Bells Above Greens

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Bells Above Greens Page 13

by David Xavier

“We found it and made up. It’s like nothing happened. Let’s get drunk.” Emery raised his hand and Higgins stuck his red face to the tap.

  There was a pounding of fists on the bar as a group of students provided the peer pressure around a strong-looking drink. The student in the center scratched a cigarette lighter and set the drink on fire. He tilted it back too quickly and his eyebrows went up in flames, burning unknown to him for a moment before someone put a towel over his face.

  Emery turned to face the wall, raising his glass to the center jersey. “Here’s to Peter Conry.”

  We stumbled into the street and watched the New Year’s fireworks make shadow puppets of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart and the Golden Dome.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time the second semester began, the mighty flags of Notre Dame replaced the strings of lights that had curled through South Bend, waving proudly in lawns and over porches. There is no rebirth at that time of year. Classes begin with a walk through gray and white fields and under the weary sway of dormant branches. The holiday cheer has worn away and hearts return with mild beats.

  But the students walked the sidewalks once again, and it was with them that we marched to classroom doors and sat upon cold seats to hear the drone of professors and the scratch of chalk.

  Liv was back too. I met her at the looping curbside of the Le Mans dormitory, her bags left teetering on the concrete by a hurried driver, the cab still puffing a trail of white licks into the air.

  “I have to get my hair done.”

  “It looks great.”

  “All this cold air has made it flat. Look the waves are gone.” She pulled slowly at her blonde locks.

  We went to the theater to see On The Waterfront, and we stopped at an antiques store after. Liv had an impulse to look into each window we passed, and the relics of yesteryear had caught her eye. She was twirling an old clock in her hands.

  “There wasn’t much action, was there?”

  “No, but it was a great story. I liked it.”

  “I like Marlon Brando but they made him looked bashed up.”

  “It fit. He was a hardened dockworker. I thought it fit.”

  “He has a marvelous nose. I like the way it looks broken all the time. Like he sleeps with his face in the pillow.”

  “I guess so. I should break my nose and see how it looks.”

  “Your nose already hooks at the end.”

  “That’s the part I was going to break.”

  “Then make sure to break it all the way off. It saves your face from being too handsome,” she said. She set the clock down, the chime inside ringing a little, and she moved on to a mirror with an ornate frame. “I think it’s important for a man to stand up for justice. Like Brando did.”

  “He had a script.”

  “I know, silly. But I mean for all of us.”

  After a moment I said, “I did what I could.”

  She looked down. “I know.”

  I was standing with my hands in my pockets. “What did you want me to do? Get in a fight?”

  “Heavens, no. I suppose you did what you could. Poor Myles. Have you seen him?”

  I shook my head.

  A short man with wire glasses and an apron came around the corner. His fingers were black with oils but he scratched through his sparse white hair anyway, leaving a thumbprint on his scalp.

  “Help you folks?”

  “Just looking around, I think.”

  “One of a kind pieces here. You break it you buy it sort of thing.”

  “Yes sir.” I looked around at the walls and pointed. “How much for that?”

  The man took a moment to turn completely around and follow my finger. “Which one now? The musket?”

  “The leather helmet.”

  He squinted and removed his glasses to clean them, pulling the wire around his ears as he replaced them. “Not for sale. Not that one. Just for show.”

  “Who’s was it?”

  “Don Miller.”

  “God Almighty,” I said. “Liv, look. Don Miller’s helmet.”

  “Who’s that? Was he a football player?”

  The old man laughed. “Was he a football player? He was the shiftiest back to ever carry the ball for the Fighting Irish. Had moves that would fake out God Himself.”

  “He was part of the Four Horsemen,” I told her.

  “Signed by all four of ‘em,” the old man said. “Even Knute signed his name. That’s why it’s not for sale.”

  I shushed a rush of air, impressed. “Naturally. I wouldn’t sell it for anything.”

  “I dust it every day. Keeps the names looking sharp.”

  I had not seen Myles since he had emerged in a fit from the trunk of the car. I went to see him one day after class.

  The fraternity was almost empty around midday, but the door was unlocked and I walked about the rooms searching for him. I found Jude Miller slumped in a beanbag chair in the corner of one of the rooms. There was a pile of new books in the corner where they might stay without another thought given to them.

  “Is Myles around?”

  Jude Miller looked up as if stirred from a deep sleep. “Who? Myles? Sure he’s around.”

  “Where is he?”

  He sat up and turned his head around, looking at each corner of the room, blinking away the haziness. “I don’t know.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Fine.”

  I stepped into the room and stood over him, grabbing him by the shirt collar. He looked scared and tried to pry my hands off. “Is Myles alright? Where is he?”

  “At class, I suppose. Get off me. Let go. I’ll have you arrested.”

  “You’re a worthless friend. You’ll be kicked out of here after summer.”

  “Get away.” He tried to crawl away, pulling at the beanbag for leverage. “Let me go.”

