Embracing Darkness (47 page)

I eventually was writing stories that went on for pages and pages. My ideas poured out thick and plentiful, like molasses from a jar. My pencil was constantly moving. At one point I had to make sure that I had enough change in my bottom dresser drawer for buying more pencils. I went through at least five a week, and after my penny fund expired I had to deceive my mother. “A boy at school keeps taking my pencils,” I lied. “I need to buy new ones.”

Neither she nor her new husband ever knew of my budding talent, and I never wanted them to know. My writing, after all, was an escape from them. I therefore kept silent and secretive about it—that is, until I came to the Benson Home for Abused and Abandoned Boys. I confided in Billy once when we were first getting to know one another. He’d asked me whether I had any interests. To this day I don’t know why I did so, but I blurted out that I loved to write.

“Really?” he said, his voice going an octave higher. From then on I knew that I’d have to be utterly candid about it if I ever wanted to be a part of the group of boys on the hill.

I thus hesitantly started reading my stories to my brothers and sister. For the most part they were a receptive audience. Some of my fiction involved ghost stories or funny spins on
Grimm’s
Fairy
Tales
. My favorite was a sequel to Rapunzel that the boys and Jessie loved. The story I mentioned to them while up in the maple was my longest to date. It had taken me almost a week to write and God knows how many sheets of paper.

“So why did you tell us you wrote a new story if you won’t even read it to us?” asked Gabe with animosity in his voice.

“I dunno,” I lied. I now wished that I hadn’t said anything in the first place.

“I wanna hear your story too,” said Ziggy.

“Yeah, come on, man,” added Billy.

I sighed, then took from my pocket a wad of folded paper. Opening it, I said, “I’ll read it to you guys on one condition.”

“Sure,” replied Dylan. “Anything.”

“I don’t want you to criticize one single word.”

“What’s ‘criticize’?” asked Charlie.

“I mean, don’t tell me what I should have written or ask me to change anything. It’s
my
story. Just remember that. I’ll admit that I got some help from Sis and Father Fin, words and spelling mostly, but it’s
my
story all the same. Got it?”

They all nodded eagerly.

The story I read to my friends that day was an early version of the one that exists today.

Years later, as an adult, I rewrote it, changing none of the events but improving the story’s language and flow. Here is the version as published in
The
Boston
Bentley
’s January 1974 edition. I earned forty dollars for it.

The Unfortunate Case of Cornelius S. Russo

by

Oliver Mitchell

It
was
during
the
town’s
annual
spelling
bee
that
the
tiny
man
came
up
with
the
idea.
The
town
was
Twin
Oaks,
Iowa,
and
the
man
was
Cornelius
Russo.
He
sat
three
rows
back
from
the
stage
where
the
five
finalists
were
standing,
stationary
as
poles,
waiting
for
their
respective
turns.
Half
the
ladies
in
the
audience
carried
fans,
and
as
the
next
word
(curmudgeon)
was
called,
Cornelius
noticed
just
how
many
fans
were
fluttering
among
the
audience.
As
two
beads
of
sweat
dripped
simultaneously
down
both
of
his
temples,
he
was
disappointed
at
having
been
stuck
between
two
men,
neither
of
whom
had
fans
to
winnow
the
air.

His
idea
first
came
to
him
during
the
spelling
of
the
previous
word
(impostor).
Cornelius
Russo
thought
it
a
huge
coincidence
that
the
host
pronounced
this
word
the
instant
he
laid
eyes
on
one
of
his
coworkers,
Henrietta
Townsend.
An
impostor
was
what
she
represented,
according
to
Cornelius,
and
he
hated
her
for
it.

Henrietta
Townsend
and
Cornelius
Russo
worked
together
in
the
town’s
one
and
only
real-estate
office.
Cornelius
had
been
there
for
nearly
eight
months,
fresh
out
of
the
high
school
he’d
attended
in
Naskunk,
Missouri,
before
Henrietta,
a
college
graduate,
gained
employment
at
the
Willoughby
Real
Estate
Agency
in
1940.
Their
boss,
Graham
Willoughby,
had
hired
Henrietta
because
she
was
beautiful
and
because
he
was
a
dirty
old
man
approaching
the
age
of
56.

Henrietta’s
interview
had
taken
place
just
two
desks
away
from
Cornelius’s
own.
He
knew
immediately
that
he
was
in
trouble.
She
began
by
enumerating
her
accolades
at
Harvard:
head
of
the
Dean’s
List
all
four
years,
president
of
her
class,
editor
of
the
yearbook,
and
class
valedictorian.
Apologizing
that
she
hadn’t
brought
her
diploma
or
awards
with
her,
she
went
on
and
on.
Although
he
hated
to
admit
it,
Cornelius
was
impressed.

Henrietta’s
spell
on
Cornelius
was
brief.
He
realized
after
the
third
minute
of
her
carrying
on
about
how
she
was
the
first
female
in
her
family
to
go
to
college
and
how
she
was
a
descendant
of
John
Adams
on
her
mother’s
side
and
Henry
Clay
on
her
father’s
that
Henrietta
Townsend
was
a
bullshitter.
Since
Graham
Willoughby
had
all
but
given
Henrietta
a
job
after
she’d
told
him
Graham
was
the
finest-looking
man
she’d
ever
met,
Cornelius
knew
that
he
was
in
for
a
heap
of
trouble.

The
end
of
the
interview
came
with
the
protocol
of
filling
out
some
paperwork.
As
Graham
got
up
to
go
fetch
the
forms,
Cornelius
found
himself
staring
at
the
young
woman,
who
just
didn’t
seem
right
to
him.
Perhaps
it
was
his
Missouri
common
sense
that
told
him
she
was
all
wrong.

Henrietta
Townsend
immediately
turned
to
him,
sensing
that
she
was
being
watched,
and
Cornelius
Russo
jerked
his
head
around
and
pretended
to
be
busy.
He
waited
about
a
minute
and
then
looked
back
over
at
Henrietta.
She
had
taken
a
compact
mirror
from
her
handbag,
opened
it,
and
brought
it
close
to
her
face.
He
could
no
longer
see
her
eyes.

He
quickly
came
up
with
a
scheme
to
see
just
how
honest
Miss
Henrietta
Townsend
was.
Taking
a
five-dollar
bill
from
his
wallet,
Cornelius
crumpled
it
slightly
and
threw
it
under
her
chair.
If
she
were
an
honest
and
trustworthy
person,
Henrietta
would
find
the
bill
and
give
it
to
Mr.
Willoughby.
On
the
other
hand,
if
she
kept
it,
she
was
dishonest
and
didn’t
deserve
to
get
the
job.