The Long Run Read online

  The canteen is opened most nights, and on Saturdays between one and two o’clock in the afternoon and Sunday night before we watch Walt Disney or Bonanza. Once in a while, the canteen opens at odd times. The PA crackles, and there’s an announcement that the canteen is open. Or some half-crazed criers, like the ones running around now, race through the halls yelling, “Canteen’s open for the feast of Saint Ray-field!” And the canteen can open on a whim, if a special event takes place, like when John F. Kennedy won the election. “Wingding for the first Catholic President. Wingding for President Kennedy! Wingding! Wingding!”

  I’ll never forget King Kelly’s excitement when Brother McCann said Senator Kennedy was elected president. “C’mon everyone, the canteen’s open for the first Catholic President. Betcha Oberstein and Blackie’ll get extras cause they’re Americans.”

  McCann’s gone nuts over President Kennedy. We have special prayers between classes for President Kennedy. He reads every day from a book on President Kennedy’s life. Bug says if he hears one more story about the PT 109, he’s gonna throw a baseball at McCann’s nuts. Even when he’s teaching diagramming sentences in grammar class, every sentence has Kennedy in it: “John F. Kennedy hit the ball.” “Senator Kennedy, who has a bad back from a war injury, walked spryly to the store.” “John Fitzgerald Kennedy, who is the first Catholic president, loves vanilla ice cream.” “President Kennedy, a Catholic, is the thirty-fifth president of the United States because he beat Richard Nixon, a Protestant.”

  All the brothers, even McMurtry, have become really nutty since the election. Every morning, Mass is offered up for President Kennedy. Rosaries are being said. And novenas and benedictions. Bug calls it voodoo time. But it doesn’t seem to have affected Rags much. He’s the only one not cranked up about President Kennedy. Oberstein says that’s because he’s a Republican.

  When the canteen is opened for a wingding, you don’t have to use your canteen card. Everyone receives free ice cream and pop. We all really like canteen surprises.

  There are a million stories about our canteen cards. You can just imagine the stuff that goes on. Once Rowsell paid fifty cents, blue money, to Bug to cut his hair. Rowsell’s fussy about his hair. It’s always slicked back in waves with a greasy ducktail. Bug put a bowl on his head and chopped away with a pair of old rusty scissors. Rowsell was a sight for sore eyes. Everyone called him the monk from Mars. He looked pretty goofy with his bowl cut. When he looked in the mirror, he was spellbound, his jaw hanging.

  One of the best stories is about Ryan charging Murphy twenty-five cents for three one-cent stamps. Stamps are hard to get. You have to steal them from the post office, which is only open on Saturdays. And you need an insider to pull it off. Murphy had taken a boot in the balls playing soccer one day, and Blackie told him he’d never be able to get a hard-on again.

  “You’re probably ruptured,” Oberstein said.

  “What does that mean?” Murphy asked.

  “You don’t have to worry about an heir to the throne.”

  Murphy raised both his big hands and gave an exasperated look, indicating he knew he’d been successfully teased but couldn’t think of a comeback.

  “How do you know? How can you be so sure I’m ruptured?”

  “You can’t. Not 100 percent. But the pain you got means you probably are.”

  “You could try the stamp test,” Ryan said. “That’s one way to find out for sure if you’re ruptured or not.”

  “What’s the stamp test?” Murphy asked.

  “It’s a surefire way to find out if you can still get it up.”

  “How’s it work?”

  “Easy. You take three new stamps, joined. They gotta be new and joined. You lick ’em and put ’em on your dick when you’re going to bed.” Ryan was brimming with excitement. All you could see was the gap between his teeth. “In the middle of the night, if the stamps break, you know you can still get it up. If you wake and they’re still joined, well, you gotta big problem. Let’s put it this way, there won’t be any little redheaded Murphys running around. You might not even snap the lizard again.”

  “’Course, if you don’t get it up, it could all be in your mind,” Oberstein said. “A sort of hypno-suggestion ’cause Blackie said you were ruptured. It’s called self-fulfilling prophecy. Like when Rowsell gets a hard-on ’cause we tell him he’s gonna get one. If it’s all in your mind, the only way to overcome it is through the power of positive thinking. Through thinking positively.”

