The Long Run (7 page)

I grab him. “Where are you going, Bradbury?”

“To confession. To tell all,” he whistles, and tries to pull away.

Murphy towers over tiny Bug Bradbury.

“Just a minute. You can't squeal on Blackie. That will ruin all our plans.”

“What plans?” Bug squeaks.

“None of your business what plans. Just don't squeal on Blackie, or you're a dead duck. You say one word, and I'll crown you.” Murphy makes two big fists. “One word, and I'll get the whole Dare Klub to dog-pile you. I mean it, Bradbury.”

Bug listens, and all we can hear is his whistle breathing. Then he puffs his chest again and shoves me aside.

“Just a minute.” Murphy grabs him by the neck with his big hands and shakes him. Oberstein jumps in, and we hold him as he squeaks and raves.

“Leave me go. Lemme outta here. I wanna go to the chapel. For the big solution. Leave me go. I wanna go to confession.” His arms are windmills.

“The only place you're going is the Rat Locker,” Murphy shouts.

“Leave me go.”

He won't listen to us and kicks and strikes out, his squeaky mouth wet with spit as Murphy grabs him by the throat, choking meaningless gibberish out of him. He lets out a shrill little scream and reddens, his voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. He wants to get away from us, to get to chapel to squeal on Blackie to Monsignor Flynn, who will tell Brother McMurtry, who will punish Blackie. And that cannot happen. And though Bradbury raves and squeaks and kicks, we give him a hiding to let him know what's in store for him if he squeals on Blackie. We do it quickly and efficiently, and he falls to the gymnasium floor, whimpering for a few minutes. And then he sits there, whistling, trying to catch his breath. We are pale and a little shocked at our actions, and we are breathing as quickly as Bug Bradbury.

“That's just a taste, Bradbury,” Murphy says, holding up his big fist. “And that's nothing to what you'll get if you squeal on Blackie. Do you understand?”

Bug does not answer.

“Do you understand, Bradbury?” Murphy shouts, and the words echo through the gymnasium.

“Yes,” Bug sobs. “Please don't dog-pile me. Please don't put me in the Rat Locker.”

Murphy picks him up off the floor and wipes his eyes with the cuff of his shirt.

“If I don't confess to snapping the lizard and seeing Blackie steal the money,” Bug whimpers, “I won't have anything to say.”

“Just tell him you had impure thoughts,” Oberstein says.

“Yes,” Murphy says, “and confess to being in a fight once since your last confession. No, twice. Say you fought twice since your last confession.”

Bug sulks and nods his head slowly, and we know Blackie is safe. And we all head off to chapel as I lose myself in thought, wondering if I should confess to a hundred impure thoughts or cursing a hundred times instead of beating up Bug Bradbury.

4

OBERSTEIN ALWAYS SAYS
that Blackie has the wisdom of Solomon. I wasn't convinced until Blackie came up with the idea for the marathon. That convinced me. It came to him one Saturday afternoon when Abe Richardson's little brother, Aaron, whose nickname is Shorty, insisted on running a suicide mission for Abe. Shorty's small-boned, but he's light and thin and long like a bird.

Saturday and Sunday afternoons, boys in grade seven and up are allowed to go to town. We can leave the Mount Kildare grounds between the hours of two and six o'clock. You can go anywhere in the city you want—visit anyone, walk anywhere. There are only two rules: Don't get into any trouble, and be back by six o'clock. Most of us go fishing at Virginia Waters, where we have a boil-up and roast wieners and potatoes on sticks over an open fire. Or we walk to Major's Path near the Bat Cave and pick gallons of blueberries and raspberries. Or we hike to Signal Hill and play in the barracks and storehouses where the French and the English fought in 1700. That's why it's called Signal Hill, because the British sailors used it as a lookout. It's a great place to play. Murphy always climbs the noonday gun, which is a big black cannon they've been firing off every twelve o'clock since 1842. Or we just hang around Bannerman Park, looking for girls, or walk to the west end to Victoria Park or Bowering Park and watch the swans or skip stones in the pond or play war games, climbing the statue of the Fighting Newfoundlander. If we go to the west end, we always have two timekeepers because it takes us about an hour to get back. If we aren't in the dining hall by six, we're in big trouble. “Back by six or we're in a fix,” Blackie warns us, as we sign the big black register chained to the lectern outside the dining hall. The Doomsday Book, Oberstein called it one day after history class. We sign out at two, and we sign in before six. It is better not to show up at all than to show up after six o'clock on a Saturday or Sunday.

