The Long Run Read online

  “Shorty Richardson’s enterin’ the Royal Regatta Marathon,” Blackie says, “and he’s gonna win.” He smiles, and I can see the glint of his gold tooth as he lectures us on what’s at stake for the Klub.

  “In order to win,” Blackie says, “we gotta do this thing right. Professionally. Ain’t no other way. Everyone gotta pitch in. There’s a price on the tag and we all gotta chip in to pay that price. We’ll be a real team together. Believe it. Believe. Believe.” When Blackie is really excited about something, he always says that. Believe. Believe. And he taps his gold tooth like crazy.

  There’s a long silence, and everyone senses something very important is happening. Then Blackie takes charge. “Oberstein, see what you can find in the library on runnin’. Check the public library next Saturday.” He gives orders as though he’s been thinking and planning the marathon all his life.

  “Oberstein, I wanna professional program for Shorty, starting next week. Exercise, diet, sleep, clothin’, everything that must be considered. The ABC of marathon runnin’. Go to the university, speak with someone who coaches runnin’ teams. Find out everythin’ you can. Take notes. Ask for advice. Borrow books. Whatever you can get your hands on. Find out who’s in charge. Don’t tell him you’re a norph. Tell ’em you’re trainin’ for the regatta marathon and you wanna win. Ask whatcha gotta do. And Shorty’ll need sneakers, the best. Not the black-and-white crap we get from Rags. Real runners. We’ll steal them. Ryan, case the Sport Store on Water Street next Saturday. We need a good plan on how to steal clean. Nobody gets caught. Practice hard at it. We’ll need two, maybe three pairs of the best runners. Oberstein, find out everythin’ you can ’bout weather conditions, runnin’ in hot weather, runnin’ in cold, rain, sleet, snow, hail. When’s the marathon?”

  “Summer. August. Same time’s the Royal Regatta,” Oberstein says. “Always the first Wednesday in August. It’s the 143rd running. Oldest sporting event in North America. Older than the Boston Marathon.”

  “Summer. Could be blistering hot.”

  “Might not,” Oberstein complains. “It’s Newfoundland. Could be freezing cold.”

  “We’ll prepare for all types of weather,” Blackie says. “Gonna be ready, no matter what.” There is a buzz in the cave now. Everyone wants something to do. Blackie raises the knotty birch branch. “Shuddup!” he yells. “We’ll need money. Lotsa money. To buy the things we can’t steal. Murphy, you and Kavanagh make a list of all our needs. Cards, marbles, yo-yos, jacks, comic books, the popular ones. Superman and Batman. What’s most popular now?”

  “Betty and Veronica, a few of the Classics, Gulliver’s Travels,” Murphy says. His lips are dry cracks that are bleeding.

  “’Specially Betty and Veronica,” Blackie says. “Sunday collection durin’ public Mass will be our main source. But don’t get too greedy. Remember the rule. Never go over two dollars a collection. We’ll make the rounds. See what boys have money. Kavanagh, start stealin’ canteen cards. Sell them at a discount. We’ll need to get up a few gamblin’ games. A stack of canteen cards. That’s everyone’s job. Work with each other. And we need food. Everyone’s job too. Start squirrelin’ from the kitchen, the storeroom, the canteen. Steal from the Dominion Stores Saturdays. We’ll need lots of liquid, especially juice. Murphy, get cola from the canteen. Gettin’ the keys from ole JD will be a breeze. And we’ll need flashlights. Father Cross, make four of those homemade flashlights. We may need more.”

  “Why do we need flashlights, Blackie?” Bug asks.

  Blackie stops. He waves the stick. “This is top secret,” he says. “Night runnin’. That’s when we’ll do our best trainin’. Nobody—nobody’s gonna know about it. You break the secret, I break your bones. We’ll train an hour or so each night, very late, almost early mornin’ before the brothers rise. Oh, and no smokin’ while in trainin’. Not a single cigarette from now on.”

  “I’d like to train at night,” Bug says, eager to be a part of it all.

  “Gonna need a stopwatch.” Blackie ignores Bug. “A real good stopwatch.”

  I wave my hand. “There’s one at the stadium. In the penalty box.”

