The Long Run Read online

  Brother McMurtry scans the class.

  “Does anyone have anything to say?”

  Silence.

  Blackie and Oberstein and Murphy have been staring straight ahead the whole time.

  “Now, before you leave, I want you boys to promise me that if you hear a word about drinking you will report it to me or Brother McCann right away. The minute you hear it, is that clear?”

  “Yes, Brother,” we all say in unison.

  “I want you to promise me, Mr. Carmichael. Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Mr. Ryan?”

  “I promise, Brother,” Ryan says.

  “Mr. Spencer, Mr. Kavanagh, Mr. Brookes? Do you promise?”

  “Yes, Brother.”

  McMurtry looks at his watch. Class is almost over.

  “Very well, you may go.”

  As we leave, he passes each boy a holy card of the Sacred Heart. It’s a picture of Jesus standing on a globe. He has long hair, and there’s a perfect gold circle around his head. From his exposed burning heart, rays of light pour out. In the background is the moon, and a million stars.

  “Say the prayer on the back of the card every night when you go to bed. Say a special prayer that we find the wine culprits.”

  “Yes, Brother,” we say as we leave. Our heads are bowed as we walk away. And we are thinking the same thing. How much longer can we hold out? I can feel the pressure. And I know that Ryan is feeling it too.

  Daydreaming in study hall that night, waiting for the altar bells for rosary and Benediction, I think about the wine stealing. Blackie and Oberstein are right. It hasn’t been a bad week. At least, not as bad as we expected. There was only one close call, when Rags asked Blackie and Ryan why they were doing laps around the soccer field and running around the grounds so much. Ryan shot back that they were getting in shape for the hockey season, and Rags laughed and said they’d be in better shape than Gordie Howe. That’s always best when you’re in a jam like that. The simplest answer is always the best. The brothers still have no idea about the wine stealing, and all we have to do is stick to Blackie’s advice and play dumb. Only the Klub members know anything about our wine raids. A Klub member would never squeal. If we just continue to play dumb, they’ll have to give up questioning us eventually. But I’m really worried about Ryan. He may crack. He’s so nervous. Out of nowhere, Blackie’s words come back to me: “Ryan’s a lot tougher than all of us.” I think of the terrible strapping he got, and only days later he was on his first wine raid. And as the buzzer sounds for chapel, I come to the horrible realization that I might crack. If it comes down to taking a beating or spilling the beans, I don’t think I’ll be as brave as Ryan.

  Lights out takes place at nine-thirty. By ten o’clock we’re usually all asleep. Oberstein and I plan to stay awake as long as necessary tonight to find out who the night walker is. Oberstein thinks it’s one of the older boys, stealing from our lockers. We know for certain it isn’t Spook, the night watchman. He’s always asleep.

  I am starting to drift as I squint at my Mickey around midnight, when I hear the footsteps. It isn’t one of the older boys. The steps are heavier than a boy’s. This is the sound of soft shoes, squeaking now and then along the hardwood floor. A boy would be barefoot, his steps lighter. I tense up, straining with all my might to listen. The sound of the footsteps is heavy and measured, stopping, starting, stopping. The night walker moves slowly and confidently, a few heavy, squeaking steps, then stopping to drink in the silence. The walker has to be one of the brothers. But which one? I pray Oberstein is still awake. I want so much to talk to him, to compare notes later on, when the night walker has gone.

  The footsteps start again, five even squeaks that stop on my side of the wooden lockers stretching the length of the dorm. I pull the bedsheets up to my chin, snap my eyes shut and pretend to be fast asleep as I wait to count the night walker’s squeaky steps again. After what seems like forever, the heavy steps pause by my bed. I think of the death camps and Oberstein’s grandfather. Auschwitz and the Nazis. Late at night. A guard’s creaking steps patrolling the sleeping quarters. I clench my teeth and count: one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . Stop. . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . Stop . . . eight . . . nine . . . Eighteen footsteps, followed by a deadening silence. I reckon about three to four steps per bunk, which means the night walker has stopped about five bunks away, at Nowlan’s bed. Nowlan has the top bunk, but the bottom one is empty. Nowlan is a tiny boy with a small pointed face. He has dark brown eyes, dreamy-looking eyes that make him look innocent and sad.