Every boy who leaves the grounds visits some place or just wanders around St. John's. Some visit an aunt or uncle or cousin or friend of the family. One or two of the older boys arrange to meet with their girlfriends—to get a piece of skin, as the saying goes. Murphy and I have a long chat about that. “It must be the greatest feeling in the world,” he says after he's admitted that he's never gotten his skin. “Can you imagine lying down naked up in Major's Path in the swampy woods with your girl, the smell of raspberries all around and the warm wind blowing over your naked bodies? Imagine eating raspberries and kissing her sweet red lips and the taste of her sweetness burning your mouth. And smelling her hair. And the touch of her soft, smooth breasts, just lying there, feeling her nipples get hard. Getting hard as a rock yourself and slipping it inside her like a tadpole sliding through the grass. It must be
soooo
good to be inside your girl, lying on the cool mossy earth. Getting a good rocking rhythm going until—
whamo
—you explode like one of those supernovas Rags talks about in science class, shock waves rippling through every layer of your skin. You'd shine brighter than the entire galaxy for a second, I betcha. Dontcha think it'd be the greatest feeling in the world?” he says.

“I do. But you don't need to convince me, Murphy,” I say. “I can't wait to get my skin.”

The punishment for returning one minute after six o'clock is an instant strapping. Twenty whacks. Ten on each hand. Your hands sting till they're numb. And you lose all privileges for three months, including smoking, TV, and your canteen card. In addition, you are given extra chores like cleaning stairways every morning for three months. Nobody ever takes a chance on getting back after six. Although Shorty Richardson did one time.

That's what put the marathon idea in Blackie's head. Shorty's race against the clock one Saturday. Abe and Aaron Richardson used to live on Garrison Hill in the row housing just below the Basilica. It's a little over two miles from the Mount. Abe and Shorty spent the afternoon with their aunt, returning around five o'clock. Ten minutes after they got back, Abe realized he'd forgotten his green V-neck sweater, part of his school uniform. When you go to town, you wear your school uniform—white shirt, green V-neck sweater, green necktie, gray flannels. Most of our scratchy woollen sweaters and gray flannels are hand-me-downs. Nobody has clothes that fit. Oberstein's pants are always too tight. Mine are always too baggy. Murphy's pants never reach his ankles. Bug's shirt is always miles too big. And there isn't a woollen sweater in the Mount that doesn't have at least one hole in it. Our shoes and sneakers are never the right size. Almost everyone's clothes have patches. Patches that are never the same color. Where there's a hole, the tailor, Brother Young, cuts a piece of cloth from his pile of old clothes and sews a patch over the hole. There's a piece of gray pajamas sewn on one of the elbows of my sweater. You get new clothing when you can't fit inside your old clothes. As long as you can wear it, you get patches. We don't mind wearing patchy clothes most of the time, but it's embarrassing when you're trying to impress a girl.

“Over forty minutes. I can make it. Twenty there and twenty back. I can do it. I know I can. Let's not waste time fighting about it,” Shorty says.

“No, it's too risky,” Abe says. “You'll be killed if you don't make it back by six. I'm not going to chance it.” As he speaks, his brother begins to cry.

“You'll get a worse shit-kickin' than me if you shows up Monday to class without your sweater. You'll be killed if you shows up to Walsh's class with no sweater.”

“That's my problem,” Abe says, squinting in the blinding sunshine.

“It's my problem too,” Shorty says. His eyes are glassy.

“I don't want you to chance it, Aaron. It's too risky.” Abe puts his long arm around his scrawny brother, who pulls back as if he's been stung and bolts toward the big Celtic cross posts lining the entrance to the Mount. I look at my Mickey Mouse watch. It is five-fifteen. I love my Mickey. Clare gave it to me when she came to visit the time I had a really bad bout of the spells. It glows in the dark.

“Jesus, come back. Come back!” Abe screams, and starts to cry.

“Come back to the five and dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean,” Bug mocks.

Murphy races to find Blackie, who instantly takes charge.

