The Long Run Page 19

  “Don’t be such a prick, Bug,” I yelled at him one day in the gymnasium. “It’s only a few lousy marks.”

  “Fuck if I care. You do what you gotta do, brother,” he said. “I’ll do what I gotta do. Like I told you, I’m resolved.” He folded his arms and pouted. So I gave up. I didn’t wanna push him too hard in case he threatened to squeal about the wine or the marathon.

  I can never figure Bug out. He’s a puzzle with a lot of pieces missing. He won’t take a chance on something as foolproof as turning a blind eye to composition mistakes, but he sneaks to the bakery during the middle of the night to steal a fresh loaf at the drop of a hat. Or he steals from the canteen or the post office when he’s on duty. Or from the collection box during a wedding or funeral Mass. He’d even take a chance on stealing cigarettes from one of the brothers, all of which are much more likely to land him the strap than giving me a few extra marks on composition day.

  Bug can be strange sometimes, especially when he gets a notion in his head. When he becomes resolved, as he calls it, not even a bomb could move him.

  Ten minutes to the movie. Ten minutes to the movie.

  It’s a Western. Western. Western.

  The criers are right about the ten minutes. They’re probably wrong about the movie being a Western. But when study hall is over we are all excited. We never know what the movie will be until the reel is on the projector. Lotsa times the name on the can is not the same as the movie inside. Once, we had a can that read The Kid, starring Charlie Chaplin, and it turned out to be The Blob. Another time, a can marked Night Train to Terror turned out to be a movie about slavery and the American Civil War. Blackie really liked that one. He said to Oberstein after the movie, “A slave is somebody who waits to be free.”

  Rags tacks bedsheets to a wall in the TV room, as we bet on whether it will be a Western or a thriller. Most of us hope for a Western, especially Anstey, who always says, “I wants a Western, and no small guns either,” which cracks us up. A few weeks ago we saw Fastest Gun Alive, starring Glenn Ford, and Anstey loved it. Ever since, when someone gets his dander up, Anstey turns into Glenn Ford. He whips his hand off his thigh and says, “No matter how far you ride, no matter how many towns you run to, there’ll always be somebody faster.” And he sounds just like Glenn Ford in the movie. He’s very convincing.

  Most of the time the movies are really good, like Fastest Gun Alive, but once in a while we get a real boner. Usually the brother in charge watches the movie with us, so even if it is boring we’re all pretty quiet. There’s usually the odd bit of whispering, but that’s all. Sometimes the brother on duty leaves one of the older boys in charge while he disappears for a while. Tonight, after about five minutes, Rags has to go somewhere. The movie gets pretty boring. It’s about the Germans sending a trainload of Jews across Europe during the Second World War. And everywhere they go, no town will take them in. The Nazis had set it all up so nobody would take them. It’s pretty boring, but sorta sad too. It’s called Night Train to Munich.

  There are three dorms watching the movie, including St. Gabe’s, the grade fours and fives. They’re the youngest group watching, and they’re pretty bored with it all. Most of them begin chatting and fooling around almost right after Rags leaves. Everyone is half-watching the movie and half-talking. Only Oberstein seems to be interested. He moves right up to the front row with the younger kids who are making the most noise, chatting and poking each other and horsing around. Oberstein tells them to be quiet every now and then, and once or twice he slaps a couple of them. He really wants to see what will happen to the Jewish refugees. The hero in the movie is named Jeremiah, and Oberstein is really taken with him. As the noise gets louder, Oberstein almost goes out of his mind telling everyone to shut up. Eventually it gets really noisy, and Oberstein, who almost never curses, goes crazy.

  “You little fuckers better shuddup, or I swear I’m gonna throw every fucken one of you little fucken runts out the fucken window. Do you underfuckenstand?”

  The noise dies down a bit, and Oberstein throws his yarmulke into the air and yells, “Hallefuckenlujah! Mar-ve-lous!”

  When everyone’s settled down a bit, Rowsell chews away on a Popsicle stick as he walks over to the younger boys and whispers to them to be quiet.

  “Rowsell, you’re absofuckenlutely useless,” Oberstein says, “you block, you stone, you worse than senseless fucken thing.”

