grass. “Yo, wassup,” I hear. A distinctly black voice. I glance up and see the troops. Martin has called for reinforcements. Behind me, five or six kids, all black, Martin’s friends, take up positions near the water’s edge. Bobby stops dancing. A few grumbles from his side of the crowd. “Martin?” A voice I don’t know from the cavalry. “We’re good,” he replies. Bobby calls out. “This ain’t right.” “Just keeping it fair,” answers Martin. He waves at me, pointing at Bobby. The message is clear. “Mano a Mano,” Martin says. No body else moves. “For queen and colony,” someone shouts, quoting some cartoon. I recognize the voice, Joey Roberts. Then, Bethany comes to mind. The real job of bodyguard crosses into my thoughts. Whatever it takes to protect the President. Even taking a bullet. Or in this case, a blow. I wave Bobby forward. He exhales loudly, looks at the crowd. Then, he steps closer. “Hands up,” Martin says, again. “Protect your face.” For the first time, I remember my tender nose, made that way by Martin’s forehead earlier this morning. If Bobby hit me there, that would hurt, a lot. His next punch catches my left ear, with an immediate follow-up to my shoulder. I don’t hit back. Just regroup, and step up again. Martin shouts something I don’t understand because my ear rings a little. Then, Bobby pushes me with both hands. I step off the path, backwards, coming within a few feet of the river bank. Quickly, Martin’s crowd moves out of the way. Still, I don’t want to fight. Not even for revenge. I am different, taking the blows not because I’m unable to fight back, a chicken, but because it’s right. It’s more courageous to lose for her sake. And then everything changes. “Raine,” she calls out. Bethany. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 131 of 133

I turn to face her. The world is different. They may not all know it, but nothing can ever be the same again. She has called my name. Not “Bobby stop.” Not the place she used to be or those people. But she has reached out past the monster, past the bully, and called me by my name. I stare at her. Not only do I have Martin, but there is also Joey. And another. I have friends. Bethany punches the air, a signal. “Finish him.” Francoise tries to grab her. She knocks her hand away. The transformation is complete. Now, Bobby waves at me. “Hands up,” Martin says, again. “Go Raine,” calls Bethany. She’s got Francoise in a weird hold. I drop my hands, and rush towards Bobby. “No,” calls Martin. His fist catches my nose, but I keep going. I’m not Martin. I wrap my arms around Bobby, who is caught off-guard by my move. I squeeze and crush him as hard as I can. He moans, arms pinned. “This is over,” I say, lifting him off the ground. I feel blood dripping from my face down onto both of us. He thrashes about and kicks me leg, hard. “Didn’t I teach you anything?” Martin yells. At that, I smash my forehead down and straight into Bobby’s head. He screams and stops struggling. Turning, I take a few steps with him in a bear hug. “Raine,” Bethany calls. I turn and smile at her. Then, with Bobby still in my arms, I jump into the river, a different sort of drowning, a kind of baptism for my new life. We land and come apart. He coughs, then spits water. When he doesn’t raise his hands or make a move for me, I know he is done. “I’m done” Bobby screams. “Raine.” “Ta da,” yells Joey. He cannonballs into the river with a splash. Abruptly, Bethany pushes Francoise into the water. Everybody goes in the drink, the fat kids, the thin kids, Bethany. The fight is over.

# Friday evening. Jonah drives. The seats are perfect, set in place by both of us on Wednesday. In the back, my seat is purposefully lowered so that my head clears the roof. A stack of flyers about the Reverend’s football camp sits on the floor between my legs. Jonah’s supposed to put them on the windshields of all the cars while he waits for us. “Thanks for driving,” Bethany says, leaning forward to speak to Jonah. “The limo fell through when…when my first plan did.” Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 132 of 133

She looks beautiful. Her dark hair falls across her shoulders as she leans back. I notice the curve of her back and the dark maroon gown. I’m too nervous to tell her how pretty she is this evening. “Things change,” Jonah comments, simply. She leans in closer to me. “I heard Joey Roberts was going to bring another guy to the Prom. Wouldn’t that be something?” Martin. The air from her mouth is warm, subtle, smells like infinity. I shrug and feel my breath shorten. She’s so close. My ears feel red, hot again. “You look great,” Bethany whispers to me. She touches my bow tie, straightening it just a little. My breath doesn’t come for a moment. “Thank you for coming.” “I called three places,” I finally stammer, “before Martin found a store, on line, with a tuxedo big enough for me.” Jonah and Bethany laugh, then, I do too. “You look…” She pauses. “Handsome.” “Thank you.” I grin. And from somewhere inside, a place that is becoming more familiar, comes all the courage I’ll ever need. “So do you, Bethany. Stunning.” Her mouth breaks, beaming with teeth. In truth, I look like a monster, a giant freak, Frankenstein in formal black. I don’t care. We drive off into the darkness.

—end— Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 133 of 133

Raines Ten Commandments

1. Thou shalt not judge 2. Thou shalt not criticize 3. Thou shalt examine thy motives 4. Thou shalt look at yourself first 5. Thou shall be direct 6. Thou shalt not fear 7. Thou shall honor thy mother and father 8. Thou shalt not punk out baby like 9. Thou shalt not run away 10. Thou shalt not curse 11. Thou shalt not blame other people for your own problems 12. Thou shalt not kill 13. Thou shall strive to be a better person cuz the one you are is messed up 14. Thou shalt have some faith in people 15. Thou shalt have some belief in people 16. Thou shalt stop being such a fuddy duddy wimp ass pussy 17. Thou shalt stop being a cynic 18. Thou shalt have some hope 19. Thou shalt be an optimist 20. Thou shalt make a difference in the world for good

Bethany: Mother diagnosed with cancer Breast cancer 3 day

What’s the difference between being the victim and being the bully? Not much if you’re Raine Abbott. When the school bully picks on one of his friends, Raine Abbott decides to take drastic action—a final solution to the harassment—by doing away with the tormenter. However, when his attempt to kill the bully fails, and Martin, the bully and his intended victim, catches Raine in the act things change. Martin vows to turn Raine over to the police, unless…Unless Raine acts as his slave. For how long? And for what purpose? Well, until Martin can turn him from a potential murderer, a bully, back into a human.

A story that begs the question of who is a bully and why and what to do about the complexities of human relations. The Holy Darkness is filled with drama and humor, romance and the core questions of what it means to live with compassion for other people.