Dark Advent

by Rick Jones

  “Mr. Hayden.” It was Professor Grillo, a portly man with a bad comb-over and thick spectacles. “Answer the question.”

  The question?

  Kimball, slouched in his chair, sat upright.

  “We’re waiting,” said Professor Grillo.

  “Can you repeat the question, please?”

  This brought a smattering of giggles from surrounding students. Grillo held up a halting hand. The giggling stopped.

  “Stay with us, Mr. Hayden.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The question was: the statement of ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,’ was falsely attributed to Edmund Burke. But what exactly does this mean besides the obvious?”

  Normally Kimball had no clue other than what he saw on the surface of such quotes, but suddenly a door in his mind opened very wide. “It means, evil will advance and keep on advancing until good men stand up against it. If good men sit back and allow evil to prevail, the righteousness of all men would be lost because they allowed evil to become too strong. There would be no tolerance, no peace, and no free will.”

  The professor’s facial gesture turned into one of being impressed. “Very good,” he said. “Well, it seems you’re with us, after all.” Then Grillo continued. “One notable example, of course, is the movement of the Nazi party during---”

  But Kimball zoned out again, the professor’s voice becoming a wah-wah-wah sound.

  He kept seeing Connor sitting at the kitchen table. He could remember the normal than higher pitch in Connor’s voice as he talked about Cooch smashing his father’s hand to something unrecognizable. And he talked about the money owed.

  Kimball closed his eyes. It’s always about the almighty buck, isn’t it? And you took it upon yourself to right the wrongs your father had created.

  And now you’re no longer with us. A good life wasted.

  Kimball sighed.

  And then he could hear Professor Grillo’s voice sounding off inside his head speaking a mantra, one that kept bombarding him repeatedly: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing . . .

  . . . The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men---

  Then the bell ending the period rang.

  It couldn’t have come soon enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  As the day moved along Kimball became more despondent. School counselors offered to speak to those students who were close to Connor to help sort out their emotions. Kimball declined certainly not out of disrespect, but because he was closer to Connor than any counselor who really didn’t know Connor at all. To them he was just another face in the crowd until they pulled his file. But to him he was a brother in spirit. Whatever allegiances they had with each other was not to be shared with the likes of strangers, but kept close to the vest.

  As the day wore on Kimball noted that Vicki Pastore was not back, either. Her seat remained vacant, as was the seat of Paula Howard, who disappeared and hadn’t been heard from by her parents or close classmates. The girl simply disappeared.

  When he returned home he was somber and listless. His mother was sitting at the table.

  “Hi, honey,” she greeted compassionately. “How are you feeling?”

  “How do you think I feel?” he snapped. “My best friend’s dead.” But when Kimball saw the hurt look on her face after the curt way he addressed her, he took a seat at the table and grabbed her hand softly, giving it gentle strokes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It just hurts, that’s all.”

  She nodded. “I know. It was a shock to us all. Did you know he would do something like this?”

  He shook his head. “No. I knew he and his family had problems. But I never dreamed---” His words faltered.

  “It’s all right, dear.”

  “No. It’s isn’t,” he answered. “It’s not all right. Connor never should have been put in that situation. His father’s in league with a very bad person and Connor tried to bail them out the only way he knew how. Now his friggin’ name is getting slandered all over school. Connor was this. Connor was that. Ninety-nine percent of the kids didn’t even know who he was until this morning.”

  It’s just kids being kids, she wanted to tell him. “Look,” she said. “We know Connor for who he was. Like you said, he was caught up in a very bad situation.” Everyone knew that Johnnie Deveraux, though a kind and sweet man, had made his deal with the devil long ago the moment he shook Cooch’s hand, which started him down a very difficult path. In fact, he’d been warned that such an alliance with a dark saint would have damning effects. But Johnnie felt like a man who could manage his destiny.

  “This guy Cooch,” he started. “What do you know about him?”

  “Enough to know that you need to stay away from him,” she answered. But she knew all about Vinny Cuchinata. She knew he was the supplier of narcotics that poisoned the streets of Malden. She knew that he was beginning to move his operations into the cities of Everett and Chelsea, with further ambitions to muscle his way into Boston. “There’s no need to get caught up or take a care in what he does. Believe me, he’ll have a lot of explaining to do on his Day of Judgment.”

  “So we just sit back and let him destroy the lives of good people?”

  “People have free will. They make their own choices.”

  “That’s a cop out and you know it.” He leaned forward. “And what about Becki? My cousin and your niece. We just let her free will carry her to the graveyard when we have the means to help her?”

  “Honey, we’re not getting involved in a situation we can’t control. Now I know you’re angry over what happened to Connor. I get that. But people are to be held responsible for their own actions.”

  Something clicked in Kimball. Another door opened. People dictated the outcome of their lives by the paths they chose, whether it be toward the Light, the Darkness, or the road that separated them, by the manner of free will. Now Kimball had a choice of three roads to take when he had none before. And right now he understood that all people came from all walks of life. His mother was a soulful person; gentle, kind and benevolent. But until all people were like her, he knew he would have to keep his sword sharp and ready for battle because of people like Vinny Cuchinata.