  I dropped him and he curled up in a ball, gasping in a dramatic fashion. “Oh, Myles, Myles,” he said. “He’s around, don’t hurt me. He’s taken a bit of shock recently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s horrible. Runs around naked, looking for fights. Hasn’t had a haircut in months. He won’t talk to you. He won’t talk to anybody unless he’s provoking them.”

  “Does he go to class?”

  He composed himself and straightened out his collar. He smacked his lips. “I doubt it. Don’t worry about Myles. He’s just in a rebellious phase. He’s smart as a…smart as a whip.”

  I waited outside on a bench near the door, snapping twigs in half and watching the hours go by until night crept in. Myles appeared finally, walking with a limp that he slowed even further when he saw me. The light from the door hung on his sunken bones.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He was shaggy now, the crisp part he normally sported ruffled in unwashed hair, and he had a sparse beard of probably two weeks. His smile was there, but it was forced and was not made of the usual cheer that made it leap out upon his face. There was something more awkward about his appearance. His camera was missing.

  “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “Ah.” He twirled around and landed on dancer’s feet, his arms displayed. “As you can see, I’m spritely.” He then rubbed his hip.

  “Why are you limping?”

  “An old war wound, Colonel.”

  “Jude Miller said you were picking fights.”

  “Why on earth would I do such a thing? Jude is becoming more and more obscure in his words.”

  “How are your studies?”

  “They’re fine, dad.” He laughed at his words. “I didn’t skip and did all my homework. Can I have a raise in my allowance?”

  “You don’t look well.”

  “Thank you so much for noticing. You shouldn’t compliment people all the time. It’ll go to their heads.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Myles. How are you? Why are you limping?”

  He straightened up and frowned in defense. “I fell.”


  “Where?”

  “Right here on the pavement. There was ice the other day. I’m going to sue the University and live on an island one day.”

  This was a spot of pavement that received sun all day. I looked toward the campus, the office lights of faculty going dark one by one. “Are you on probation still?”

  He snorted. “I’ll be an academic monument soon. They’ll stuff dollars in my pockets and beg me to stay.”

  “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “Go to hell, Sam. What do you care, anyway? All you care about is your own reputation.” He enunciated the word with a mist of spittle. “Your reputation, and your…dupes. You’ve moved on, I bet. On to the next dupe.”

  “I stood up for you. What else could I have done?”

  “You could have pummeled that brute.”

  “And solved nothing. He won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Maybe I can convince him.”

  “Just don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “I’m not. But I’m an animal. My primal instincts have taken over.”

  “Do it for me. Avoid trouble for my sake.”

  My words amused him enough to chuckle. “You ever notice how animals don’t look for trouble? They’re curious, and they’ll go sniffing around, but they’re quick to jump away when they smell trouble. Animals will avoid getting hurt at all costs. A dog will not jump into a raging river or leap off a building. That’s a human trait. I’m a dog.”

  He shoved his way to the door, reeking of body odor, and when I turned to watch him go down the hallway, he had pressed his face against the glass of the door in an unrecognizable twist of features.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A few warm days in a row melted the lakes, and they didn’t refreeze after that except in small white crusts that floated around in the dawn before vanishing into the water for the day. Students were gathering around and a faculty member was taking their dollars behind a table and slipping them under an orange cone. A mist was still rising off the surface of the water.

  “Paid your entry?” Emery asked.

  “No,” I said. “I need to get back on the rooftops soon or I’ll be broke.”

  “Everyone’s broke. That’s the most commonly used word in a student’s vocabulary. Dad has a few houses lined up next month. We’ll resurrect your calluses.”

  “Good.”

  “Come on, I’ll pay your entry.”

  He untied his shoes and wrenched them off one at a time, pelican-hopping on one foot. I knelt to pull the laces of my shoes.

  “Have you set a date yet?”

  “Claire is thinking of a spring wedding.”

  I looked up at him, setting one shoe aside. “Better get cracking.”

  “Spring of next year.”

  “Oh. A year engagement? Kinda drawn out, isn’t it?”

  Emery shrugged. “I guess. She wants to get school out of the way. This way she’ll be heading into her last year. I should be done and ready to help dad more with the company.”

  “You’ll be second in command.”

  “And you’ll be third.”

  I looked at him.

  “Dad wants to expand beyond South Bend. First into Elkhart and then Buchanan. I’ll be in charge of that. I could use your help.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  The crowd had grown and people were peeling off their shirts and pants. A few guys were jogging in place in boxer shorts, their skin freckled with goose bumps, puffs of air coming from purple lips.

  “Claire wants to start a family right away.”

  “After she graduates or after the wedding?”

  “I don’t know. She said right away. I’ll be putting in a lot of hours. I want to get a house for her and I looked at my bank account the other day. It’ll take a lot of rooftops to make that happen.”

  “Is that what you always planned to do out of college?” I stood and pulled off my shirt. Emery was standing bare skinned up top, his jeans unbuckled, waiting for the last minute.

  “I don’t know. I guess not. It’s probably smarter than what I had planned, though.”

  “What was that?”

  “Move to Hollywood. Star in the movies.”

