The Long Run Page 8

  He has a ton of stuff: sewing needles of all shapes and sizes, spools of colored thread, bits of wool, boxes of dye, a pen knife, tweezers, two pairs of scissors, a thimble, elastic bands, a pin cushion, razor blades, a bottle of buttons, packets of glue, patches, a roll of colored ribbon—all stored in a small wooden box he keeps in his dorm locker. Sometimes I watch him puttering away at an old curtain or a bed sheet, and it’s amazing what materializes—a tie-dyed T-shirt or a beautiful pair of pants or a button shirt with a collar. Nobody knows how he does it, but he creates magic with almost no materials. Brother Young, who patches our worn-out clothes and was trained in Toronto, can’t hold a candle to Cross. Neither can Brother Taylor, who cuts our hair. Cross uses an old pair of stolen scissors to touch up everyone’s haircut. He’s a much better barber than Brother Taylor. When we praise him for his creations, he just shrugs and says, “It’s nothing, just a bit of fun.” He’s a really humble guy.

  When he’s in his Lone Ranger costume, he races around the Mount, wild as a goat, yelling, “Hi Ho, Silver . . . Away!” He’s older than most of us and taller than Murphy, over six feet, and we’re afraid of him, which is strange because he’s head altar boy and as timid as a mouse and very kind. He’d give you anything, the shirt off his back. You just have to ask, and he’ll give it to you. And we have loads of fun with him. He doesn’t mind being teased, like most of the boys. He’s more like Rags, he gets a kick outta things. “Don’t be so cross, Father Cross,” Oberstein loves saying. Or he’ll say, “Have you picked up your cross today, Father?” Oberstein has a lot of fun with him. Cross is Brother Walsh’s pet and the half-pet, as we call it, of every other brother except McCann, who has no pets. But even McCann likes Cross because he wants to become a priest. Oberstein calls Cross the chosen one.

  Chris Cross’s face is covered with acne, and it is so raw-looking we nicknamed him Soup after the rich red tomato soup we receive at every noon meal during the winter months. When he smiles, he blushes, and his face becomes a red smile. But the nickname never stuck. Blackie still calls him Soup once in a while, but nobody else does. He isn’t a really popular boy, but he isn’t disliked. He’s a crazy mix, really.

  He loves girls, which is strange for someone who wants to become a priest. I’ll never forget the Sunday Murphy and Ryan and I arrived at the Bat Cave later than usual. It was freezing cold, and not many Klub members came to the cave when it was that cold. The few who did usually opened the heavy doors and made a fire in the doorway and roasted a few stolen potatoes. This day, as we approached the cave, we heard what sounded like a cry for help. It was a weak singsong cry that came from inside the cave. We were about to race to the sound when Murphy grabbed both of us and, putting a finger to his lips, cautioned us to approach quietly. As we did so, we heard the cries get louder, but they no longer seemed like cries for help. They seemed more like giggles. We opened the door a crack and peeked inside. As our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we noticed two naked bodies rolling around on the earth. They appeared to be wrestling. One was Cross and the other was a young girl. She was skinny, with a flat chest and long brown hair that fell below her shoulders

  “Jesus! Father Cross!” Murphy whispered.

  “Well, I’ll be. Father Cross is getting his skin,” Ryan said.

  “Father Cross,” Murphy laughed. “Father fucken Cross.”

  I tell him why we’re feeding Nicky, and he tips his cowboy hat, tears off a few pieces of bread and flips them on the ground. “I love birds,” he says. “If I get enough seagull feathers, I’m gonna make a big headdress like Geronimo wears.”

  Blackie decides to have a game of become the batter. “C’mon, season’s almost over,” he says. “Batter up.” It’s another game he made up. Blackie usually wins because he’s a great catcher. He catches like Willie Mays. Blackie tells me to keep score while I’m fattening up Nicky. Become the batter is a great game. The batter hits grounders and fly balls while the rest try to be first to get a hundred points and become the batter. You get ten points for snagging a grounder, twenty for a one-hopper, and twenty-five for a fly ball. If you miss, you wind up that many points in the minus column. It’s really hard to get points, so you gotta be careful what you try for. There are no rules. Anything is allowed. Tripping a guy so he misses the ball. Kicking stones at grounders. Even tackling a guy is allowed. But it’s good fun.