  “You hear me?” she asked him rhetorically.

  Kimball nodded. Then: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

  She cocked her head. What?

  “Think about it,” said Kimball, intuiting.

  “Think about what?” Kimball’s father walked into the kitchen looking grimy after a long day of welding. “What I miss?”

  “We were just talking about Connor,” she said.

  His father placed a lunchbox on the counter. “Never thought that boy was any good,” he said.

  “You didn’t really know him,” Kimball returned in heated defense.

  “Didn’t need to. One look at the boy would tell you that he wasn’t right. Didn’t like you hanging around him in the first place.”

  “You just don’t understand.”

  “Then help me understand, Boy. Tell me why I should like a guy who goes around knocking off liquor stores. And you know it wasn’t the first time, either. It never is. This time he just got caught, that’s all.” Then he chuckled. “Heard he went in with a fake gun. Too bad the manager had a real one.”

  Kimball’s mother could see that her son was starting to flare with anger, so she caressed his hand and brought him back to forced calm. Then to her husband, she said, “We don’t know all the circumstances behind what happened.”

  Kimball’s father went into the fridge, grabbed a beer, and popped the tab. After three great swallows, he added, “No, but I sure as hell can guess. His father was in hock to his eyes in debt to Cooch, is what it was. So his idiot son goes out and tries to rob a store. Debt solved. Only the owner of the liquor store didn’t see it like that. And don’t sit there and act like
you don’t know this, woman. You sure as hell do.” He took another long swallow of his beer.

  Then to Kimball, he said: “And don’t you get no foolish ideas, Boy. Don’t want none of his attributes to rub off on you. You hear? Should have told you long ago to stay away from that kid.”

  “That’s enough,” she said.

  “Ain’t never enough with him. Boy’s coming to a part of his life where he has to start making decisions. And good ones, too. Needs to learn how to choose well. Ain’t no more sleeping in on weekends and then going out with his friends to go play army, or whatever the hell it is they do.”

  “I haven’t played army since I was five,” said Kimball.

  He father waved him off. “Whatever. You still sleep all hours of the day on Saturday and Sunday. Need to get your ass in gear, Boy. Unlike your mother who shelters the hell out of you, you need to go out and see the world for what it truly is. It’s not the pretty place she makes it out to be. She doesn’t want you to see the damnation side of it. But it’s out there, Boy. So you better learn how to protect yourself from it.” He finished off the can of beer, grabbed another, popped the tab and left the kitchen.

  Kimball was relieved by his father’s self-dismissal. As much as he was at odds with his old man, he had to consider the notion that his father was correct on all fronts. He was starting to see the downside of life. It was dark and ugly and often cruel beyond explanation. People like Becki and Connor and Johnnie Deveraux were good souls who waded in muddy depths so deep they couldn’t help themselves. Nor was there anyone to protect them. The police were bound by paybacks and benefits. And those who weren’t were muscled to turn a blind eye or suffer the consequences as dictated by the conventions of dirty cops, such as an accidental shooting during an operation---one that would kill, maim, cripple or somehow get a cop bounced out of the department for trying to do the right thing.

  Then Kimball thought: is there no one out there who would protect those who can’t protect themselves?

  His mind went silent.

  “Don’t listen to your father,” she told him.

  “Why? Because he’s telling the truth?”

  “It’s not all bad. Not like he says it is.”

  “It’s not all good, either.” I’ve seen what Travys D’Orazio did to Vicki. I’ve seen Becki completely surrender herself to the likes of Dennis Zeemer and the addiction they share. I’ve seen good people like Connor and Johnnie Deveraux pay the ultimate price for the sins of others or the sins of their own creation. It’s out there. The wickedness. So Pops is right about that.

  “You’re right, Kimball,” she finally relented. “It’s not all good. That’s true. But God will handle the wicked and their deeds.”

  Where was God last night when Connor pulled his weapon? he asked himself. Where’s God when Becki puts a needle in her arm every single day? Why doesn’t He stop all this?

  “God gives us all inner strength,” she said, “to choose the path we rightfully take. Those who choose wrong also choose damnation. Those who choose otherwise will see the Light of His Glory. It’ll work itself out.”

  “And the path in the middle?”

  “What path?”

  The middle road. The road between the Light and the Dark.”

  “There is no middle road.”

  “There is,” he countered. “There’s a divide between the two for those caught between the Dark and the Light. It’s a gray area.” I can feel it.

  She shook her head. “I think you misunderstand, honey. There’s only two roads to choose from.”

  Kimball mulled this over for a moment. I don’t think so, he finally thought. Because I’m standing right in the center between the two. It’s the gray of twilight and the dividing line between sinner and saint.

  And I’ve become the fulcrum.

  Kimball got to his feet. Suddenly the kitchen appeared different. It looked . . .

  . . . smaller.

  He then leaned forward and kissed his mother on the crown of her head. “I’m going upstairs,” he said. “I just want to be alone for a bit.”

  “Of course.”