  The noise increases, and it becomes a bit of a free-for-all until toward the end of the movie, when the Jews take over the train and take it to a town run by Americans where they think they’ll be allowed to stay. When the Jews take over the train, everybody starts to clap and cheer. Even the younger ones stop their shenanigans and cheer and clap.

  When Rags returns, one of the little ones tells him that everyone was horsing around except Oberstein, so Rags cancels canteen for everyone and gives us all an assignment. We have to write a paragraph about the movie explaining the part we liked most and why. Oberstein writes a paragraph even though he doesn’t have to. He says that the best line in the movie is when one of the women on the train said that nobody should have to die for a war.

  Before we go to sleep that night, I ask Oberstein if he’s still upset about not being able to watch the movie in peace. He says he is, but that when everyone started to cheer and clap when the Jews took over the train he was really happy. He says he hasn’t been as happy in a long, long time. He says he felt like he was there on the train with all the refugees.

  “Even the little ones know the difference between right and wrong,” he says. “It was wrong to put them on the train, and it was wrong for the different towns not to take them in. It was so nice to hear everyone clapping. When you get the spells, remembering a moment like that, when everyone started cheering, that’s the sort of thing can bring you around.”

  11

  * * *

  IT’S A WINDY NIGHT. And it’s bitter out. Cold enough to skin a cat. The moon casts our long shadows on the glistening snow. Before heading out, I stare at the beauty of the ice-glazed windows and the snow-streaked stone walls. Far off, a dog barks. We’re all afraid. Afraid we will be caught for stealing the wine. Afraid Blackie might do something we’ll all regret. Afraid we’ll get caught night running. That one night we’ll return to find black-cassocked men with straps waiting for us. Oberstein wants Blackie to tell Rags about the marathon. He says Rags won’t mind, he’ll let us participate. Oberstein thinks Rags will even help us out. Blackie disagrees. He says if we tell Rags, one of the brothers will be put in charge, and that will spoil everything. Everything will change. It will all go down the drain. But Oberstein doesn’t think so. He says involving the brothers will make it better. I think Blackie’s right. We have to do it Blackie’s way, or we won’t have a chance of winning. There’s no guarantee our groups will be picked to run, that’s for sure. Blackie’s right. We can’t take a chance on the brothers finding out.

  We strain to keep up with Blackie’s group. They’re keeping a fast pace. We’re soon sweating and breathless, but we’re keyed up and eager to knock off a few seconds from our last run. Suddenly the string jerks; there’s a hole up ahead or a rock. My hands and feet are freezing. My whole body feels raw. It’s the coldest night run yet. The tips of my fingers feel like they’ve been cut off. I long to race ahead to Blackie and beg him to turn back. But I think of the fishermen in their little boats out on the high seas, and what I’m doing seems nothing compared to those brave souls. And I know Blackie would think I’m crazy anyway. Blackie would never turn back.

  I run a little faster, hoping to warm up a bit. I notice Brookes and Father Cross moving faster than usual too. Unlike most other runs, Cross isn’t grunting with the effort to keep up. I long to make contact, just to say how cold it is. But I know speaking will somehow make it worse. It’s even too cold to speak. Silently, we run. And silently, we endure the bitter cold.

  The pack is almost one this morning, with Ryan, Richardson, and Blackie in the lea
d, only yards ahead. Perhaps it’s the cold that keeps us close. Blackie is mumbling something, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. The wind is so strong it whistles through our clothing. I regret now not having added another layer. It’s so cold my nostrils stick together and my cheeks sting.

  “This must be what it’s like running on the moon,” Brookes whispers. His voice is raspy. He spits the words, like they taste bitter.

  The sky seems to brighten as we pass Bally Haly Golf Course. Perhaps it’s the whiteness of the rolling fairways. Car headlights beam in the distance. We slide down a bank and lie flat on the snow. It’s cold and crisp. We lie low till Blackie gives the all clear. My feet are so sore they feel like they’re on fire. As we climb the bank, Kavanagh is bent double, sucking snow. Brookes flicks his rump, and Kavanagh goes flying down the bank. We can hear him laughing as he climbs it again.

