The Long Run (21 page)

Sumos on the soccer field. Sumos on the soccer field in ten minutes . . . Ten minutes . . . Sumos on the soccer field.

McCann has chosen a few sumos to practice Japanese calligraphy. They made a sign for the dedication of a Shinto shrine at the far end of the soccer field. All week, Father Cross has been doing
kado
, the art of flower arrangement. It's the day of the dedication, so we dress in full sumo attire and march single file to the field. When we arrive, McCann bows several times and invites us all to sit on wooden benches in front of the Shinto shrine. It's so cold there's even frost on the benches. Murphy's teeth are chattering as we sit on the cold hard benches in our flimsy outfits, compliments of a Tokyo friend of McCann's brother.

“Might as well be in our PJs. It's enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” Murphy says.

Kamikaze Kavanagh is rubbing his hands and blowing on them like a maniac. The frozen grass on the field looks like silver hair.

The shrine consists of a raised platform constructed with clay and sand, onto which a fifteen-foot circle is marked out using half-buried bales of hay. Like the
dohyo
in the gymnasium, only that's marked out with masking tape. Suspended above the wrestling ring is a wooden structure that resembles the roof of a Shinto shrine. Attached to the roof is the huge Japanese sign made by the sumo calligraphers. Nobody seems to know the meaning of the words on the sign. A whisper ripples along the benches. Bug says it means How's your left nut?

When we are all seated, the calligraphers serve us tea, which is ice cold. Eventually, a procession of sumos comes out and stands beneath the big sign. The leading figure is Father Cross, who periodically covers his partly painted white face with a huge fan. Today, his acne seems a bit worse, even though a big hat shades his face. He is dressed in a spectacular brown ceremonial outfit, which he has spent weeks making. Blackie had Cross tell McCann about his sewing skills in the hope that it might gain him access to the sewing room. And it worked. McCann gave Cross his own key.

“You make the costumes of the world, Soup,” Blackie says, watching Father Cross's face turn a deeper shade of red. “Batman, Superman, Captain Marvel—you make 'em all.”

We all nod in agreement, because it's the God's truth. Last week we saw a Zorro movie, and a day later Cross was tearing around the Mount wearing a Zorro costume that looked like it had been stolen from the movie set. He's amazing. Nobody else could've painted the great big bat on the wall inside the Bat Cave and the beautiful golden lion over the trophy case. We never know where he gets all the materials for his costumes. Some of it comes from the sewing room, but not much. The rest is a mystery. A fashion designer with unlimited supplies would never match Father Cross's work. He can work magic with a sheet off a bed or an old discarded curtain.

Blackie says the marathoners can now look forward to some decent running gear. We know Cross can make any costume in the world, and in jig's time. Because he finally has some decent supplies to work with, this costume is the best he's ever made. It has big wide pant legs and a huge round purple hat. “Father Cross looks very impressive,” Murphy says. Bug tells us he's a crackerjack, and he should catch the next flight to Tokyo.

Cross is in complete control of the shrine dedication. He removes his hat, and his face is extremely stern looking. “I've never seen Cross look so cross,” Oberstein whispers. He chops his hands and directs his assistants, who wear colorful attire with richly embroidered silk aprons. They bow like crazy to each other, and the ceremony begins. It's all very elaborate, with cups and vases that have fine black branches and richly colored flowers painted on them. A small group of sumos dressed in black outfits with silver yin and yang signs on their backs moves toward Father Cross, forming a circle around him. He lights the incense in the thurible and swings it around so that there's smoke everywhere. The smell is sweet. As he passes the thurible to Crosbie, a coal falls out. Father Cross stamps on it, and a million sparks fly into the sky. A cheer goes up from the benches. Brother McCann smiles. He thinks it's part of the ceremony. Large snowflakes drop gently from the sky as the sumos sword dance about, waving their arms gracefully and singing ever so slowly: “
Eyo! Eyo! Eyo!
”

