The Long Run

by Leo Furey

  I lie awake thinking about what I overheard between Blackie and Oberstein after study hall. They were in the geography room, trying to figure out the distance from St. John’s to Argentia. They were looking at the geological map again and arguing about a logging road. Oberstein was using the word “decoy” a lot. Maybe Blackie plans to run away. To New York, to find his mother. I’m worried to death. If he’s caught, he’ll be killed. Maybe that’s why we’re training so hard, doing a Comrades. So Blackie can be in perfect shape to run most of the way to Argentia, to catch the ferry to Nova Scotia. We’re training for Blackie. Blackie’s escape. Maybe that’s what Oberstein meant by decoy. The summer marathon is a decoy for Blackie. Shorty Richardson’s a decoy. Ryan’s a decoy. We’re all decoys. For Blackie.

  They put the map away really fast when I came into the room, and pretended they were doing an assignment for Madman. But Murphy told me he’s heard Blackie and Oberstein talking about it a few times. “We’re decoys alright,” he said. “Blackie’s wooden ducks.” He wasn’t really angry about it. He was just mad that Blackie hadn’t confided in us. I don’t want to believe him. I make up my mind not to tell the other runners. But maybe I should. They have every right to know about Blackie’s plan. And they’ll want to help. It’ll make them train harder. We all want Blackie to get to New York to find his mother. I’ll tell them tomorrow. I gotta tell them. They should know.

  My head spins as I think about Blackie getting caught. I see Ryan’s strapping again, clear as a movie. And Rowsell getting strapped. And Brookes being shunned. And Clare and Evan touching. And then Blackie wandering aimlessly around New York, with no home and nothing to eat. Like Chop-Chops. The ferry to the mainland is so far away, much farther than a Comrades. And New York . . . New York is a galaxy away.

  I think about Oberstein’s mother’s hands and little Jack. Like Oberstein, I wish he was there to look after her. I say a few Hail Marys that her hands will get better, and I say a few for little Jack, that one day Oberstein and little Jack will be together again. I think of Blackie and Oberstein and all their secret meetings. And I worry again about Blackie getting caught. I pray that when that time comes, he doesn’t get caught. I close my eyes and think of nothing for a few minutes. Hoping I don’t get the spells. A bout that could be the worst ever. I’d rather get in the ring with Floyd Patterson than face this bout. I just know it’s gonna be awful.

  Finally, I think of the run and how fast we’re getting. Our time gets better and better every race we run. We’re so excited for Shorty Richardson and for each other. There’s a special feeling, almost a vibration when we run together now. I try to sleep, because Blackie has warned us of the danger of not being in shape for the marathon. Red Kelly, who plays for the Maple Leafs, once said during intermission on Hockey Night in Canada that young athletes must get eight to ten hours sleep every night. “You kids need that,” he said. “It’s the most important thing.” But Mickey Mantle is in my mind, then Yogi Berra, then Casey Stengal, then a scene from The Fly where the cat is prowling around. The Fly is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen. Bug still has nightmares about it. Finally, I remember Oberstein’s advice and give in. “It’s the only way I can get any sleep when I have the spells,” he once said. “I just give in and try to stay awake and somehow that manages to get me a few hours sleep.”

  I pretend Clare is sitting on my bunk telling me to close my eyes and sleep as she clicks her heavy black rosary beads.

  “You need sleep too,” I say.

  “I’ll sleep when I finish the rosary. Shhh.”

  I sit up. “We’re gonna win the marathon, Clare. Sure as Ted Williams will win the batting title this year. It will be another first for the Mount. Like the time we beat the Salvation Army Band. It might be close, but Shorty Richardson will win. And Ryan will come second. Ryan’s getting so fast. Blackie thinks he has a shot at beating Shorty. We’re up to fifteen miles now, and our time gets better every run. The night running is working out great. Every night out we knock off a few more seconds.”

  She clicks her beads and then asks softly, “Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”

  I laugh. “No, Clare, we know how to cover the bases. We’re like a team of Phil Rizuttos . . .”

  “Be careful. Don’t get cocky. You still could get caught. And you’d all be strapped. Worse, you wouldn’t be allowed to run in the marathon.”

  “Ah, don’t worry, we’re not stupid. We’ll be fine. We won’t get caught. Blackie and Oberstein have a foolproof plan for every night we run.”

  “But you must be very careful. Especially when you are the lead runner. It’s dark and icy, and you could fall, break your leg . . .”

  “Clare,” I interrupt, knowing she’s worrying too much, “why aren’t there any nuns here? At Mount Kildare?” I laugh and mimic little Jimmy Burns: “‘How come there ain’t any female brothers?’ Wouldn’t it make sense to have a few nuns around here? It’s great having you and Tokyo Rose working in the bakery once in a while, but I don’t see why some nuns couldn’t come here too.”

