Everyone Brave Is Forgiven(58)

No beautiful chamber, no soft cradle bed

No place but a manger, nowhere for His head

No praises of gladness, no thought of their sin

No glory but sadness, no room in the inn

Tom lurched from anguish to a desperate urge to laugh again. How perfect that a savior had come to earth who could heal and forgive, but that what everyone sang about was the local guesthouse being full. It was a perfectly English take on a divine visitation—the kind of thing old colonels wrote indignant letters to The Daily Telegraph about.

Sir—

But there was a comfort, after all, in the old unchanging story. Perhaps the distance would close again between him and Mary. Perhaps it wasn’t just him—maybe everyone felt unsure. From the crushing fatigue and the fear, the constant mental strain of saying to others, We shall prevail, and to oneself, I am defeated.

Now, hearing the children sing, Tom felt a glow of hope. Perhaps the war would be won after all. Mary would laugh in his arms again, and the great moaning sirens would stop.

When the children came to the end of the song, Mary kept the music going softly while the holy couple laid a doll in a straw-lined milk crate.

Betty said, “And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger. And the shepherds came from the fields and asked Joseph the newborn’s name. And Joseph said . . .”

A long pause. “And Joseph said . . .”

Zachary was frozen, eyes wide.

“Come on, darling,” prompted Mary. “Joseph said . . .”

Zachary burst into tears and bolted, slamming the classroom door behind him. The children began to laugh and murmur until Mary silenced them with two claps of her hands. “Children! Please! We’ll practise the hymn again. Mr. Shaw, would you please go and see to Zachary?”

Tom found himself making the foolish gesture of Who, me? and almost died under Mary’s patient look.

He found the boy in front of the school, kicking furiously at the snow.

“It’s stupid!” Zachary shouted when he saw Tom. “It’s a stupid play and I don’t even want to remember my stupid lines!”

Tom almost argued, then gave up and leaned against the porch.

Zachary scowled at him. “You don’t care?”

“It isn’t Hamlet.”

“You’re drunk.”

Tom lit a cigarette. “Tell me, why do you come to school?”

“Get my education.”

“And what will you do with it?”

“Get a job. I’m not going in the minstrel show.”

“Why not?”

“You saw it. Would you be in it?”

“I can’t imagine the equivalent. There’s no such thing as a white minstrel show, is there? Unless one does count Hamlet.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You don’t care about much.”

“You don’t know.”

“But you keep running away. Miss North showed me your reports.”

“So?”

“So, I’m just saying. If you want to come to school, why do you run off?”

Zachary looked down. “Are you going to give me detention?”

Tom couldn’t help laughing.

“What?” said Zachary.

“Detention? No. Not unless you kick any more of that snow my way.”

Zachary stopped. “It’s too much, if you want to know.”

“What’s too much?’

“Writing. Math. All of them staring at me in class. My head goes I can’t do this, I can’t be here, louder and louder till I run. I want to stay but I can’t.”

Tom turned up his collar and lit a cigarette from the end of the last.

“Well?’ said Zachary.

“Well, what? I’ve no idea what’s wrong with you.”

Zachary hesitated. “But you think there’s something?”

“Miss North thinks you have word blindness. She hasn’t reached a diagnosis for me.”

“Why, what is it with you?”

Tom shrugged. “With a name it might be excusable.”

The wind got up, whipping snow at their faces.

“How long do you want to stay out here?” said Tom at last.

Zachary dug his hands in his pockets and said nothing.

“It’s harder to go back, isn’t it?” said Tom. “Why don’t you let me drag you?”

Zachary showed no expression. “Go in if you’re cold. I’ll follow if I like.”

Tom weighed it for a moment, then said, “Fine,” and went in. Halfway down the corridor, in case the boy was following, he said over his shoulder: “The newborn’s name is Jesus, by the way. In case the shepherds ask again.”

A pause, a scuffing of shoes behind him. Then, “I’m not retarded.”

Tom grinned.

In the classroom Betty Oates was saying, “An angel told the shepherds to come from the fields and look, and the shepherds came and they were amazed.”

George and Poppy had been giggling together, and now their laughter became hysterical. Mary frowned over the top of the piano. “When your parents are here tomorrow for the real thing, neither I nor the angels shall expect to hear any silliness, is that understood? Now carry on, please.”