  “Okay, Carmichael, that’s your job.” Blackie stands and raises the speaking stick, the signal that it’s time to adjourn the meeting. “We’ll meet here at our regular times until the marathon plan’s in place. For emergencies, we’ll use the checker system or meet in the chapel, using the prayer system.” The prayer system means that we meet in the chapel and sit according to an arranged order. We bring our rosary beads and the lead boy prays a Hail Mary out loud. When the Hail Mary is finished, Blackie uses the volume of the chorus response to give orders or to whisper a message to one of us. The chorus is used as a cover in case a brother discovers us. It’s a tricky system, but it always works. If a brother comes to the chapel and questions our presence there, the lead cantor says he got a letter saying his aunt is very sick and we’re praying to the Blessed Virgin for her good health. It always works like a charm. “Next meetin’, one week from today. Here at the cave,” Blackie says. “Everyone’s gonna be busy as a nailer. Everyone’s gotta do his job. You don’t do your job, don’t bother comin’ back. You’re outta the Dare Klub. No longer a member. For good.”

  “Pistil, I’ve got to serve a funeral Mass for Monsignor Flynn next Saturday,” Kavanagh says.

  “Come late, then,” Blackie says. “If your job’s done. Do the bird whistle. Ryan’s gonna let you in.”

  When Bug goes crying to Blackie about the beating we gave him, Blackie’s really pissed off. He calls me and Oberstein and Murphy into the TV room, like he’s one of the brothers. The fear in my gut is the same as when McCann shouts the death roll, as Oberstein calls it. After wash-up and night inspection, you stand by your bed in your PJs and pray your name isn’t called to go to the TV room to be strapped for some mistake you made during the day.

  “Bug, handicap,” he keeps saying, over and over, pounding the wall with his fist. “You never hit a handicap, never.” His eyes jump madly.

  We think we’re in deep trouble until Oberstein says that Bug was gonna squeal to Monsignor Flynn about the wine smuggling and stealing from the bakery. That settles Blackie down a bit. But he warns us never to hit Bug again. “Never ever hit a handicap,” he says.

  From that minute on, Blackie takes Bug under his wing. He even makes him a permanent part of the Brotherhood. Bug becomes Blackie’s pet. The way some of the boys are pets of some of the brothers. Bug loves it because nobody dares stand up to Blackie. Blackie’s the best scrapper in our dorm. He’s hard as nails. Nobody messes with Blackie. If you get in trouble with Blackie, it’s not the same as with the brothers. If a brother punishes you, you expect it, and it doesn’t bother you so much. They do what they have to do. But if Blackie gets mad at you, it really hurts because Blackie really cares about you. He’s the king of our Klub. Nobody crosses Blackie. And he looks after everyone, no matter what the problem. He’s probably the best person in the world to talk to about the spells.

  Bug figures out pretty soon that he can be as saucy as he wants to be and nothing will happen to him. Nobody dares to hit Bug ever again. And most of the time we don’t even back-sauce him for fear of Blackie’s wrath. Nobody ever back-sauces or double-crosses Blackie. If Blackie tells you to keep something secret, you don’t think twice about it.

  We all think Blackie’s a great leader. Better than any of the brothers. He’s amazing, really, when you consider he’s just a kid. But he isn’t perfect. For one thing, he always likes to get his own way. And he usually does. There’s one thing I really hate about him. It’s a game. Called palms.

  Here’s how it works. The challenger stretches out his hands, palms up. The opponent places his hands on top, palms down. The action begins immediately. The object of the game is for the aggressor, the challenger, to turn one of his hands over, or both, and slap his opponent as hard as he can. The sting is worse than getting the strap. If his opponent pulls away quickly enough and the ch
allenger misses, they switch positions and it’s the opponent’s turn to strike. The aggressor holds his position as long as he slaps his opponent. Nippers or nips, making the slightest of contact, are counted. But if the contestants do not agree on whether contact was made, they flip a coin and the game continues. A variation on the game of palms is the game of knuckles. The exact same rules apply, with opponents squaring off, only this time it’s fist to fist instead of palm on palm. It’s a much more brutal game, and one that is rarely played because the loser winds up in a lot of pain.

  The main strategy of the challenger in palms is to twitch his fingers so that his opponent pulls away unnecessarily, thus creating a guessing game on the part of the opponent, giving the challenger a decided advantage.