  Murphy agreed to pay Ryan twenty-five cents from his canteen card if he would lift the three stamps from the post office so he could try the test.

  “It’ll take a few days,” Ryan said. “If you get it up in the next day or so, lemme know. No sense takin’ a chance on a shitkickin’ for nothing.”

  Murphy didn’t get a hard-on for the next few days. He was really worried. We all rallied round him and told him not to worry, to think positively, that everything would be okay, that he would pass the stamp test through the power of positive thinking.

  “You’re gonna bust them stamps to bits,” Blackie howled, as we all placed our bets.

  Saturday came, and Ryan got the stamps, and Murphy did the test Saturday night. He woke us all up early Sunday morning, running around the dorm yelling, “I passed. I passed the test. I’m not ruptured. I passed the stamp test.”

  At first we didn’t know what was happening. We thought it was Brookes, who not only looks like a monkey, but acts like one all the time. Some Sundays he gets us up early, jumping from bunk to bunk, whacking us with a broom handle, which he calls his ski-o-saku, and chanting, “Rise and shine. Come on, my lads. You know what lads I mean. Up. Up. Let go of your cocks and pull on your socks. Up. Up. Rise and shine.”

  But this time, it was Murphy, running around like a lunatic, screaming that he’d passed the stamp test.

  “Oh, that power of positive thinking!” Oberstein boomed out in his best opera voice from his bunk bed.

  At breakfast, Blackie howled, “You passed the test all right, Murphy. You busted them stamps to pieces.”

  For a while, we all called Murphy The Postman. But like the stamps, it never stuck.

  The next Saturday afternoon, we’re on our way back to the Mount from Bannerman Park. Me, Murphy, and O’Neill. Two sea cadets carrying tags and tin cans pass us. They’re so tiny O’Neill thinks they’re midgets.

  “Whatcha got, boys?” Murphy asks, putting his big hands around the tin can.

  “Tags. It’s Tag Day,” they both say, in unison, their voices hoarse.

  “I’m Petty Officer Wilson. This is Able Seaman March. We’re with RCSC Terra Nova.” He points to the gold lettering on his cap.

  Able Seaman March, who is missing a front tooth, explains that Tag Day is used by the sea cadets to raise money for their cadet corp.

  “Last year we raised over a t’ousand dollars,” he says.

  “How?” I ask.

  “Just stands around supermarkets mostly and asks people if they’d like to support the cadets by buying a tag. If they says yes, we gives ’em a tag and they puts money in the tin. That’s all’s to it. Then we brings our money back to our Chief Petty Officer, and he counts it all up and tells the Corps how much we collected at the next sea cadet meeting. Last year I brought in over a hundred dollars.”

  “Can I have a tag?” Murphy asks. “But I got no money.”

  “That’s okay, we got tons. Here, take one. We’re finished for the day,” the deeper voice says.

  “Will you be selling them tomorrow?” Murphy asks. “Mind if I try on your hat?”

  He passes Murphy his hat. “Nope. Not sellin’ tomorrow. Tag Day is only on the last two Saturdays in November. Next Saturday’s the last Tag Day for this year.” Murphy’s jug ears look juggier with the flat hat on.

  When we get back to the Mount, Murphy tells Blackie about our encounter with the two little sea cadets. “It’d be a great way to raise money for the Klub,” he says, his freckles standin
g out as he speaks. Blackie agrees and sends for Father Cross.

  “Soup, you make the costumes of the world,” Blackie says, watching Father Cross blush. “Zorro, the Lone Ranger, Geronimo . . . You make ’em all.” Today, Cross’s acne seems less pimply than usual.

  “He can work magic with a sheet off a bed or an old curtain,” Blackie reminds us.

  “You’re gonna turn Big Murph into a sailor,” Blackie says. “Only got till next Saturday. Tag Day begins at nine o’clock. Gotta get goin’.” And immediately he puts Cross on the payroll to do a uniform for Murphy. Father Cross says to put the money toward the marathon, that it will take a day or so, and he’ll get started right away. He finishes the gun shirt in jig’s time, white with a sky-blue trim across the square neck. He needs to dye the blue trim, but it looks beautiful. He is working on the bell bottoms when he gets really sick. Rags says he has the mumps and puts him in the infirmary. He says nobody is allowed near him, that he’s contagious. We’re all at a loss as to how to finish the uniform. Nobody but Father Cross can make costumes. Murphy says he’ll give it a go, and Blackie tells him to get right at it.

