The Long Run Page 4

  “And if you catch a ball at the game, will you keep it or give it to little Jack?” Murphy asks. “Will you wait around after the game for an autograph?”

  “Yes,” Oberstein says, “yes, yes, yes.”

  But what’s the use? It’s like a bad dream that won’t go away. Oberstein lies in the infirmary with a high temperature, worrying worse than ever about his mother’s hands and little Jack. We all visit him and play cards or jacks with him and tell him how much we miss him and promise to help him get over it. We hope that his mother won’t send another letter a few months from now. And we hope that Oberstein will soon get back to class because he always knows the answers to everything and helps everyone with homework. And there always seems to be much less strapping going on when Oberstein’s around.

  Kavanagh crouches down by his bed to talk to him. As though he can stop Oberstein’s tears. “Don’t worry Oberstein, you’ll be visiting the White House soon enough. Maybe seeing the president. Maybe shaking his hand. Soon you’ll be in your own bedroom with little Jack. You’ll come and go and never have to ask permission once to watch TV or go to the fridge or anything. It’ll be worth waiting for, Oberstein, you’ll see. Just think, study when you feel like it, not even study at all, sometimes. Just loaf around and do nothing.”

  I lean down over his infirmary bed. And stare into his blue eyes. They look like water. His face is as pale as his pillow. His cheeks are rosy from his high temperature. As rosy as they are when he stands outside in the cold. He doesn’t say anything. Not a sound, except a feeble sigh now and then. The tears sting his eyes and run down his face as he pulls the white sheet up to his chin. I turn and close my eyes and try to blank out the tears glistening on his rosy cheeks. He does not speak of his mother or little Jack or the apartment in Washington. He is silent. He is thinking of the lie that is fading away.

  Next morning at breakfast, we pick up our tin trays with the US Army indentation in the middle where the hard boiled egg and fried baloney are placed. I look at Oberstein’s reflection in his tray, his thick eyeglasses catching the light. He really does look like an angel. We slide the tin trays silently along the steel counter. Sunshine floods through the windows, making huge squares of light on the floor.

  It’s in the air. That dreadful feeling. It only comes once in a long while, the way it must come to animals when they sense the weather changing. It’s not like the spells. It’s sudden. Like lightning. It’ll be here and gone before you know it. And everyone feels it at once. Animals must feel it when they sense a forest fire is on the way. Everyone’s edgy. Everyone will be fidgeting in class. The same as they were in chapel. Boys are toying with their food, picking at their green woollen sweaters, fiddling with their silverware. Blackie keeps wiping his glasses on his sweater. Oberstein, who always has a Classics comic or a paperback, isn’t reading. Some are only half-eating, even though they’re hungry. It’s always a strange time when something big’s brewing. I can feel it in my gut. A big fight’s about to take place. It might happen after school, unannounced. But everyone will know. Everyone will know at the same time. And everyone will be there. Behind the outdoor swimming pool. Or in Brother JD’s garden. One of the usual places. The word will go out, like fire through dry grass. After school, behind the outdoor swimming pool or down near the bog: Hynes against Jones or Jones against Littlejohn. There will be animal fear. And blood.

  Or maybe it’s not a fight at all. Maybe a storm’s coming. A big one. A hurricane. Like the one four years ago. All the heating will be shut down for days. And the American soldiers from Fort Pepperrell will bring us food in big stainless steel vats branded USA. We’ll all go around wearing extra clothes for protection against the cold winds that blow through the big buildings late at night. We’ll even wear our clothes to bed.

  Or maybe somebody has stolen something—money or food—or something from the monastery. And somebody’s gonna be made an example of. Or they’ve found out about the stolen altar wine. I search for Blackie. He’s at the front of the line, whispering something to Oberstein. Or there’s gonna be a big announcement. There will be no choices for Christmas this year. A month or so before Christmas, every boy receives a white index card with Christmas Choices typed at the top and three numbered lines neatly listed below. Each boy fills out his three choices, the last choice being the gift he least wants. You never get your first choice, rarely your second and sometimes not even your third choice. Maybe that’s the reason for the feeling that’s in the air. That would be awful. It happened once before. No choices for Christmas. That year everyone received a pair of shoes, brown penny loafers.