We're all enraptured watching the performers. It's all so amazing to see, especially Father Cross, who seems like a totally different person—elegant but severe, almost frightening. Suddenly, we're mesmerized by a series of elaborate flowing gestures he makes with his arms. Out of nowhere, McCann appears in front of us, taps Oberstein on the shoulder with his fan and gestures for him to follow. Oberstein nudges his way slowly through drawn-in knees. They disappear behind the raised platform and re-enter from the opposite side just as the dancers finish their sword dance. McCann makes a loud speech in Japanese that nobody understands: “
Untano utusini doi jinchi Oberstein-san
. . .
Unakano . . .
” He bows and points to Oberstein, and urges him to speak in Japanese. Oberstein speaks Japanese like a Spanish cow, but he fakes it, speaking in pig Japanese for almost a full minute. We politely listen as if we understand every word. Rowsell nods his head the whole speech. When he's finished, McCann claps softly and motions for us to join in. We all clap halfheartedly as Oberstein bows, rolls his eyes and returns to his seat.

McCann then motions to Father Cross to light the incense in front of the shrine as he moves to the center and makes several slow bows. He instructs us to stand and do the same. Then he shouts madly in Japanese for a few seconds, bows sluggishly several times, turns to us and says, “Sayonara.” The shrine dedication is over. Father Cross and his sword dancers lead the assembly single file to the gymnasium.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Murphy asks on the way back.

“Yoko Loco's losin' his mind,” Blackie says.

“What's left of it,” Oberstein says. As we walk, he and Blackie linger behind, chatting about maps in the library and something about the Argentia ferry. I slow my pace, but Oberstein puts his hand over his mouth and I can't make out what he's saying.

“Jesus, it's cold,” Ryan says. “Don't think I'll ever warm up again.”

“Put your hands down by your nuts,” Bug shrills. “That's what they all did in Scott's
Voyage to the Antarctic
.”

“I don't remember reading that,” Oberstein says.

“So get your eyeballs checked,” Bug growls.

“My eyes are fine,” Oberstein says.

“They should of had Clare and Tokyo Rose in that ceremony,” Bug says. “It was missing the female touch. Clare and Tokyo Rose would of added a lot.”

Bug has taken to calling Clare's friend, Rose MacNeil, Tokyo Rose, because she's collecting mission stamps for Father McCann's parish. It's a name he got from a movie we saw. Clare is at the Mount for a month, part-time. She and Tokyo Rose have been sent over to work at the bakery. She came a few days ago. The news was all over the Mount in two minutes. I heard about it from O'Connor, who was tearing around the building with a couple of criers, screaming out at the top of their lungs: “St. Martha's girls in the bakery. Martha's girls in the bakery.” Clare really likes Bug. But she's worried that he's losing his faith because he has so many doubts. Brother McMurtry has given her permission to give Bug extra catechism lessons. She says the same thing about him that Blackie says. Bug has a handicap, so we have to be extra kind to him.

Clare and Tokyo Rose are going to become nuns. Silver crosses hang from silver chains around their necks, gifts from the Mother Superior. They have been told they have to work in the bakery as part of their obedience training. Tokyo Rose is tiny. She's only slightly taller than Bug, who's three foot nothing. She's thick-waisted, with cropped black hair. And she has very round cheeks and is always silent. Too silent. And what's really weird for someone who doesn't talk, is that her lower lip always quivers slightly. And she looks serious all the time, so serious that when you look at her, you want to turn away. Bug often says if she wasn't so serious and flat-chested he'd put the make on her. Which makes us roar.

“Let's pick up the speed,” Bug says. “If we get back before next class, Clare and Tokyo Rose might have a few toutons or some hardtack for us.”

Clare is always giving us stuff. She sneaks us toutons and cookies, mostly, and sometimes a full loaf. And she gives us holy pictures and prayer cards and rosaries, which Bug always chucks in the garbage when she's out of sight. He calls it voodoo. But when Clare gives it to him, he smiles and thanks her and says he'll carry it around with him forever.