  “Father Cross will direct you from sick bay. Tomorrow’s Friday. That uniform’s gotta be ready.”

  He orders everyone in the Klub to pitch in and make tags, small white squares with a blue profile of a cadet. Each tag has a hole at the top, and a piece of white thread is attached so the buyer can tie it to a button.

  After lights out at nine o’clock, when we know the coast is clear, we watch Murphy work away. We are surprised. We knew he wouldn’t be as good as Cross, but we can’t believe how quickly his big hands cut and sew the material, stopping only long enough to run a hand through the shock of hair that keeps falling over his forehead. We all help out. “Santa’s little elves,” Oberstein keeps saying. Everyone is excited, except Bug, who’s a pain. He stands around, smoking and joking about how ugly everything looks and how we’ll never finish in time. When Murphy gets stuck and doesn’t know what to do, Blackie orders one of the elves to sneak down to the infirmary and ask Father Cross for directions. Ryan or Kavanagh returns and tells Murphy to use this or that shirt or to steal a piece of material from the laundry room or the sewing room. Or to create color by mixing blueberry jam with lard stolen from the kitchen storeroom. Fitzpatrick returns with measurements and directions for cutting and sewing. A triangle here, a few rectangles there. We are dog-tired at the end of the night. My head has hardly hit the pillow when the buzzer sounds for chapel.

  I don’t know how to describe what Able Seaman Murphy came up with. Everything about him is perfect. His cadet cap with the black ribbon round it and the gold lettering—RCSC Terra Nova—made from the gold leaf chipped from a statue of Mary in the chapel. The bell bottoms, the gun shirt, the navy blue collar, the white lanyard, even the black boots we stole from the marching band. Everything is there. It’s the perfect uniform. But it’s all faded. Even his freckles look duller. Murphy in faded full blues is a sight to behold. When he puts the uniform on for us he looks sad, like a shadow of the real thing. Even his tin can looks like it’s been used for a thousand years. The paper is pale, the letters so faded you can hardly read them. Blackie tells Murphy to be at the Dominion Stores as soon as chores are over on Saturday morning. He gives him the fifty tags we made and says we’ll have another fifty by the afternoon.

  “Anyone asks about your uniform, say your mother washed it wrong,” Blackie shakes his head. “They’ll believe it. No worry. You’ll get sympathy. Maybe sell a hundred tags.”

  Blackie tells him to put the uniform in a brown bag and change behind the supermarket. I’ll never forget watching big Murph in his faded sea-cadet uniform standing outside the Dominion Stores selling tags. He looked like somebody had cut him out of cardboard and stood him up by the door. People gave him the weirdest looks. But almost everyone gave him a dime or a quarter. A few people gave him a dollar bill.

  Tag Day comes and goes, and Saturday afternoon we all head to the Bat Cave to count the money. We’re all pretty excited, thinking we’ll be divvying up some of the cash among ourselves. But Blackie waves the speaking stick.

  “Richardson needs a few pairs of sneakers and other things. And Ryan’s runnin’ real good. Maybe a pair for him too. All that money’s for the marathon fund.”

  Blackie waves the speaking stick again and extends it toward the pile of money on the tree stump where we’re counting. “How much’s Able Seaman Murphy collected for the Dare Klub?”

  “Sixty-three dollars and forty-two cents,” Oberstein says. Everyone cheers.

  “We’ll need a seconder to bank it for the marathon,” Blackie says.

  “I’ll second,” Murphy says.

  It isn’t what we want to hear. But we all know Blackie’s right, so nobody says a word.