  But there’s no doubt about it. Everyone’s thinking the same way. Everyone’s expecting something awful to happen. But nobody’s saying anything. You can see it in the twitching of Murphy’s eyebrows. The lazy way Kavanagh scratches his carroty head. In the dangerous one-handed way Kelly carries his food tray. In the tapping of feet. In the confusion of seating arrangements. Kavanagh and Brookes changing seats without a fuss. Ryan, who usually sits between Murphy and me, is missing. I can feel Blackie nervous and angry beside me. The tension is thick; you can touch it.

  Then, bang—it happens. “Mayday! Mayday!” Oberstein whispers. Brother McMurtry’s snow-white hair appears at the front of the cafeteria. He’s small and pale and wears round steel-rimmed spectacles beneath a swollen forehead. He has a tiny nose, no chin, and icy eyes. Eyes that glow and always stare sternly. As usual, when he has something serious to say, he removes his spectacles, bites the tip of one of the arms and stares at us through X-ray eyes. Wolf eyes, Blackie calls them. Eyes that see through you and beyond, Oberstein says. I watch his gaze pass slowly around the room, over green sweaters and gray flannel pants, over frightened faces, to the holy pictures and statues at the back, till they find their resting place, the podium, which is only brought out when a boy is to be severely disciplined. Murphy looks at me. I look at Blackie, who looks at Murphy. We are all thinking of last night’s raid on the bakery. The silence of air rushing to fill a vacuum descends upon the hall. McMurtry waits, lets us drink in the silence. Then he clenches his fists, clears his throat and speaks.

  “Gentlemen, your attention, please! After three years of living at Mount Kildare, of being cared for at Mount Kildare, of being educated at Mount Kildare, one of our boys, one of our family, one of your brothers, has done a terrible thing. One Eddie Ryan, formerly of Parson’s Pond, has done a foolish, foolish thing. Mr. Eddie Ryan has run away.”

  Suddenly, it’s as if we are all naked on an ice floe. Blackie’s glance is a laser beam. Kavanagh has turned ghostly. Murphy’s eyes are blinking madly. We all know what will happen to Skinny Ryan. You’d have to be mad to even think about running away.

  “Mr. Ryan disappeared yesterday after supper.” Brother McMurtry snaps his fingers for effect and wrinkles his lips into a half-smile. “Simply vanished into thin air. A disappearing act. Mr. Eddie Ryan performed an amazing trick. An escape artist! A little Houdini! He became invisible. That’s correct. Invisible. But Mr. Eddie Ryan did not perform the impossible trick. Mr. Ryan did not disappear permanently. That trick has never been performed by a boy at Mount Kildare. Not since its doors were opened in 1888. And I can assure you, gentlemen, such a trick will never be performed . . . never while I am the Brother Superior.” He nods and smiles. Murphy lowers his head and glances toward Blackie, who is tapping his gold tooth.

  “But Mr. Eddie Ryan did vanish. He did disappear for a few hours. His absence was discovered last night by Brother Walsh when Mr. Ryan failed to sign what you boys affectionately call The Doomsday Book. The police were called. Mr. Ryan was found not far away, less than a mile from Mount Kildare, hiding in the woods at Virginia Waters. He was discovered sleeping under fir and pine branches. Like an animal. Instead of sleeping comfortably in the warmth of his bed, like a human being, Mr. Ryan chose to sleep in the cold autumn woods. He was tracked down not by the police, but by the grace of God, the night watchman and Brother McCann, who
dragged him home crying and kicking and cursing. Yes, boys, cursing. Now, isn’t that something for a young Catholic boy. Cursing! In a moment, Brother McCann will lock him away in what some of you call the Rat Locker, located in St. Martin’s dormitory. He will remain there until we see fit to remove him.” Brother McMurtry’s fists are rigid.

  There’s a long silence, as if everything has suddenly become dark, and Brother McCann appears with Eddie Ryan, who looks skinnier than usual, like he needs a new nickname. Skinny arms, skinny legs, skinny wrists. As he walks by us, we notice that his hands are tied behind his back. Brother McCann leads him through the cafeteria by thick ropes knotted around his waist. Eddie Ryan’s jet-black hair is ruffled, and his baby face is mud-splattered. His black-and-white canvas sneakers are still wet, and they leave prints on the linoleum. There are pine needles and twigs and wads of clay on his red-checkered shirt and in his greasy hair. He’s dirty as a duck’s puddle. The silence is so strong you can hear it. I close my eyes and think of the movie we saw last week about a soldier facing a firing squad. All Ryan is missing is the blindfold.

