Zachariah 16: A Smudge
London, England
December 24, 1843
SCREENPLAY
EXT. MUSIC HALL - NIGHT 47
Garibaldi stands outside the music hall beside his poster. He pulls his cape tight around his neck, winces at the sleet now falling hard and starts across the street. Behind him, Lewis and his friends exit the music hall. Lewis sees Garibaldi and shouts out.
LEWIS G,g,goodnight Mister g,g,gari… Garibaldi spins around to face Lewis interrupting him.
GARIBALDI G,G,Garibaldi the great! Garibaldi removes his hat and bows down low.
The sound of a coach and horses rounding a corner at speed is heard. Garibaldi stands in time to be struck by the horses. Screams and shouts fill the air as chaos ensues. Lewis and his friends stare in shock at the scene.
Zachariah 16: A Smudge —
Hurrying up the stairs, the undertaker glanced at Zachariah as he rushed to the front door.
Curious, Zachariah looked out of the fireplace, and by craning his neck was able to see the foyer.
Annoyed! “ ‘I’m coming’!” Hobbins shouted as, pulling the door open a gust of wind blew sleet snow snow through the doorway into the foyer. “Yes?” he said in an extremely annoyed, unpleasant tone.
“Mister ‘obbins, Sir...” one of the two magistrates leaned his head through the doorway into the foyer “...sorry to be bother’n ya tonight but…”
Peering beyond the policeman, standing aside, “Might as well come inside so we can keep whatever warmth we have.”
Each carrying opposite ends of a heavy pallet. Once beyond the doorway the magistrates lowered it to the floor.
Still looking, and realizing what was on the pallet, Zachariah swallowed.
Slamming the outside door shut. Standing with his back to the parlor blocking the boy’s view. “But…” the undertaker said, speaking to the magistrates in harsh tones “...It’s Christmas Eve now and if it weren’t for these two…” motioning over his shoulder, glancing into the parlor he saw the boy was alone. “…cleaning the chimney late me and the missis would be long gone!”
Expecting a bit of a commission, especially on Christmas Eve. “We be knowin’, Sir.”
Speaking with an Irish brogue, the second officer said, “An’ it’s sorry we are to be botherin’ ya on such a night, but you bein’ the closest, we thought a fee—a big fee...” winking his eye “...such as from a gentleman as fine as this…” pointing to the body “...might be’a interest to ya, an’…”
Looking at the body for the first time, Hobbins noticed the expensive clothing.
“… might well be a fee ya’d be wantin’! But if not, we’ll be findin’ another place to be leavin’ the stiff.”
Reaching behind his back, opening the door the magistrate bent down and lifted one end of the pallet.
“No!” Hobbins said quickly, thinking the magician may well be a rich barrister. “Long as you’re here, you might as well leave it. Come ahead, carry it down to the workshop.”
The officers lifted the pallet.
Turning, Hobbins noticed the boy watching. “You! Boy! Get back to work! Mind your own business and get finished!…” in the same breath “...‘where’s Johnson’?”
Saying nothing,— as if to say ‘I don’t know’:holding both hands forward, palms up, Zachariah shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll be back to you in a minute!” Turning to the two magistrates. “All right! All right...” he said impatiently “...carry him downstairs!”
Catching the threat in Hobbins words, Zachariah quickly returned to work.
Making the turn from the foyer to the stairway, looking for a larger tip. “Eh...” grunting loudly “...‘e’s a ‘eavy stiff, ‘e is!” One of the magistrates complained as they began to carry the body of the magician down the one flight of steps.
The boy could hear the muted sounds of a discussion through the open door. Then, after a few minutes the clumping footsteps of the magistrates as they came up the stairs, slammed the basement door shut and closing the outside door behind them, left the funeral parlor.
Within minutes...
The fireplace finished. Sweeping the remaining ash into the scuttle to be carried outside. No compost heap here, the ash was poured into the trash barrel.
Inside now. Taking the scarf off, the boy shook it lightly over the drop cloths thinking, Mousy, what do I do with ya, Mousy? Not knowing where to put Mousy, and afraid the creature might run away, holding the pocket closed, Zachariah removed his coat and, shaking it lightly, placed it atop the folded and stacked drop cloths.
Anxious to be away from Hobbins and his funeral parlor, not taking time to put his coat on, Zachariah lay it on top of the stacked drop cloths alongside the fireplace.
Afraid to see what might be going on with the dead man in the funeral workroom, opening the basement door but a crack. “Mister ‘obbins...” speaking softly “...Mister ‘obbins, Sir. I be finished.” Closing the door,
waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps, he stood back…
After a number of seconds, cracking the door again and calling a bit louder, “Mister ‘obbins! I’ve…”
Suddenly shoved open, the door smashed into the boy’s forehead knocking him backward where, tripping on the rug, he fell onto his back.