  “Oberstein’s gonna take three dollars for Father Cross, two for Murphy. The rest is goin’ in the Bank of Newfoundland.” Blackie points to a huge boulder near the far wall of the cave. We gather up the money and put it back in Ryan’s socks, which he donated for the cause. We hand it to Blackie, who orders us to roll back the big boulder that covers the hole that contains the homemade vault Father Cross made out of cement and scraps of iron. In it we keep all our valuables—money, tin food, the stolen wine and things we need for the marathon. The vault is almost as heavy as the big boulder. When six of us have the boulder cleared from the hole, Blackie opens his shirt and removes a key from a chain with a medal of Our Lady of Perpetual Help that he keeps around his neck. We watch him put the money into the vault and snap the padlock shut. Four of us lower the vault back into the three-foot hole. Then we roll the boulder back in place over the hole and lock the door to the Bat Cave before heading back for a feed of pea soup and dumplings and a slice of cold Diefenbaker meat, which is what we have every Saturday night before study hall.

  After supper, we have half an hour free time before study hall, so Blackie orders us to do laps around the soccer field. He’s always doing that. Every bit of spare time we have, he’s got us running or working out. Murphy jokes that Blackie’s training so hard because he plans on running away and wants to be in perfect shape.

  The late November weather is cold, like winter, but as we run we quickly begin to sweat. Past the halfway mark, with Ryan outdistancing Richardson for the first time, a wind comes up that has a terrible bite to it. The sun is starting to go down, and soon it will be dark and unbearably cold, so we run all the harder. The days are getting shorter now. Another year is almost over, and winter is on its way. After the laps, Blackie calls us together and says, “Brothers askin’ why we’re runnin’ so much, just say we’re playin’ a game. Say it’s called who lasts the longest.”

  Most Saturday study halls, McCann has us exchange composition books to speed up the marking. All the guy next to you has to do if he wants to give you a break is mark a few mistakes correct. It’s nearly impossible to get caught. And everyone in class turns a blind eye to a few mistakes once in a while. Everyone, that is, except Bug. He wouldn’t turn a blind eye for love or money. Every spelling mistake. Every grammar error. Minus 1⁄2, Bug writes in the margin in red ink for every mistake. He sits directly in front of me, so I have to exchange composition books with him a lot. And even though I always turn a blind eye for him, Bug never gives me a single break. He always has a spelling mistake or two or a capitalization problem or a misplaced modifier. He isn’t that good a writer, but he’s a great reader. When he reads out loud you would think there wasn’t a single mistake in his composition. I cornered him once and asked him why he wouldn’t give anyone a break.

  “Can’t chance it,” he whined.

  “C’mon, Bug, for God’s sake, a single spelling mistake. Couldn’t you just give me one spelling mistake? I give you at least two or three every time I get your composition.”

  “Your problem,” he said. “I can’t chance it. Might get caught. What then? You gonna take my whacks? Not likely, brother.”

  “C’mon, B
ug, be a sport. You won’t get caught. What’s a half mark?”

  “Not takin’ a chance on gettin’ the shit kicked outta me for your spelling mistake,” Bug said. “It ain’t worth it.”

  “I’ll give you ten cents on my canteen card,” I begged.

  “Nope. I’m resolved,” he said, using Brother Malone’s favorite word, folding his arms and pursing his lips the way Malone does when he refuses to let us stay up past ten o’clock to watch the last period of Hockey Night in Canada.

  “Bug, you’ll never get caught,” I argued. “Nobody ever gets caught. McCann always sits behind his desk and records the mark you give. There’s no way he’s gonna come to your desk and check the number of mistakes. All he ever asks is for you to read the composition out loud. You can correct a mistake or two as you read. He’ll never know.”

  “He might, birdbrain. Might just be the one time he comes to a desk to check. While I’m reading. What then?” Bug said.

  “But I always turn the blind eye for you, Bug.”

  “That’s your problem, brother.”

  “Do it, Bug,” I said. “If he catches you, just say you didn’t see it. Say it was an honest mistake. Say you thought the word was spelled right or that you didn’t think the word was supposed to be capitalized. He won’t question you. He never has. Not once.”

  “It only takes once,” Bug snapped. “Once, and I get caught. I’m a dead duck. No thanks, brother. I won’t be taking any chances. Forget it. I told you, I’m resolved.”

  I argued with him until I was blue in the face, but he never gave in. I even threatened to stop turning a blind eye. And once I did exactly that. He misspelled the word gravel, and had four other mistakes, and I took off two and a half marks. When it came time to call his grade, I smiled across at him and announced “Seventy-five percent.” But it didn’t change a thing.