  I turn ever so slowly onto my side, careful not to make my mattress squeak. Ever so slowly, I lean my head out over the side of my bunk, but all I can see is the night-light at the far end of the dorm, as usual, blinking madly off and on. There is a deep silence for a while, and I hear a bedspring squeaking and a soft, sweet moaning down Nowlan’s way, as if he is sighing in his dreams. I freeze. Someone snores gently on the opposite side of the dorm. Someone else tosses quickly. Then, silence again, before the sweet sighing gets louder and quicker, becoming a weak moan, turning into what sounds like a strange cry. Followed by long silence before the sound of the squeaking footsteps starts up once more, moving in my direction. As he walks, his soutane whispers. I freeze again and hold my breath until he passes. When I am sure the fading steps are far enough away, I lean out over my bunk to see a black soutane disappear through the doorway. I snap back into my bed instantly, as if I’ve been burned. And wait a long time. To be sure the footsteps will not return. Before I get out of my bunk and tiptoe to Oberstein, who’s sound asleep.

  “Obee,” I whisper.

  When he doesn’t answer, I shake him.

  “Oberstein, Oberstein,” I say. “He was here. The night walker was here. Did you see him?”

  “‘And Isaac’s mother said go . . .’” Oberstein mumbles in his sleep. “‘Go into the fields . . . take your brother . . .’”

  “Y’wake, Oberstein?” I say, shaking him.

  “Tryna sleep. What the hellya doin’?”

  “Whaddaya mean, what the hell am I doing? We had a plan. Did you see the night walker?”

  “McCann? Is it McCann?” he asks.

  “Dunno,” I say. “He stopped by Nowlan’s bed again. Only Nowlan’s.”

  Oberstein sits up in his bunk and rubs his eyes. He reaches for his norph glasses, which he keeps in his sneakers at the foot of his bed, and puts them on.

  “I thought as much. Does anyone else know? Did you tell Blackie?”

  “No. Nobody else knows.”

  “You’d better get back to bed,” Oberstein says, “in case he comes back. We’ll talk to Blackie in the morning.”

  The next morning at breakfast we tell Blackie what happened, and he says he isn’t surprised there’s a night walker. And he isn’t surprised that he stopped at Nowlan’s bed either. He said he knew as much. “Nowlan’s goin’ to the infirmary a lot. Always sick. No, not sick, sad.”

  “But if Nowlan isn’t sick, if he’s just sad, why’s he go to the infirmary all the time? Does he get the spells?” I ask.

  “Nowlan’s always sad,” Oberstein says. “That’s a kind of sickness, always being sad.”

  “It’s deep . . . deep inside him,” Blackie says. “It’s soulful, a different kind of sickness, the sadness sickness.”

  “He’s come twice now. First Friday of the month,” I say. “Only First Fridays, always around midnight. I know him by his footsteps. He stays around ten or fifteen minutes, no longer. I counted his footsteps. And the seconds. It’s creepy.”

  “You best be still. Don’t count nuthin’ next time,” Blackie says. “And keep your eyes shut. Ain’t a good idea to be awake when the angel of death passes by.”

  Winter 1960

  * * *

  9

  * * *

  IT IS LATE NOVEMBER. And freezing cold. Frost is on the ground. It’s beginning to look like winter. Light snow is falling on the na
ked trees. Long, dark winter days are ahead. Soon the ground will be completely white, and the gray stone buildings will be painted with thick swirls of white. There will be snow on the blinking Celtic cross high above the Mount, and all the windows will be frosted over.

  The sky seems to be bleak and gray all the time now. And some of the fading grass is almost the color of the buildings’ gray stone. The yard is icy, and every pothole has frozen over. Running, especially night running, will be more dangerous with snow on the ground. This time of year is always hard. The next few weeks there will be extra study hall in preparation for exams. There will be an exam in every subject, and they will be long and hard. Even Oberstein doesn’t like them. It’ll be especially hard for Rowsell and O’Grady. They’ll have that daydreamy look for weeks. The dormitory will be freezing most of the time. It will still be dark when we get up and wash and dress for chapel. And even the chapel and the classrooms will be cold. Looking forward to Christmas is the only thing that saves us all from getting the spells.

  Sumos on the soccer field. Sumos on the soccer field in ten minutes . . . Ten minutes . . . Sumos on the soccer field.