  Blackie wins the second game by diving for a line drive that caroms off the building. As we cheer his catch, he gets up with that faraway look in his eyes, whispers something to Oberstein and wanders off for a while. When he returns, he whistles for us to huddle around him. He reminds us it’s Wednesday, hump day. He slaps his rump like he’s on a horse and races to the cement porch by the handball court. We all mount up and ride after him. Inside, we huddle again, and he tells us this will be our last wine raid for a while.

  “Things are gettin’ a bit spooky,” he says. “Better lay low after this one. Skinny’s joinin’ us tonight. Ryan, you still in?”

  Ryan is nervous. “Yeah, yeah,” he shakes his head.

  “Nobody forcin’ you,” Blackie says.

  “I’m in, I’m in,” Ryan says.

  Blackie reviews the drill for the midnight raid. When he’s sure we all know what to do, he slaps his rump and races back into the yard. “I’m the king of the castle and you’re the dirty rascals,” he hollers. “Three out of five wins.”

  “Last norph to the hill’s the rotten egg,” Murphy shouts, squinting in the sun.

  Blackie charges toward the high bank on the far side of the handball court. We love playing king of castle. It’s such fun getting knocked down the bank. Sometimes you laugh till your sides are sore.

  After the last game, we have an hour before supper, so Blackie asks Rags if it’s okay to have a race around the block. By that he means over Elizabeth Avenue, down Portugal Cove Road and up Kenna’s Hill. Rags says okay, and we grab our sneakers. Bug says he wants to be the timer and takes my Mickey. Oberstein gets his scribbler to record the times. Since Shorty Richardson’s magical run, Blackie takes every opportunity to have a race. Even during recess, we go outside and have hundred-yard dashes. And Blackie says soon we’ll start sprinting races to the Bat Cave.

  Ryan is first out of the blocks. He always starts and finishes with a kamikaze kick that’s good for ten to twenty yards. The funniest thing about running is watching everyone. You get to see everyone in a different way. Murphy almost kicks himself in the bum his feet go so high behind him when he runs. Cross is a huffy runner. Kavanagh runs like one leg wants to go east and the other wants to go west. But Shorty Richardson and Ryan don’t even look like they’re running. They look so graceful they seem to be gliding. No up-and-down head motion. No movement of their shoulders. They look like they have motors in their sneakers. They don’t seem like they’re doing any work. And unlike the rest of us, they don’t seem to work up a sweat. At times, they don’t even look like they’re breathing.

  In no time we race through the leafy streets to Kenna’s Hill, which is really steep. Blackie loves taking that route because Ryan always makes great time on the hill. And Blackie’s always rooting for Ryan so he’ll push Shorty Richardson harder. Ryan’s only hope for beating Richardson is to open a wide lead on Kenna’s Hill. Nobody can catch Ryan on hills. And nobody catches Shorty on the flats. As we approach the uphill slope, where Ryan overtook Shorty once when Shorty’s knee was sore, we all know that if Ryan can get to the top well ahead of Shorty, this might be the day he’ll beat him to the soccer field. Sometimes when you’re running, if you’re having a great day and the other runners aren’t doing so good, they feel worse when you pass them, especially on a hill. Lotsa races are won and lost on a steep hill coming into the home stretch.

  Richardson is well ahead of the pack when we pass Memorial Stadium. At the bottom of Kenna’s Hill, Ryan’s kamikaze kick rockets him past Shorty Richardson. In no time, he opens up a big lead. With about thirty yards between them he approaches Mou
nt Carmel Cemetery. We are all chugging uphill, well behind them, slick-faced with sweat, our eyes glued to Ryan, who does the most amazing thing. He stops by the cemetery gate, pulls out his lizard and takes a leak. We are all flabbergasted. Blackie laughs so hard he stops running for a minute. Richardson closes the gap on the hill and they race neck and neck halfway up Torbay Road. A few hundred yards from the soccer field, with Oberstein, Bug, and a huddle of Klub members hollering their excitement, Shorty Richardson blows by Ryan.

  When we finish up, Blackie tells Ryan he would’ve won if he hadn’t pissed by the graveyard.

  “I know,” Ryan gasps. “But I had to spring a leak. Hadda leaky faucet.”