  We’re almost near the Sugar Loaf turnoff when we hear a loud noise in the distance. Everyone is tense, but we keep moving. It’s a deep groaning sound. Ice cracking in one of the nearby ponds. Or, deep in the woods, a tree breaking. Somewhere a bird chirps, readying itself for dawn. As I run, I have only one thought: What if we’re caught? I take off a mitten and remove a nugget of hardtack and put it in my mouth. It tastes good. As always, I’ll let it melt slowly in my mouth. The wind is still howling, but it’s getting brighter as Brookes hurries past me. I’m about to pick up the pace when I hear the sound of shallow breathing. Father Cross pulls even. He gurgles and hawks. He breathes hard as he runs. Every breath is an effort. He offers me his big woolly mittens.

  “Take ’em for a while. They’re lined. I padded them.”

  I wave them off, but he passes me one mitten.

  “Switch one till Sugar Loaf,” he begs.

  I feel bad for not sharing my hardtack. I pick up the pace. I’ve never finished behind Father Cross before. My eyes fixed on the leads, I decide to stay with him until the long stretch to the pond, when I know I’ll outdistance him. Cross gurgles again, hawks and spits. The stretch appears sooner than I think. I kick hard and move ahead of him.

  At the pond, Blackie and the others have smashed rocks through the new ice to make drinking holes. After we drink, I check my Mickey. We’re a full two minutes ahead of our last time. And we can probably add over a minute for our slide down the bank. Blackie waves us on. I race to catch him and point to my Mickey. “Best time yet,” I shout over the wind. His mouth is half open, but he says nothing, kicks hard and catches Ryan. My eyes are fixed on them. The wind is now at our backs. It feels warmer. Brookes’s footsteps hurry past me, and then Cross’s hawking reminds me that this could be our best time ever. Cross pulls up opposite me and spits. I look across at him. The strain on his face startles me. I want to speak, to egg him on, to tell him that this will be his personal best, but he gurgles and hawks again. He removes a mitten and passes me a candy.

  “Sugar for the final stretch,” he says. “This is our best time ever.”

  I nod and point to my Mickey and give him the thumbs-up sign, like the pilots do in the movies. His breathing becomes hard again.

  “Oberstein is waiting for us with a fresh loaf,” I say.

  He nods a painful smile.

  Away off in the distance, two black dots, Richardson and Ryan, move down the long, white road toward the massive stone shadows.

  I wake in the morning long before the buzzer sounds. I do not talk. I do not rouse Blackie to hatch some scheme or Oberstein to sing a song or tell me a Bible story. There will be no dormitory antics today. I just lie there, in my bunk, stretching and feeling good, the good aching that comes from a long, hard run, the aching you can feel in every joint. I smell the cool light breeze flowing through the dorm, and I take it in, like a menthol cigarette, as I stretch and yawn and wake to the world, rolling onto my side, staring at the canvas sneakers by each bunk bed and the raggedy towels hanging on the ladders and the stack of comics Rags has left on top of the lockers.

  I think of all these sleepers who are such a part of my life. Closer to me than Clare. We may be norphs to everyone in St. John’s. But to each other we’re family. And I think of each of them in turn, Blackie, Oberstein, Bug, Murphy, Ryan, Brookes, Kavanagh, Cross, Rowsell. I realize what I love most about each of them: that I never have to pretend anything with them, that I can always say whatever it is I feel, no matter what it is. That I never have to be on my guard, and I never have to be afraid. And I am happy knowing they will always be a part of my life. Even years and years from now. When we’ve all flown the coop, as Rags says. Nothing will ever change that. Not sickness, not sadness, not distance, not old age. I know I’ll always carry something out of this marvellous, terrible place that will join us like glue forever and a day. And realizing that for the first time, I start to cry. Knowing that no matter what happens, I’ll always be one with everybody here. The runners, the criers, the altar boys, the tumblers, the actors, the kings of the castle, the Dare Klub. And the tears pass and give way to other feelings until I am wide awake to my world.

  I lie there remembering, my hands locked behind my neck, as a strip of light breaks through the crack in the curtains and hits the lockers, making the turpentined wood look golden. I think of Nicky and wonder if he’s awake in his pigeon coop. I lie quietly and let the movie reel roll, remembering what happened at the cave during Blackie’s last trial, how he ruled against Murphy and in favor of Brookes. I lie as still as I can, stretching and feeling the hardness of my body, thinking of Ruthie Peckford. Then I think for a moment about Floyd Patterson, and what Blackie said about my essay and me becoming a writer, and I feel good.