  “Untie him.” Brother McMurtry’s voice is a controlled whisper, but louder than a shout. Every boy strains to see and hear. Brother McCann unties his hands and drops the lead rope. “Step forward, Mr. Ryan,” Brother McMurtry says. He snorts and releases White Lightning from his black soutane. It’s the only leather strap at the Mount that isn’t black or brown. It’s a dull yellow color that looks like a flash of white when Brother McMurtry wields it, working himself into a rage with each blow. “Up. Up. Higher.” Brother McMurtry’s voice is shrill and loud and angry. We’ve never seen or heard him like this. Eddie Ryan raises his hands high. From behind, Brother McCann holds Eddie Ryan’s skinny wrists. The sounds remind me of a shoot-out in Gunsmoke. The shots echo. Skinny Ryan sounds like a wounded animal. It seems the firing will never cease. But it does. It stops. When Eddie Ryan has received the prescribed number of strokes for runaways: twenty on each hand. And when he has fallen to the floor, sulking and broken. It ends as it starts. With silence. The silence of air slowly slipping away, recreating the vacuum.

  We steal shy glances at each other while staring at the floor and the scraps of food on our plates. “Sonofabitch,” Blackie whispers between his teeth. Tearfully, Oberstein looks at Murphy, who winces and bites his lip. Some of us cry silently. Some close their eyes and see pictures they would never want anyone else to see. And some think terrible thoughts, which they will carry with them through the rest of the day and late into the night. Into their dreams. But nobody speaks. And nobody, nobody dares to look in the direction of Skinny Ryan.

  3

  * * *

  First Friday of the month. First Friday of the month. First Friday . . . First Friday . . .

  ONE OF THE MOUNT CRIERS, as Oberstein calls them, is shouting in the hallways. There’s always a crier or two racing around, half-singing, half-screaming something or other that may or may not be true. Usually, there’s more than one. They get a big kick out of running around shouting out something at the top of their lungs. The brothers never mind. Rags says it’s a good way to remind us of things. For the boys, it’s like a competition to see who can be first to break some news or remind everyone of some scheduled event.

  There’s always a million things happening at the Mount. So it’s easy to forget Skinny Ryan’s strapping or Oberstein’s spells or Blackie’s beating. Every minute there’s something new. “Every day is mayday at the Mount,” Oberstein always cheerfully reminds us.

  Today, the crier is right. It is the first Friday of the month. We always have confession after breakfast. Monsignor Flynn, who has gray wisps of hair and thick eyebrows that stick out like antennae, says that if you go to Mass and confession and make a novena seven First Fridays in a row you will not die without being in a state of grace. “Ergo,” he says, “you will go straight to heaven.” He always uses that word. “No stops,” he says. “No transfers. You’re on the Express Line to heaven. And pray to Jesus, boys. Remember, you can do all things through Jesus.” Monsignor Flynn lives in a small apartment attached to the Mount. He says Mass every day for the brothers and boys and hears confessions every Saturday and on special occasions like First Fridays. He walks with a stoop in his shoulders, and whenever he speaks there’s always a rattle in his throat.

  Bug Bradbury sighs and waves his hand. Oberstein thinks that Bug’s not really a believer. He says Bug has what Brother McMurtry calls the doubts. It’s hard to tell with Bug because he loves to annoy everyone, especially old Flynn. Once, during confession, I was on the other side of the box, and he started telling his sins without saying, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Old Flynn blasted him for not saying “Bless me, Father.” Then I heard Bug say, “Excuse me. Scripture says, thou shalt have but one Father, thy Father in heaven, sir.” Next thing I heard was the screen sliding across and Bug screaming. Old Flynn must’ve given him quite a poke.

  “But, Monsignor, how can you be so sure? Maybe there’s a stain or two on your soul, and you need to spend a day or two in purgatory on the way.”

