The Long Run (10 page)

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.

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.