  Someone coughs. A bed creaks. The curtain blows lightly from the open window, and another single bar of light crosses the lockers. Soon they’ll all be awake. Brushing their teeth and washing their sleepy eyes, putting on their school uniforms and lining up for inspection in front of the bunk beds. I think of the marathon, and how Oberstein said that the first guy who ever ran one dropped dead of exhaustion. I say a Hail Mary that that doesn’t happen to any of us. I close my eyes and watch Richardson crossing the finish line, with nobody near him for a mile. And I think of what the brothers will say when they learn that a Mount Kildare boy has won the Royal Regatta Marathon. I smile and put my hands behind my head again and stretch some more.

  And in the golden silence I think back to what Oberstein said that day in the yard about how the place grows on you. And I try to imagine what it will be like years from now when these sleepers are no longer in my life. I block the thought. They will always be with me . . . Blackie and Oberstein and Bug and Ryan and Murphy and Brookes and Kavanagh and Father Cross and Rowsell . . . even O’Grady . . . everyone.

  I look at my Mickey. The buzzer will sound any minute. I stretch some more and shiver and crack my fingers and let my leg dangle over the side of the bunk and wish I could feel like this every morning, the way a baby must feel when it wakes.

  There’s a new guy. There’s a new guy.

  New guy . . . There’s a new guy.

  O’Connor’s shouting echoes through the corridors like gun shots. There’s a new guy . . . He came last night after we were in bed. Such news always creates intense excitement among us. Who is he? How old is he? What’s he look like? Does he have any brothers? Where’s he from? Is he a townie or a bayman? What dorm will he be in? And, of course, Blackie wants to know if he’s a runner. Blackie has devised all sorts of games to test a new guy’s running skills.

  New guys are extremely vulnerable. They usually have money and clothing and food, and are easy targets. Even new brothers are easy targets, especially if they are young. During the Christmas and summer holidays, new brothers, usually young novices, as they’re called, fill in for the regular brothers for a week or two. The Boot-Camp Boys, Murphy calls them. They are innocent and green and easy to take for a ride. For example, on Sunday nights our dorm always goes straight to washup and bed after watching a movie or Walt Disney. It’s always the same, every Sunday. Th
ere is never an exception. When there’s a new brother, Ryan or Murphy will pipe up that the regular brother always gives us an extra hour on Sundays. Once, Bug Bradbury convinced Brother Hefferton, a dopey young brother with a mole on his nose, that we were allowed to be in town on Saturdays until eight o’clock. I remember Hefferton squinting his big, dumb eyes and straining his turkey neck. “Is that the rule, boys?” he asked. “Oh, yes, Brother, eight o’clock if you’re in St. Martin’s or St. Luke’s dorm. St. Mark’s gotta be back in by six,” Bug said.

  “Okay, okay, you people know the rules. Martin’s and Luke’s by eight. Mark’s by six. Don’t be late,” he said in a tone that was a pathetic attempt at sounding like he was in charge.

  The last new boy came just after Thanksgiving. His name is Lionel Chafe. He’s from England. Liverpool. His father was a sea captain in the British Navy. Lionel’s father died at sea. That’s all Lionel knows about his death. A bunch of us were talking about it. It’s pretty sad. Anstey almost started crying. He started thinking of his own father and how easy it is to die at sea. He started befriending Lionel right away, which was really good because Lionel is a skinny little runt and Anstey is the size of a barn door. Lionel was placed in the Mount when his mother got sick. She has a disease that keeps her in bed half the time and in a wheelchair the other half. Lionel has a really nifty accent and some very strange expressions. The brothers are always asking him questions in class just to hear him speak. The other day, in Newfoundland geography class, Madman asked Lionel to recite the names of all the coves along the northern peninsula near the Strait of Belle Isle.

  “I say, you’ve got quite a few,” Lionel chimed. “Blue Cove, Seal Cove, Black Duck Cove, Deadman’s Cove . . . I say, jolly interesting, that lot. Bear Cove, Flowers Cove, Nameless Cove. I say, rather odd, that, Nameless Cove. Savage Cove . . . Oh dear, are there savages there? I must remember not to travel along that route. Sandy Cove, Shoal Cove, Payne’s Cove . . .”