  McCann has chosen a few sumos to practice Japanese calligraphy. They made a sign for the dedication of a Shinto shrine at the far end of the soccer field. All week, Father Cross has been doing kado, the art of flower arrangement. It’s the day of the dedication, so we dress in full sumo attire and march single file to the field. When we arrive, McCann bows several times and invites us all to sit on wooden benches in front of the Shinto shrine. It’s so cold there’s even frost on the benches. Murphy’s teeth are chattering as we sit on the cold hard benches in our flimsy outfits, compliments of a Tokyo friend of McCann’s brother.

  “Might as well be in our PJs. It’s enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” Murphy says.

  Kamikaze Kavanagh is rubbing his hands and blowing on them like a maniac. The frozen grass on the field looks like silver hair.

  The shrine consists of a raised platform constructed with clay and sand, onto which a fifteen-foot circle is marked out using half-buried bales of hay. Like the dohyo in the gymnasium, only that’s marked out with masking tape. Suspended above the wrestling ring is a wooden structure that resembles the roof of a Shinto shrine. Attached to the roof is the huge Japanese sign made by the sumo calligraphers. Nobody seems to know the meaning of the words on the sign. A whisper ripples along the benches. Bug says it means How’s your left nut?

  When we are all seated, the calligraphers serve us tea, which is ice cold. Eventually, a procession of sumos comes out and stands beneath the big sign. The leading figure is Father Cross, who periodically covers his partly painted white face with a huge fan. Today, his acne seems a bit worse, even though a big hat shades his face. He is dressed in a spectacular brown ceremonial outfit, which he has spent weeks making. Blackie had Cross tell McCann about his sewing skills in the hope that it might gain him access to the sewing room. And it worked. McCann gave Cross his own key.

  “You make the costumes of the world, Soup,” Blackie says, watching Father Cross’s face turn a deeper shade of red. “Batman, Superman, Captain Marvel—you make ’em all.”

  We all nod in agreement, because it’s the God’s truth. Last week we saw a Zorro movie, and a day later Cross was tearing around the Mount wearing a Zorro costume that looked like it had been stolen from the movie set. He’s amazing. Nobody else could’ve painted the great big bat on the wall inside the Bat Cave and the beautiful golden lion over the trophy case. We never know where he gets all the materials for his costumes. Some of it comes from the sewing room, but not much. The rest is a mystery. A fashion designer with unlimited supplies would never match Father Cross’s work. He can work magic with a sheet off a bed or an old discarded curtain.

  Blackie says the marathoners can now look forward to some decent running gear. We know Cross can make any costume in the world, and in jig’s time. Because he finally has some decent supplies to work with, this costume is the best he’s ever made. It has big wide pant legs and a huge round purple hat. “Father Cross looks very impressive,” Murphy says. Bug tells us he’s a crackerjack, and he should catch the next flight to Tokyo.

  Cross is in complete control of the shrine dedication. He removes his hat, and his face is extremely stern looking. “I’ve never seen Cross look so cross,” Oberstein whispers. He chops his hands and directs his assistants, who wear colorful attire with richly embroidered silk aprons. They bow like crazy to each other, and the ceremony begins. It’s all very elaborate, with cups and vases that have fine black branches and richly colored flowers painted on them. A small group of sumos dressed in black outfits with silver yin and yang signs on their backs moves toward Father Cross, forming a circle around him. He lights the incense in the thurible and swings it around so that there’s smoke everywhere. The smell is sweet. As he passes the thurible to Crosbie, a coal falls out. Father Cross stamps on it, and a million sparks fly into the sky. A cheer goes up from the benches. Brother McCann smiles. He thinks it’s part of the ceremony. Large snowflakes drop gently from the sky as the sumos sword dance about, waving their arms gracefully and singing ever so slowly: “Eyo! Eyo! Eyo!”