  My introduction to palms came one day when one of the criers was running around the halls screaming, “Kelly wants a game of palms. The King of Pain wants a game of palms.” It was a Sunday before study hall. Some of the runners were standing around the smoking room, sneaking a puff of Oberstein’s fag. I was soon to learn that palms is a deadly game. It wasn’t very often that someone took up the challenge for a game of palms, especially with King Kelly, so called for the crown of hair on the back of his head as well as his mastery of palms. He’s the undisputed king of palms. The King of Pain, Oberstein calls him. Kelly would never have thrown down the gauntlet if he had known Blackie was nearby. Palms is not a game you wanna be on the losing end of.

  About five minutes into the game, King Kelly gave Blackie several stunners, as we call a really fierce slap. Five uninterrupted stunners, and the game is over. It’s like a technical knockout in boxing. And it’s a terribly embarrassing way to lose, as the word goes out that you’ve been skunked at palms.

  “That’s five stunners in a row,” Kelly’s horsy mouth cheered, after he delivered a crossover strike that most of us felt. “I win. I’m the king of palms.”

  Blackie got that faraway look in his eyes. He shook the pain out of his fingers, flexed them several times and without warning, punched Kelly in the mouth, knocking out one of his front teeth.

  “Yeah. You’re still the king of palms,” Blackie said, “but you ain’t the king of punching in the mouth.”

  And Blackie walked away as we stood there in shock, staring at Kelly’s bloodied mouth.

  Palm Sunday, Oberstein forever referred to it. The Mount was abuzz the whole day about what happened. By the time we sat down to supper, the rumor mill had it that Blackie had beaten King Kelly at palms. We knew Blackie wouldn’t speak for days. That’s the way he gets when things aren’t going right for him. He freezes up for a while, doesn’t talk to anyone. That’s what I mean about Blackie. He’s a great leader, but he can be scary sometimes. He’s a good guy to have on your side. But you don’t ever want to cross him.

  5

  * * *

  I’M OUT BACK, which is what everyone calls the yard, even the brothers. The yard is a huge open gravel area where boys play marbles or king of the castle or stretch or become the batter or a hundred other games. I am feeding the pigeons. There are always pigeons around the Mount. They hang out in the eaves of the three old stone buildings. You can always hear them cooing from their nests and flapping their wings a lot this time of year. Perhaps it’s because of the cold. Soon we will get our winter jackets. I can’t wait. It’s cold in the yard with just your school shirt and sweater. All the wing flapping reminds me of one of the poems we memorized in Brother Mansfield’s class. Only this one’s about a robin.

  When winter frost makes earth as steel,

  I search and search but find no meal

  And most unhappy

  Then I feel.

  Words like that really make you feel for the little fellas with winter coming on. I really like poetry. Most of the boys hate it, but Oberstein and I talk up a storm about it. Oberstein says I should be a teacher. He says I really have the knack for poems and stories. Clare told me my mother used to read me nursery rhymes and fairy tales all the time. And my dad used to quiz me about what my mother read. Clare said that he’d kid around with me all the time, asking crazy things like why Jack in “Jack and the Beanstalk” had an ugly duckling that laid golden eggs. She said I would laugh and laugh until the tears came to my eyes and say to my dad, “That’s not Jack ’n’ the Bean Talk.”

  Blackie wants to turn one of the pigeons into a homing pigeon. He got the idea from a movie, where most of our ideas come from. He thinks it will be a great way to send messages back and forth to girls. I think it’s a cockamamie idea but you never know. Some of Blackie’s crazy ideas have turned out pretty good.

  I have a few hunks of fresh loaf, and I’m tearing off bits for a scrawny little pigeon with a nick in its beak. It’s amazing how he eats. He struts about with his head bobbing back and forth really fast and snaps his broken beak at the bit of bread, flicking it a few inches before pecking at it. The only reason I figure he does that is to prove the bit of bread is dead and not an animal that can peck back. His head is black with specks of gray, and he has a thick neck that flashes green and violet when he turns quickly. He coos a lot and fans out his tail and sweeps with it. He seems very affectionate.

  After I’ve given him a second bit of bread, two fat pigeons appear out of nowhere, then three more. One of the new ones is almost completely white. He’s beautiful but he’s a bully. Pretty soon there are a dozen or so fighting fiercely over the few morsels of bread, attacking the poor scrawny one. Since I’m trying to train the scrawny one, I refuse to throw out any more bread. I shoo away the other birds and manage to give the scrawny one, who I decide to call Nick, a few more morsels. It’s incredible how he responds. Training him isn’t gonna be a problem, I can see that.