  “What a good idea,” she says. “I’ll ask Reverend Mother about that tomorrow.”

  She sighs. Her face is a ghostly gleam in the darkness.

  “Now, you must sleep. Close your eyes.” I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “And you must eat more—you’re too skinny.”

  “I’m not skinny. I’m gaunt. That’s what Oberstein says runners are spoze to be.”

  She strokes my hair and chuckles. “My, my, whatever am I to do with the chubby cherub?” she says. Clare loves Oberstein. I think it’s because they’re both religious. As I close my eyes, she says hastily, “I almost forgot. I have a pair of woollen socks for you, for night running. They’ll keep you nice and dry during your winter runs.”

  Clare is so thoughtful. I want to sit up and throw my arms around her, but I’m afraid we’ll both cry, so I just close my eyes and say good night.

  “Good night, and God watch you,” she says.

  The dorm is pitch-black. Outside, the wind is whining. I hope it’s stormy, but not too stormy to cancel the run. We all love running in bad weather. Somehow it makes us feel better. I check my Mickey. Midnight. At the foot of my bed, under my mattress, is my running gear. In a few hours, Oberstein will give us the all-clear signal. I toss and turn, and say a few Hail Marys that I will sleep.

  The wind has died down when Oberstein rouses me a second time. I’ve overslept.

  “Blackie’s pissed. Get a move on.” His whisper is gravely and harsh.

  Instead of running our regular route—behind the pool, across the soccer field and past Virginia Waters to Sugar Loaf—Blackie heads toward Quidi Vidi Lake, home of the Royal Regatta. On the way, we pass a parked snowplow. The operator is asleep in the cab. We kill our flashlights. Blackie motions toward the driver and then points to a side street. In bad weather, we run in one pack, with Richardson in the middle for protection. It starts to snow really hard, and Murphy tells Blackie we may have to cut our run short, as it looks like a storm’s brewing.

  “Keep movin’,” Blackie barks.

  “Blackie, what if a cop car comes by? We’re out in the open.”

  Blackie stops so suddenly we bang into each other. “Side streets,” he says. “Side streets to the lake and back. Run fast. Gonna be a short run.”

  We make slow progress in the soft, wet snow, which is getting thicker by the minute. Now and then someone slips on the greasy pavement. There’s the occasional stumble, but nobody falls. It’s freezing cold, and I can see the breaths coming, like smoke, from each runner’s nostrils.

  Kavanagh’s face is always the same, no matter the weather: an intense grin that looks like he’s about to break into laughter. The scrawniest guy in the Mount, he’s strong and generous, always looking around to see that everyone’s okay. In history class, when we were doing the great Newfoundland sealing disaster of 1914, where so many brave Newfoundlanders were stranded on the ice and died, I thought of Kavanagh and how if h
e’d been there he would’ve made it. And when Brother Vincent asked the class who among us would be most likely to survive, I thought of Blackie and Kavanagh. I don’t know if anyone else in our group would’ve made it, but I know Kavanagh would’ve. With that silly grin on his face. And he would be giving everyone a friendly slap on the back, passing a cigarette and joking and telling us the sun was coming up soon. Giving us hope minute after minute. It’s like Kavanagh was put in this world just to laugh. Everyone knows Blackie would survive anything, but it’s Kavanagh who would be the one to egg us on, the one to give us constant hope, the one who would save a few others. Kavanagh’s smiling even when we’re running against the wind.

  Coming off Berteau Avenue, we head to the bottom of New Cove Road. The wind is a banshee, howling down a line of parked cars, and the snow is swirling furiously. A million tiny snowflakes fly toward us.

  “We’re in a storm, Blackie.” Father Cross is nervous. “Looks like a northerly squall.”

  Blackie nods and points in the direction of Kenna’s Hill, which means the run is cut short.

  “Two-minute hill,” Blackie yells above the storm. He means he wants us to take Kenna’s Hill in under two minutes. From Memorial Stadium it’s impossible on a good day. I check my Mickey when we reach the traffic lights at the base of the hill. The pavement is thick with greasy snow now, and I’m sure nobody will make it through the sleety wind in less than four minutes. But we will give it our all. For Blackie.

  Halfway up, there are headlights in the distance, so we duck behind Conway’s old stone house until the car glides past. Ryan keeps running. At the top of the hill he waits by the cemetery. He’s in high spirits, pumping the air with his victory fist, thinking he’s done the hill in less than two minutes. But while he is well ahead of the pack, he’s a full two minutes beyond the mark.