“ ‘I’m here’!…” Hobbins shouted “...No need to shout.” Stepping over the boy, “Get off my rug!”
Going into the parlor, “Where’s Johnson?” Hobbins demanded. “Why’s he not here?”
Rubbing the growing bump on his forehead. “Uh, Mister ‘obbins, Sir, Master Johnson, ‘e, uh, ‘e ‘ad’a ‘pointment, an’ ‘ad’a go.”
“ ‘e ‘ad’a ‘pointment an’ ‘ad’a go’!” Mimicking the boy sarcastically. “He had an appointment, did he? I know where your worthless master’s appointment is!” Leaning into the boy, breathing his fetid breath onto his face. “With a bottle of cheap gin, no doubt!”
Grabbing Zachariah by the shoulders and shaking him as though to place Johnson’s weakness for gin onto the hapless boy.
“Isn’t that where he’s at? Not a ‘doubt’! With a bottle of gin!”
Pushing him aside. Wiping his hands on the bloody apron. Waiting for him to answer. Daring Zachariah to tell the truth, Hobbins glared at the boy.
Rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand and the painful, rapidly growing bump on his forehead with his right. Frightened of this man, backing away. “Mister ‘obbins, that’s all ‘e said to me, Sir. ‘e said ‘e’s got’a ‘pointment.”
“Don’t you lie to me, boy. I know his tricks! He left you here to do my work while he went off to meet his worthless, drunken friends.”
Taking angry strides, Hobbins went to the fireplace, stooped, looked in then, getting onto his knees he leaned inside and peered upward, into the flue. Actually seeing very little in the darkened flue, “Not perfect...” he said, turning back to the apprehensive boy, “...but...” adding grudgingly “...it’ll do.”
Standing behind the undertaker, Zachariah had been holding his breath and now let it out.
Going from chair to chair. Going from from settee to settee, the undertaker inspected, looking for a smear, a smudge, a reason—‘any’ reason—to take his anger out on Johnson for not remaining on the job; a reason not to pay.
Quiet. Not daring to make a sound. Not daring to make a movement, unaware that he had been holding his breath, following Hobbins with his eyes only, Zachariah wanted ‘only’ to get Johnson’s payment and to be out of this place.
One item left: A gold settee.
Walking slowly. Inspecting. Looking closely. “Mmmm,” stroking his chin. “Mmmm,” Hobbins repeated as…
Holding his breath once again. Standing stock still. Still, the boy followed the man with his eyes only.
Begrudgingly satisfied. The sharp clink of jiggled coins could be heard throughout the silent room as the undertaker reached beneath the apron, into his pocket and, extracting his hand, holding it forward…
Taking a breath now. Breathing now, Zachariah reached for the coins.
“Hmmm?” Thinking he’d seen something. Turning, stooping, Hobbins once again looked at the gold settee. Closer this time—‘much’ closer. And sure enough…
“Ah-ha!”
‘Ah-ha’? Feeling his heart thump. His hand held forward, the boy stood still completely still.
“What’s this?”
Craning his neck, Zachariah attempted to peer around the tall man’s legs.
Shouting: “ ‘What is this’?” Grabbing Zachariah by the scruff of the neck
dragging him forward and forcing his head down. “Boy...” the undertaker demanded. “… ‘what is this’?”
The boy turned pale beneath layers of soot.
Holding him, “It’s soot!” Hobbins screamed. “That’s what it is! ‘Soot’! You’ve ‘filthied’ my settee! You’ve ‘ruined’ it!”…
The gold settee that an hour earlier, in his unreasonable anger and ‘need’ of gin, Johnson had accidentally brushed against.
...Forcing the boy’s head down, Hobbins rubbed Zachariah’s nose—as one would a puppy’s into a puddle of urine—onto the barely seen smudge. The soot on his nose causing the slight smear on the silky, gold material to become larger, larger and blacker.
Terrified. Bounding back, Zachariah twisted out of the undertaker’s grasp. “No, Sir...” he said, rubbing his neck with one hand and his nose the other “...It ain’t possible! I ain’t never ‘ad been near it!”
Seizing Zachariah by the arm, squeezing, twisting, Hobbins pulled him forward. “Are you calling me a liar, boy? Here! Open your eyes! Look again! No, sir! I told him—that worthless master of yours—I told him I pay only for well-turned work!”
“No, Sir.” Twisting, the boy attempted to pull from his grasp, but the undertaker held on tightly. “No, Sir! I ain’t callin’ ya a liar, Sir!” He pleaded, “Ya sofa’s not been ruined! It’s only a little smudge.”