  After closing his bedroom door behind him, he took to the bed and stared at the poster of Bruce Lee, the still shot from Enter the Dragon. Lee was a master of his trade. And Kimball realized that true power did not come from the bulk of a man’s developed muscles. It came from within. Bruce Lee had been a testament to that, always stating that his body reflected what his mind thought.

  Kimball closed his eyes.

  Connor’s death had stirred something deep inside him, a dark anger, something he could no longer suppress. Whatever it was it steadily percolated and bubbled underneath. And someday he knew he would never contain it. Whatever it was it would surface and rear its ugly head. And he knew it would not be the signpost that led to the Light of Loving Spirits, but to a place that was much darker. A place of personal demons.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. He thought about Connor and the upcoming wake, the subsequent funeral, and the rush of pain when saying good-bye to a dear friend. He thought of Vicki Pastore and Becki Laurent. He thought of Dennis Zeemer and Travys D’Orazio. He thought about his father and his mother. He thought of Bruce Lee. Everything was overloading his mind until he pounded the wall with a closed fist and drove a hole through it.

  Then the maelstrom of thoughts were gone.

  The anger was gone.

  The dark self that had reared its ugly head was gone.

  And peace cascaded throughout him as a warm and comforting wash of milk and honey.

  He looked at the newly placed hole in the wall. Driving holes in the drywall was becoming a habit with him. Certainly nothing his father would tolerate or condone.

  Then he was drawn to the closet, a gravitational pull. Standing, he went to the closet and opened the door. There on the hanger was the hoodie. And in his mind’s eye it appeared to radiate as something special. But there was no aura, no fantastical halo beaming from the fabric. It was simply a hoodie whose color had faded over the years.

  He removed it from the closet, tossed the hanger aside, and put on the jacket. It fit him perfectly. In fact, it was as if he had grown perfectly into the hoodie as if it was specially tailored to fit his immense size once he had aged.

  He lifted the hood over his head. The fore part of it overlapped with a greater degree than normal, hiding his face with the exception of the point of his chin. And for some odd reason he felt empowered by this jacket. He felt different, stronger, had more power than he could ever imagine.

  But it was just a simple hoodie, one that was old and faded.

  He stood before the full-length mirror attached to the door, staring at the figure looking back at him.

  It was faceless, the hood obscuring his features.

  And it was menacing.

  The breadth of the reflection’s wide shoulders, the protrusion of a massive chest, the fabric pulling tight over huge biceps that were well equipped with incredible strength, all spoke volumes that this figure was not to be trifled with.

  Kimball was on the cusp of becoming a man. And soon he would begin to exercise his rights of adulthood with raw anger, because that protective bubble his mother had sheltered him in for so long would finally burst.

  And Kimball Hayden would finally see the world as it truly was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Johnnie Deveraux could no longer stand the confinement of the hospital, despite the damage to his hand. Ever since he was informed of his son being killed in a robbery attempt, he immediately knew why Connor tried to do what he did. In desperation, his son had died for the sins of his father.

  Johnnie Deveraux was beside himself and racked with insurmountable guilt. His wife, Darlene, never showed up at the hospital, which forced him to take the long walk home.

  The day was dreary and gray with a slight drizzle coming down. When he reached the doorstep of his house the clouds opened. For a long moment he stood in the rain getting soaked, his
wet hair flattening against his skull. The rain, the wetness, it was all in perfect correlation to what he was feeling.

  Stepping into the house and closing the door behind him, there was a sepulchral silence about the home, something tomblike. He stood idle and listened to the eerie drip of raindrops from his clothes strike on the surface of the hardwood floor in almost perfect measures.

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  He looked at the stairway leading to the second tier and to the bedrooms.

  Darlene?

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  With his good hand he grabbed the bannister and headed up the staircase.

  The second tier.

  The hallway.

  The doors to the bedrooms, all closed.

  His footfalls were slow and quiet. His face was long and lean and had the haggard looseness of a rubber mask. When he reached the doorway to his bedroom he grabbed the knobbed and turned it. The door swung inward, slowly, the hinges protesting lightly. Lying on the bed with her back turned to him was his wife.

  He closed the door, crossed the room, and stood by the edge of the bed looking down at Darlene, who refused to acknowledge him.

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  She was awake, he could tell.

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  . . . drip . . .

  After a moment of shared silence he laid on his side of the bed. She remained on her side.

  Johnnie stared at the ceiling.

  She stared at the wall.

  There was a gap between them on the bed, at least two feet. For them that was miles apart.

  They had lasted through hardships because of their boundless love for one another. Habits were forgiven and forgotten. And moving from home to home was more like seeking new adventures and new places, rather than moments of eviction.

  But Connor’s death had placed limits on their emotions, stunting them. Johnnie Deveraux knew that she would never forgive him for this unpardonable sin. Their only link that bonded them together was forever lost, their son yet to be buried in the cold earth. And on the day Connor was to be interred, Johnnie knew that the love between he and his wife would be buried right along with him. Their love had finally reached its limits. And they were both in a very dark place.