  A small wind comes up and blows the dead leaves and scattered candy wrappers toward the big maples, almost as high as their lowest branches. Some of the trees are so bare and bent back now they look like something from a vampire movie. On the roof of the cement porch near the handball court is a crow with a mouse in its beak. Blackie and Oberstein and Ryan arrive on the scene, blowing on their hands. I ask them if they’ve been strapped or if it’s just the cold.

  “Fun-nee,” Oberstein says.

  Quickly, they make a sort of fence out of old cardboard boxes to protect Nick so he can eat in peace.

  “Gonna be as chubby as Oberstein by next week,” Blackie laughs.

  “How are you gonna train him to be a homing pigeon, Blackie?” I ask.

  Blackie removes his pink plastic glasses, puts an arm in his mouth like Brother McMurtry does, squints and flashes his gold tooth. The ugly yellow bruise is almost gone. “Dunno,” he says. “Gonna figure that out soon. By the time you fatten him up, we gonna have a message for the Doyle sisters.”

  I throw Nick a big hunk. “Geez, Blackie, wouldn’t that be something? Sending messages back and forth to the Doyle sisters.” They’re a bunch of girls we knock around with at Bannerman Park during weekends. I think immediately of Ruthie Peckford, the first girl I ever kissed, and I can see my note tied to Nick’s foot.

  “Just like in the movies,” Oberstein says. “Homing pigeons saved a lot of lives during the war.”

  “Yeah, like the movies,” Blackie repeats.

  “Eat up, Nicky,” I say. “Eat up little fella. We gotta get you as chubby as Oberstein as soon as we can.”

  Blackie laughs. Bug and Murphy and Shorty Richardson happen by and ask why we’re feeding only the ugly pigeon.

  “Name’s Nicky,” Blackie says.

  “Because of the nick in his beak,” I say.

  “We’re gonna train him to be a homin’ pigeon. Send messages.”

  “You mean like in the movies?” Murphy asks.

  “Never work,” Bug says. “Movies are one thing, birds are another. Didja tag him yet?”

  “Nope,” I say. “Why do we need to tag him, Bug?”

  “They do it in the movies,” Bug says. “There must be a good reason. Nicky’s a stupid name. I would of called him
Chicken. He’s skinny as a rake.”

  Blackie and Oberstein howl.

  “How we gonna get him to be a homin’ pigeon, Ladybug?” Blackie asks, nudging Oberstein, his eyes twitching.

  “You gotta train the shit outta him. Get him to eat outta your hand and sit on your shoulder.”

  “Shit on your shoulder?” Blackie teases.

  “Sit. Not shit. Sit. Like the parrots in the pirate movies. And that ain’t gonna be easy, brother. That’s gonna take a while. By then we’ll read up on how they deliver messages. And we’ll have a few to tie to his feet.”

  “By then you might have a girlfriend in town to send a message to, Bug,” Oberstein says.

  “Won’t be needing no pigeon to bring my messages,” Bug snaps. “What I gotta say won’t fit around a bird’s foot. Anyway, I’ll be delivering what I gotta say in person.”

  “Yeah, you got those long steamy love letters, right, Bug?” Oberstein says.

  “You got that right, brother.” With one hand, Bug clicks open his little silver cigarette case, lights one and takes a long drag.

  “Maybe we’ll fit what you say on a roll of toilet paper. That way, she cries, she won’t be stuck for tissues, Bug.”

  We all howl.

  “Yeah,” Murphy says, “or if she finds it so ridiculous she shits herself, she’ll have lotsa toilet paper.”

  Even Bug laughs this time.

  Father Cross gallops up in his Lone Ranger costume. “Hi Ho, Silver!” he sings, tugging at invisible reins and whinnying like a horse. Cross is really artistic. He paints and draws everything. He can do a realistic sketch of everyone at the Mount, including the brothers. He once drew Rags, and Rags said it was as good as any professional could do. And he makes costumes. The Lone Ranger, Batman and Robin, Superman, Captain Marvel. You name it, he can make it. Which is amazing, considering what he has to work with. He scavenges the tools of his sewing trade from Brother Young’s tailor shop, the laundry room and the store room, and from his aunt, who lives on Patrick Street in the west end of St. John’s.