  We’re all enraptured watching the performers. It’s all so amazing to see, especially Father Cross, who seems like a totally different person—elegant but severe, almost frightening. Suddenly, we’re mesmerized by a series of elaborate flowing gestures he makes with his arms. Out of nowhere, McCann appears in front of us, taps Oberstein on the shoulder with his fan and gestures for him to follow. Oberstein nudges his way slowly through drawn-in knees. They disappear behind the raised platform and re-enter from the opposite side just as the dancers finish their sword dance. McCann makes a loud speech in Japanese that nobody understands: “Untano utusini doi jinchi Oberstein-san . . . Unakano . . .” He bows and points to Oberstein, and urges him to speak in Japanese. Oberstein speaks Japanese like a Spanish cow, but he fakes it, speaking in pig Japanese for almost a full minute. We politely listen as if we understand every word. Rowsell nods his head the whole speech. When he’s finished, McCann claps softly and motions for us to join in. We all clap halfheartedly as Oberstein bows, rolls his eyes and returns to his seat.

  McCann then motions to Father Cross to light the incense in front of the shrine as he moves to the center and makes several slow bows. He instructs us to stand and do the same. Then he shouts madly in Japanese for a few seconds, bows sluggishly several times, turns to us and says, “Sayonara.” The shrine dedication is over. Father Cross and his sword dancers lead the assembly single file to the gymnasium.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Murphy asks on the way back.

  “Yoko Loco’s losin’ his mind,” Blackie says.

  “What’s left of it,” Oberstein says. As we walk, he and Blackie linger behind, chatting about maps in the library and something about the Argentia ferry. I slow my pace, but Oberstein puts his hand over his mouth and I can’t make out what he’s saying.

  “Jesus, it’s cold,” Ryan says. “Don’t think I’ll ever warm up again.”

  “Put your hands down by your nuts,” Bug shrills. “That’s what they all did in Scott’s Voyage to the Antarctic.”

  “I don’t remember reading that,” Oberstein says.

  “So get your eyeballs checked,” Bug growls.

  “My eyes are fine,” Oberstein says.

  “They should of had Clare and Tokyo Rose in that ceremony,” Bug says. “It was missing the female touch. Clare and Tokyo Rose would of added a lot.”

  Bug has taken to calling Clare’s friend, Rose MacNeil, Tokyo Rose, because she’s collecting mission stamps for Father McCann’s parish. It’s a name he got from a movie we saw. Clare is at the Mount for a month, part-time. She and Tokyo Rose have been sent over to work at the bakery. She came a few days ago. The news was all over the Mount in two minutes. I heard about it from O’Connor, who was tearing around the building with a couple of criers, screaming out at t
he top of their lungs: “St. Martha’s girls in the bakery. Martha’s girls in the bakery.” Clare really likes Bug. But she’s worried that he’s losing his faith because he has so many doubts. Brother McMurtry has given her permission to give Bug extra catechism lessons. She says the same thing about him that Blackie says. Bug has a handicap, so we have to be extra kind to him.

  Clare and Tokyo Rose are going to become nuns. Silver crosses hang from silver chains around their necks, gifts from the Mother Superior. They have been told they have to work in the bakery as part of their obedience training. Tokyo Rose is tiny. She’s only slightly taller than Bug, who’s three foot nothing. She’s thick-waisted, with cropped black hair. And she has very round cheeks and is always silent. Too silent. And what’s really weird for someone who doesn’t talk, is that her lower lip always quivers slightly. And she looks serious all the time, so serious that when you look at her, you want to turn away. Bug often says if she wasn’t so serious and flat-chested he’d put the make on her. Which makes us roar.

  “Let’s pick up the speed,” Bug says. “If we get back before next class, Clare and Tokyo Rose might have a few toutons or some hardtack for us.”

  Clare is always giving us stuff. She sneaks us toutons and cookies, mostly, and sometimes a full loaf. And she gives us holy pictures and prayer cards and rosaries, which Bug always chucks in the garbage when she’s out of sight. He calls it voodoo. But when Clare gives it to him, he smiles and thanks her and says he’ll carry it around with him forever.

  She and Rose are always asking us about saying our prayers and memorizing our catechism, which really gets to me, but I do it for Clare. I’d do anything for Clare, I love her so much. I’d even try to get Bug to pray for her. But I think Bug really is losing his religion. He told Oberstein the other day that McCann is wrong to tell us we’re going to hell for masturbating. “You’re right, Oberstein,” he said. “It’d make more sense to go to hell for not snapping the lizard. It’s only natural to get a bone-on. And what’s a guy spoze to do, stare at it? No, McCann’s wrong, and I aim to tell him one of these days.”