  Blackie laughs hard. “I know,” he repeats. “Ain’t nuthin’ you can do when Mother Nature calls.”

  Oberstein passes me a tiny square of paper with my time on it. “Make a note of it. Blackie wants you to drop a few seconds off next time you do that route. Forget about cheating. I’m recording every run in my scribbler.” Then he leans against the side of the cement handball court and gazes at the building. A huge shadow cast by the Mount falls over the yard and stretches slowly toward the row of shuddering pine trees lining JD’s garden. The last of the runners enters the building. Oberstein stands perfectly still, staring at the Mount a long time, his round glasses catching the light. He looks as if he’s trying to remember something. He has that faraway look Blackie gets sometimes.

  “What is it, Oberstein?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says. “It just struck me. How much I love this place sometimes. Like now. It will always be a part of me.”

  For a few minutes we both stand there, staring at the huge shadow. Neither of us speaking. Then Oberstein walks away as though I’m not there. A soft breeze moves through JD’s pine trees, carrying the last of autumn’s leaves from the yard. When we reach the big aluminum door, Oberstein says, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How it happens.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “The way this place grows on you.”

  I really don’t know what he means. I don’t feel that way. So I don’t say anything.

  There’s no color in Ryan’s face. He looks white as a ghost. He’s sweating and biting his nails. It’s his first time on a wine raid. The last thing he wants is another strapping or a trip to the Rat Locker. Skinny Ryan is the untidiest boy at the Mount, shirt always hanging out, holes in his pants, socks, shirt, even his PJs. His sneakers always look like they’ve been through the war. His buttons are always half undone. Rags calls him his little orphan. He’s so skinny and puny. But the wide gap between his front teeth somehow makes him look strong. He’s a very popular boy. Everyone likes him because he never sucks up. And he’s really brave. He’ll try anything, even run away. Nobody has ever tried that before. But tonight he’s a nervous Nellie. He looks panicky, as if the floor is about to give way beneath his feet.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I tell him, patting his shoulder.

  He jerks away. “Don’t touch me,” he says. There isn’t much worse you can do to Ryan than touch him.

  His baby face turns whiter. He always has headaches because he worries too much and studies too hard. There are beads of sweat on his jet-black eyebrows. His eyes dart left and right, as if one of the brothers is about to catch us red-handed. Blackie spots the stool by the radiator. He motions with a flick of his hand. I understand at once, grab the stool and put it in front of Monsignor Flynn’s locker. Blackie stands on the stool, climbs the vestment table and picks the sacristy wine lock. Ryan passes me the empty Crown Cola bottle. Spots darken his pajamas. He blushes and puts his hand in front of his crotch. He’s so frightened he has wet his PJs.

  “Don’t worry about it. You can dry them on the radiator,” I whisper. “They’ll be dry as a bone in no time.” Ryan turns red with embarrassment.

  I hold the Crown Cola bottle while Blackie pops the cork on a used wine bottle. Every second is precious. Blackie is working fast, thinking fast, his eyes are moving fast. As we pour, Ryan opens the next wine bottle. Now the sweat breaks out on Blackie as he pours slowly, steadily into the Crown Cola bottle. “Perfect!” he whispers. “Thank you, Jesus.” He replaces the wine with water. An inch or two from each of the bottles is all we take. Any more and we risk discovery. The punishment for such a crime is unthinkable. It’s a slow process and usually takes about ten minutes of nerve-wracking time. I keep an eye on my Mickey.

  “I wish I was back in my bed,” Ryan whispers.

  “It won’t be much longer,” I say.

  Ryan is a nervous wreck. I’ve never seen him so bad. He must be overtired. His constant flinching and nail-biting is getting under Blackie’s skin.

  “What if we get caught? Jesus!” Ryan says. “They’ll kill us.”

  “Shuddup,” Blackie says, and corks the last wine bottle.

  We finish up and return the wine bottles to their exact spots, and Blackie gives us the nod to head out. I check my Mickey. It’s three o’clock in the morning.