  Monsignor Flynn’s antennae twitch furiously. He stares at Bug with sad eyes. “If a boy makes the seven First Fridays, there are no exceptions. Ergo, no stops, not a single stop. Making the seven First Fridays guarantees the penitent the last rites of Holy Mother Church. Ergo, the Express Line to heaven, Mr. Bradbury. Is that clear, sir?” Bug hunches his shoulders and turtles his head. He knows when to shut his mouth. Another word and old Flynn would poke a finger in Bug’s eye. That’s how he punishes a boy. If he stops you in the chapel hall or on the stairway and asks you a question from the catechism, like what is a sacrament, and you don’t say right away, “A sacrament is an outward sign of God’s grace,” he pokes a finger in your eye. It hurts. You see stars for a few minutes, but it’s better than the strap.

  The entire dorm is on the way to the chapel for confession. Monsignor Flynn will lead us in the general act of contrition, followed by his usual lecture on how God is listening. “God is always listening, boys. God knows all. Omnipotent and omnipresent! Be sure to tell everything. You will be forgiven, and your souls will be washed clean. Remember, boys, no sin is too great. Our God is a loving God. And He’s an all-knowing God. All-knowing but all-loving.”

  Bug Bradbury’s hand becomes a propeller again. “What if I got a gun and killed everyone in Mount Kildare? Like that guy in Gunsmoke. Every last soul? God wouldn’t forgive me then, would he?”

  Monsignor Flynn smiles a knowing smile. “God would forgive you, yes.”

  “But wouldn’t you get excommunicated?” Bug asks, with windmill arm motions.

  “No, you would not, Mr. Bradbury. You would be forgiven. Our God is a loving God. You are only excommunicated for opposing Church doctrine.”

  Bug slumps in his seat, mute as a mouse, defeated again.

  Before chapel, we’re permitted twenty minutes to wander about the building during the examination of conscience. We all wander off, even Oberstein. Although he’s Jewish, he has to participate in all the Catholic stuff, even confession. The brothers take the examination of conscience very seriously. My sister, Clare, says it’s the most important thing about being a Catholic, because when you examine your conscience you have to follow what you find even if it means going against your own church. “Conscience decides everything,” Clare once said to me. “That’s all that matters in the long run, not the rules, not the catechism book, not the sacraments, only conscience . . . conscience decides.” She kinda scared me when she said it. She was so deadly serious. Oberstein says she’s right, and that conscience is just a fancy name for common sense. And if you lose that, you lose everything.

  Bug Bradbury and Oberstein and I wander toward the gymnasium, which is always empty at such times. Most boys wander off with Blackie for a smoke behind the outdoor pool. It’s a safe spot with high wooden walls. Fast runners stand guard at either end to warn the swarm of smokers in the middle if a brother appears.
We have great fun there in the summertime. A few boys head to their lockers to munch on a hidden treat. Bradbury and Oberstein are arguing about telling the truth in confession. Bug would argue with the devil.

  He’s a little guy with a squeaky voice and a bad heart. He’s just over three feet tall, and he walks around with his deformed chest puffed out like he owns the place. He’s really cocky for a little deformed guy. Saucy as a mutt. Out of the blue, he once said to Oberstein, who is really proud of his silky hair, “Oberstein, you got too much soft, silky hair. Why dontcha do yourself a big favor and get it all cut off?” He whistles when he breathes, and he has a saucy, high-pitched voice, which wouldn’t sound so bad if he didn’t act like he knew everything about everything. Because of his poor health, he has to go for extra meals in the morning and afternoon, and he has mug-ups—hot cocoa and toast—at night before bed. When we tell him he’s spoiled rotten, he snaps, “You guys want extra meals, go get a hole in your heart.” He got the nickname Bug because Blackie said one day that he looked like a ladybug.

  “If someone gotta big brush and painted you red with black dots you’d look just like a ladybug, a ladybug with a human head,” Blackie said.

  “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” Murphy and Ryan always tease him. “Your house is on fire and your children are gone.”

  I never tell the truth in confession. Old Monsignor Flynn can get pretty cranked up if you say you stole a loaf from the bakery or robbed someone’s canteen card. Instead of saying I stole a loaf, I say I cursed six times. You have to say something like that. Even if you haven’t sinned, you have to make something up. You can’t just kneel down and say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it’s been two weeks since my last confession, I’ve been good.” Old Monsignor Flynn depends on lots of sins to make him feel good about his job.

  As we enter the empty gymnasium, Bug squeaks, “Ain’t you guys afraid?” His voice is becoming more nasal.