She and Rose are always asking us about saying our prayers and memorizing our catechism, which really gets to me, but I do it for Clare. I'd do anything for Clare, I love her so much. I'd even try to get Bug to pray for her. But I think Bug really is losing his religion. He told Oberstein the other day that McCann is wrong to tell us we're going to hell for masturbating. “You're right, Oberstein,” he said. “It'd make more sense to go to hell for
not
snapping the lizard. It's only natural to get a bone-on. And what's a guy spoze to do, stare at it? No, McCann's wrong, and I aim to tell him one of these days.”

The other day Father Cross tried to get Bug to say a novena before exams, and he got really angry. “I don't get on your case about praying, so why do you get on mine about
not
praying?” he snarled.

“Because we all need God in our life,” Father Cross said.

“Oh, fuck west, Cross,” Bug said. “I'm an
atheist
and you're a
beaut
.”

And that was it. Father Cross never bothered him again about religion.

Back at the bakery, Clare gives us all a few toutons, which we devour like we are starving to death. Two older boys, Edward Harvey and Evan Cowan, are working with Clare and Rose at the bakery. They do all the lifting and heavy stuff, like cleaning the big mixers. Evan's nickname is Guns because he's King of the Hop-Along Cowboys and wears Cross's big black Hop-Along Cassidy hat. All he's gotta do is toss his head back or tip that big black cowboy hat, and you're in a Western movie. You should see him when he mounts up and lashes his rump, tugging the invisible reins as he races around the building. He's just like Rory Calhoun. Every kid in sight mounts up and follows. Once I watched a posse of about fifty chasing after him, slapping their rumps as they rounded the big stone buildings in full gallop, stampeding toward the Rio Grande. There's only one thing more thrilling than watching, and that's being one of the riders trying to keep up with the golden palomino of the King of the Hop-Along Cowboys. And he has the best toy gun collection at the Mount.

The four of them get along really well. Whenever I go to the bakery for a loaf, they're usually horsing around or chatting up a storm. They love poking fun at each other and cracking jokes. Even Rose, who is so serious, horses around sometimes. I think Evan flirts with Clare and Rose. Once I heard him ask Clare if she would like to go berry-picking up near Major's Path. Another time, I arrived at the bakery unexpectedly and they were alone there, behind the big tray racks. They had their arms around each other, and Evan was whispering something to her. I was startled and slipped away. Later on, I made up my mind that it was a beautiful thing to see. Clare with her thick blond hair in the arms of the tall and handsome King of the Hop-Along Cowboys. And I was happy for her, happy they'd found a time and a place to be alone together. And I hoped she would not become a nun but instead would run away with Evan. Mount up and ride off into the sunset, just like in the movies.

It's so nice to get to see Clare every day. Sometimes we sit at the long stainless steel table in the bakery, eating fresh bread and talking about baseball. She loves Ted Williams. “Home run kings will come and go,” she says, “but Ted Williams will be remembered as the greatest hitter who ever lived.” Or we talk about when we were a family, living together in Kilbride, just outside St. John's. If the weather's nice, she takes a break, and we grab some toutons and walk around the grounds and chat or go to her room, which is just a cubbyhole with a bed and a dresser over in the cook's quarters. We have a big old chat about Mom and Dad. She was almost twelve when they died, so she remembers a lot about the Kilbride days, as she calls them. I've learned a lot about my Mom and Dad from her. She said the memory that hurts her most is the day after Mom and Dad died. A social worker took her down to Water Street to the Big Six to buy a dress for Mom and a suit for Dad, and she didn't know their sizes. She started to cry, and the social worker told her to pick out the colors, he'd find out the sizes. Clare says it's very important to hold on to all your memories, even sad and secondhand ones, because memories can be more real than things you see and touch. I believe that. And I believe it's true of dreams as well. I told her about my vision, and she smiled and said it was probably fatigue. “You've been through a lot,” she said. “It's probably taken a toll on you.”