  Back in the dorm, I fling myself onto the bed and try to sleep. Not a moment too soon. A hand grabs my pajama sleeve. I open my eyes. It’s Spook, the night watchman, rousing everyone to take a leak. He leans his long gray face toward me and flicks on his flashlight. I cover my eyes and get out of bed. I trudge to the bathroom and join the lineup behind a urinal. Sleepy heads wander in and out of the bathroom under Spook’s watchful eye. I return to bed, frightened that he may know something about the raid. It’s not until gray light filters through the windows that I finally fall asleep.

  I wake just before the alarm. It’s a cloudy morning. On the way to chapel it begins to rain. Ryan sits between me and Blackie at Mass. During the Confiteor he whispers that Spook woke him during the night and asked why he was away from his bed.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “Told him I was using the toilet and fell asleep.”

  “Did he buy it?”

  “Think so. He said I was lucky I was only missing for about five minutes.”

  “No matter what happens, stick to your guns,” I tell him. He nods and turns white. “Remember what happened to the guy on Perry Mason who never stuck to his guns?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Ryan says.

  At breakfast, Blackie says there’s a rumor going around that the brothers know someone is stealing wine from the sacristy. Someone has reported that Brother McCann heard two of the boys talking about getting drunk. We don’t know if it’s true. There’s a new rumor every minute at the Mount. Blackie warns everyone to lie low. Code Red. An expression he got from a spy comic. It means we’re not to talk to anyone, not even members of the Kildare Klub, about the wine raids, the bakery, or the marathon.

  Blackie’s worried. One look at his face and you can see what he’s thinking. Ryan has become a nervous Nellie again. I hate it when he’s such a worrywart. Kavanagh has stopped eating. Even Oberstein, usually pretty cool under fire, is worried. Everyone is worried. There’ll be hell to pay if the brothers find out we’ve been stealing wine.

  During cleanup, as we carry the full trays of cups to the washing machine, Oberstein tells Blackie he’s having trouble sleeping. He mentions the Book of Psalms and says, “The sorrow of death compassed me, and the pains of hell got hold of me. I found trouble and sorrow.”

  “We’re caught with all that wine,” Blackie says, “you got no idea the trouble and sorrow.”

  Sunday is always the longest day. Mass followed by a breakfast of cream of wheat and one very hardboiled egg. Followed by study hall. Followed by lunch—raw Diefenbaker sandwiches and bog juice. Followed by free time. Followed by supper, which is always the same every Sunday: a scoop of mustard potatoes, a slice of fried Diefenbaker meat, a canned tomato and a date crumble. Followed by study hall, then TV time before bed. It’s the loneliest day of the week. If you’re gonna get a bout of the spells, Sunday’s usually the time they’ll start. If it wasn’t for the running, a lot of us would have a lot more spells.

  Before we hea
d out Brookes crouches and rubs his bruised shin, which he hurt playing frozen tag. We run on and on in silence, staring at the scattered fir trees along Logy Bay Road, which give us a bit of shade off and on until the sun gleams at us for a long stretch. Our feet grow hot as we pound the pavement, sweat running through our hair under our baseball caps. Far ahead, Murphy doesn’t look as big and gangly. Nearby, Brookes, running with pain, is first to pick up the pace. Before the run he told me he would rather die than lag behind, even though his shin was sore as a boil. I watch him struggle with every stride, the strain fixed on his face like it has been painted there. He seems to sweat more than any of us. And yet his breathing is lighter than Cross’s or mine. Compared to him, Cross and I pant like dogs. I watch his chest heave as he makes an effort to speak. He kicks hard and moves slightly ahead of me, turns and backpedals as he speaks, his cap throwing a dark shadow over his light blue eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open, like Rowsell’s in class when McCann asks him a question.

  “Water at Sugar Loaf will be sweet today.”

  I smile and work my dry throat. “Sure will,” I say, hoping he stays a pace ahead so I don’t have to waste energy speaking. I’m getting used to having a parched throat when I run. For that reason alone, I know Brookes is right. The water will be sweet. The day of the marathon, Blackie says, there will be bottles of water stashed along the route for Shorty Richardson and Ryan.

  There’s the sound of rustling breath behind me. I think of swirling autumn leaves as Father Cross, who always lags behind, pulls up. His face looks more pimply today. He jogs along without speaking. Like me, he hates to talk while running. His face is flushed and he’s panting.

  “Check out the crow,” Brookes says, pointing to a tree top.