Though by now, with the rubbing of his nose onto the light colored material, the light smudge had become a rather vivid smear.
“It’ll come clean. Please, Sir, let me try an’ clean it!”
Hobbins had found his excuse to avoid paying, even though he knew that with the help of a few drops of embalming fluid the smudge could easily be removed.
Now, though, “No, by God!” he’d truly worked himself into near hysteria.
“Nothing for you and nothing for your worthless master!” His face red. The veins in his thin neck bulging. “ ‘Not a farthing’!” he screamed. “ ‘Out’! I want you out of here! ‘Now’!”
Hearing her husband, Mrs. Hobbins came from a place in the rear of the funeral establishment and now stood just inside the parlor doorway.
Noticing her, calming slightly. “The gold settee...” he said “...they got soot onto it and still the drunkard’s bastard expects to be paid!”
“Don’t pay him! Where’s the bastard’s besotted master?”
“Oh...” Hobbins said sarcastically “...no doubt the good man went off to church for an early Christmas mass.”
“Sir…” turning from one to the other “...Mum...” looking from face to face. “...Mister ‘obbins, Sir, your sofa ‘ere ain’t been ruined! Mizz’s ‘obbins, it’ll come clean!” The boy pleaded, “Please let me clean it for ya!” But…
“No!” said Mrs. Hobbins, whom, if anything, was even cheaper than her husband. “Throw the filthy scum out!”
“Please, Mizz’s! Master Johnson’ll beat me! I worked so ‘ard for ya an’ I’ll be beaten’n’ punished for nothin’… ‘Please’!”
Covered only by Zachariah’s threadbare shirt, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh of the boy’s arm, Hobbins dragged him to the front door.
Mrs. Hobbins yanked the door open and together the two forcefully thrust Zachariah through.
The force of the combined shove sent the boy sliding across the slippery porch and, his arms flailing the air, he tried to regain his balance but couldn’t, and falling down the four wooden steps, landed in a muddy puddle.
Sitting in the mud, looking up, “Mister ‘obbins, Mizz’s ‘obbins…” the boy tried one last appeal, “It’s near Christmas! Please! ‘Please’!”
The light from behind the open doorway casting long, thin shadows onto the porch, the undertaker and his wife stood within the doorway.
“Christmas?” Hobbins looked at his wife. “‘It’s near Christmas the bastard said!’” The undertaker repeated in a mimicking, whiny voice.
Then pointing to Zachariah, his voice high pitched with rage. “You expect me to pay you because…” in the same mimicking voice, “...‘it’s near Christmas’?” Thinking a moment. “All right!” Remembering. “All right, I’ll give you your payment!”
Lifting himself from the mud. Standing. Hardly daring to believe the undertaker’s words. But still, breathing a sigh of relief, Zachariah attempted to brush clinging mud from his trousers.
Rushing to the condolence parlor and going to the fireplace, Hobbins grabbed the item atop the the folded drop-cloths alongside the hearth.
Stepping outside again, speaking in a patronizing tone. “You’re right, boy...” he said “...it is ‘near Christmas’! And because it is ‘near Christmas’ and because Mrs. Hobbins and myself are kindly people and ‘good Christians’, we will pay you.”
“Hubert!” Surprised, Mrs. Hobbins turned to her husband.
His left hand hidden behind his back. “No, no, my dear…” holding his right hand forward, stopping her “...the boy is right. He and his master do deserve payment, ‘especially’ tonight.” Smiling benignly at Zachariah, “It is Christmas Eve, after all!”
Zachariah expectantly stepped forward.
“Here, boy. Here’s something I ‘never’ gave you, but I see you have it anyway. So here, I do give it to you as a present now...” Hobbins’ smile faded. The tone of his voice changed “...as payment for poorly done work! Here’s your payment!” Hobbinsthrew Zachariah’s long-coat toward the shivering boy.
Falling short—as he had planned—the coat fell in the mud at Zachariah’s feet.
“And a good Christmas to you...” Hobbins screamed “...and your drunken sot of a master!”
Becoming hysterical once again. “You tell him not to bother coming back! You tell him I do not want him! You tell him I’ll be finding another sweep!”
“Hubert!” Recognizing her husband’s uncontrollable hysteria. Having felt the back— and the front of his hand on many more than one occasion while this hysterical, Mrs. Hobbins turned to him.
Catching his breath. Grabbing his wife’s arm and pulling her into the foyer, Hobbins slammed the door shut behind them.
As the door slammed shut, “Mousy!” Knowing the mouse could well have been crushed when the coat had been balled and thrown. Picking his coat out of the mud, the boy quickly looked into the pocket...
Next: Zachariah 17:Kind Gesture