“Murphy, see who got supper duty. Maybe we'll be lucky.” Blackie's eyes are on fire. “Rags, we can con for ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” Rags lets us get away with a lot. “Maybe keep him from the Doomsday Book. Brother Walsh, we'll get five. Six, tops. McCann or Madman Malone, we're shagged. We'll forge Shorty's signature. Hope he ain't missed. Get Rumsey on red alert. Rifle through Shorty's desk for a signed book. Gotta start practicin' his signature right away.”

“Done, Blackie,” Murphy says.

“How far to Garrison Hill?” Blackie asks.

“About two miles,” Abe says.

“One way?” Blackie removes his plastic glasses and wipes them on his shirt. There's an ugly yellow streak across his nose.

“Each way. Four miles altogether.”

“Jesus, more than a ten-minute mile. He can't run a ten-minute mile, can he?”

“He's a good runner. Best runner in the Mount,” I say. “He wins every race every Sports Day. He even beats the grade elevens.”

“He runs like the wind, Blackie,” Oberstein says.

“He'll never do it in a million years,” Bug says.

“He looks like a bird, and he flies like one,” Murphy says, flicking the shock of hair from his eyes.

Blackie looks at his watch. “Fuck of a run. He think about the quickest route?”

“No, he just took off. He'll probably go the way we always go. When we walk to town. Over Elizabeth, down Bonaventure to the Basilica.”

“Probably the quickest route. Can he do a ten-minute mile?”

“Dunno,” Abe says. “I just watch him run. I never time him or nothin'. He's like the wind. If it can be done, he'll do it.”

“Better,” Blackie says, “or he'll pay a helluva price.”

We all head to the dining hall to check the roster. A stroke of luck. Rags is on duty.

“Thank you, Jesus,” Blackie says, and tells Murphy to pretend he's been knocked out playing frozen tag in the gym if Shorty isn't back by six. That will divert Rags for at least five or ten minutes. Murphy is to pretend that he's knocked out for as long as he can. Rags will call for a stretcher to take him to the infirmary. Someone will go for medicine. That'll take time.

Blackie and I are the only ones with watches. We are in the middle of the group, staring at the seconds ticking away, standing in front of the big Celtic crosses leading to Elizabeth Avenue. Blackie has that same sad stare in his eyes every time he looks across Elizabeth Avenue. He's always thinking the same thing. At the end of that road is Harlem, where his mother is. The huge stone walls of the Mount are always visible from Elizabeth Avenue and Torbay Road. As we wait, a passing car slows down. A passenger rolls down a window and gawks. “They have come to take home a norphan,” Oberstein's voice is a falsetto. “I'm a
norphan
. I'm a norphan. We're all norphs in here. Come and visit the little
norphs
.” Then he looks sad and says in his normal voice, “That's what I love about Rags. He never makes you feel like a norph.”

Rags is so easygoing. After washup each night, we line up in our pajamas, and the brother on duty inspects us. If your nails are still dirty or you missed a spot behind your ears or something, most brothers thump you on the head or give you a whack and send you back to the sink. Or worse, they grab a facecloth and scrub you till it hurts. Not Rags. “Oops,” Rags says, looking over the top of his rimless glasses. “I think I see a potato in Oberstein's ear. Or is that a carrot the chubby cherub's growing in there?” Which makes us all giggle like crazy. And after night prayers, Rags always tells us a story. Usually he makes one up about Chop-Chops, a cat with a missing leg, who has nine lives and who's full of mischief. The stories make us laugh and they make us cry. Chop-Chops prowls around the Bronx, getting in and out of trouble. Once, he had a really rich owner who used to beat him. Another time, he had a really poor owner who used to give him his supper. Both times, Chop-Chops ran away. We hate it when Chop-Chops gets to his last life. We beg Rags to bring him back with another nine lives. And he always does. That's the difference between Rags and most of the other brothers. Rags does what a
real
brother would do. We trust him an awful lot. Although we got suspicious when he asked if we knew anything about the wine missing from the sacristy. “Tell the truth and shame the devil,” he said. That's an expression he uses all the time. Tell the truth and shame the devil.

“If I find out anything about that, I'm going straight to Brother McMurtry right away,” Oberstein said, and we all nodded.

“That's good. I'm glad to hear that,” Rags sighed. It was like the thought of us getting caught stealing was painful for him. Anyhow, we knew Oberstein had thrown him off our trail.