  “With that mug? They have a lot of roles for squinters?”

  He was rubbing his hands together and breathing into them, his shoulders pinched in cold. He loosened his squint when I said it, his features relaxing into a completely different face.

  “Well, I said it wasn’t a smart plan.”

  “Things were so easy in your world.”

  He laughed. “How about you? How does roofing sound?”

  “Good. I guess. Great.”

  “It’s strange how we go through college with big plans, spending all this time and money on education, preparing to conquer the world, and then we just sorta slide into what’s available after graduation.”

  A student with a hairy back lumbered up to us, his face and shoulders red-splotched by the cold. “Hey, Emery.”

  “Oh Lord.” Emery looked up and crossed himself. “What’ll it be, James? All the way across?”

  “That’s right. I’ll race you.”

  “How about I just ride across on your back? There’s plenty of mane to grab a hold of.”

  James put his dukes up in play, and Emery went into the exaggerated boxing stance of the Notre Dame Leprechaun, his fists held high.

  The faculty member, wearing a coat and a hat, picked up the orange cone and read from a paper the annual address to the crowd of half-naked students, a crowd that had gathered large out of nowhere, fidgeting to find warmth. He shouted the word, and the laughter and shrieks broke out as people ran into the freezing waters of St Joseph’s Lake. Emery shucked his jeans and fought with hairy James to be the first in. I followed them, long striding into the frothy melee.

  Father Donnelly was speaking at the altar about stewardship and the duties of a Catholic. He always paced back forth as he spoke, his hands folded in front of him and his eyes on the ground, speaking loud enough to be heard in the back but never making eye contact, as if he were the only person in the church and you were listening in on a deeply personal conversation with himself.

  Faces around me blinked in mystical hypnosis, upright in the pews, caught on every thorny word of Father Donnelly’s monologue that struggled with good and evil in front of the pews.

  When he was finished, he held his hands in the air and faced the crowd.

  “…but you don’t go to church to get something out of it,” he said with a clenched fist. “That’s selfish baloney. It’s not about you, or what you want. When someone tells you they don’t go to church because they don’t get anything out of it, you call their bluff and tell them the truth!”

  The air went of the church and every breath held.

  “You go to church because you want to worship the Lord.”

  Elle had been in her usual place at the front. I had come in late and sat behind the wall of tweed backs. I stayed seated as parishioners filed out, still thinking about his words. Why did I go to church? I did not go for selfish reasons. I did want to know God, and yet in confession to myself I would say I got nothing out of it.

  When I looked up I had forgotten to look for her and the church was nearly empty. I was Father Donnelly’s last handshake at the door.

  “Very nice homily today, Father.”

  “Thank you, Sam. I’m afraid I get a little riled up at times. Sometimes I feel like a fire and brimstone preacher and not a priest.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Just the style, I suppose.”

  “It made a point. I liked it.”

  “Good to hear.”

  As I walked away, the sky behind me chimed with bells and I paused to watch the pigeons fly from the tower. Father Donnelly was uncloaking himself, folding his green vestment as he marched around the corner of the church to the rectory, white sneakers on his feet.

  C
hapter Eighteen

  The baseball field was ice-glazed and hard-packed. The diamond sat in a shadowed corner of campus, collecting the funnel of blowing snow and freezing wind from the buildings. It was a late winter, which meant when spring finally did arrive it would happen overnight. Baseball season was a month away from officially starting, but a baseball team can only practice so much on an ice rink. Just swinging the bat would send players home with twisted ankles.

  Campus maintenance crews cleared the baselines away, making it possible to run the bases, but the outfielders were sliding on bruised knees too often, the shortstops pivoted on cold glass, and the pitcher made his windup on a mound of ice, pitching himself in a somersault with his follow-through.

  I cleared the rest of the field for forty dollars. I hadn’t felt the ruffle of money in my pockets in a while, and I wouldn’t be on rooftops again for another few weeks. This would hold me over until then, and the maintenance crew was all too happy to let my hands be the ones that froze to the end of the shovel.

  “The sun will come out and melt it soon enough,” a crewman told me. “But if you want to take the time to clear away, be my guest. It’ll get the coach off my back.”

  It was morning when I started and night when I finished. I cleared away the infield, scraping the crust of thin ice into piles of sheets, and then I decided to finish the outfield as well. I hated to leave a job unfinished. It was warm enough each day, even in the shadow, to melt away the frost that clung to grass blades each night.

  I stood at the fence and watched the team drills the next day. The players were able to run without incident and the pitcher gave a confident windup.

  The batter was cranking the pitches all over the field, sending the fielders left and right, sprawling for catches. He never hit one over the fence, but he had a great swing, his fundamentals were perfect, and he rarely missed a pitch. When he removed his helmet I saw it was Father Donnelly. He looked young and athletic enough to be a player.

  He blew a whistle that hung around his neck and sent the team around the bases a few times, and then to the far fence in sprints. He popped the button on his batting glove as he approached me.

  “Baseball is a pure sport, isn’t it?” He said it more as a statement than a question.

 

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