  The final leg, we stay close to the houses on Torbay Road in case we need to duck a vehicle. Blackie blasts Ryan for not ducking behind Conway’s. “Fool, fool, fool,” he keeps saying. Ryan apologizes and falls behind, sheepish the rest of the run. Unobserved, we arrive at the soccer field, the beginning of our property, each runner scooping up a mittful of sweet snow to suck on as we finish the final yards. Blackie directs us to make a wide arc toward the back of the swimming pool so we can enter safely through the yard. Off the streets, giant snowflakes are gently drifting down, creating a peaceful, easy feeling. Blackie orders us to stop near the cement porch by the handball courts before scooting across the yard.

  Inside the building, we crouch down and are perfectly still. We’re hardly breathing in the dull light, like little animals. About to head to the dorm, we hear footsteps and dart inside the washroom. Our timing is off because we have returned early. The footsteps come nearer, very close to us. It’s Spook. We hear his grunting, and the rattle of his night watchman’s clock and chain. As the footsteps descend the stairs and disappear, we remove our sneakers, and Blackie nudges us off to the dorm in pairs. Kavanagh and I are first. We’re so tense, Kavanagh laughs. In the morning Blackie will curse him and Ryan for their foolishness. But for now, all that’s important is our safety. Oberstein is sitting at the top of the stairs reading as we take the steps two at a time.

  “Chrissakes, where were you?” he whispers. “I was worried to death; there’s a terrible storm . . .”

  I put my finger to my lips, and we head off to the dorm. Within minutes everyone’s tucked away, listening to Murphy’s five long snores, the signal that we’re safely in bed and the coast is clear.

  My bunk is freezing, so I bury myself beneath the blankets and start breathing hot breaths. As the bed warms up, my eyes close and I see Marilyn Monroe. She’s pursing her lips and putting on lipstick. I love looking at her doing that. I think of her in the movies and just recently on TV, a storm of confetti falling on her and DiMaggio as they leave the church. I try to hold the happy couple in my mind, but Jolting Joe won’t stay. I stare at her beauty mark, her beautiful blond hair, her gorgeous smile and again her pouting lips. She’s definitely the most beautiful woman in the world. I look at her for a long time. As I fade, she’s wearing a low-cut dress, and she’s seated on a rock wall, leaning forward, with Niagara Falls roaring in the background. She speaks but says nothing as I press my pillow into my face and imagine her there with me, wrapping me in her arms and smothering me with her breasts.

  13

  * * *

  MADMAN KICKS HIS YARDSTICK. We’re being quizzed on Newfoundland place names. It’s morning, the period before recess. The coldest day of the year. At Chapel you could see your breath as we said prayers, and there were icicles hanging outside the stained glass windows. We are cold and tense. Colder than usual. And more nervous than ever. Oberstein has made a mistake, a terrible mistake.

  “What year did Cabot discover the New found land, class?”

  “1497, Brother.”

  “Very good, class. And the capital, St. John’s, was named by the Franciscans for what great saint, class?”

  “St. John the Baptist, Brother.”

  “And how old is this great city, boys?”

  “The oldest city in North America, Brother.”

  “Well done, class. Now, it’s time for nomenclature. And what is nomenclature, Mr. Oberstein?”

  “Refers to the system of names used to identify geographical features, Brother, including the names of settlements. Toponymy, derived from the Greek words topo, place, and onama, names, is the study of geographical names, or toponyms, Brother.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Oberstein. Mr. Kavanagh: Aguathuna . . .”

  “Aguathuna. Western, Brother. West of Stephenville. Port au Port. Used to be called Lineville. No, no . . . Limeville. Limeville, ’cause of all the limestone there. First named Jack of Clubs Cove by sailors of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy ’cause they thought the limestone cliffs looked like the playing card. October 24th, Brother, the feast of St. Raphael, patron saint of Mount Kildare . . . October 24th, 1911, the residents changed the name to Aguathuna, replacing Jack of Clubs and Limeville. Aguathuna is Beothuck, Brother. Aguathoonet means great white rock.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kavanagh. Well done, lad. Mr. Brookes: Angel’s Cove.”

  “Angels Cove. Avalon, Brother. On the eastern shore of Placentia Bay. Corruption of ‘Angles Cove,’ used in 1910 by the historian Reverend M. F. Howley as a name for the community. The Dictionary of Newfoundland lists ‘a curved inlet’ as one definition of angle.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brookes. Let’s see now, Mr. Ryan: Cape White Handkerchief.”

  “Labrador, Brother,” Ryan answers correctly. “At the entrance to Nachvak Fiord. So named for a large square of light-colored rock . . .”

  Oberstein is tense. Blackie is tense. We are all tense. Agitation is evident everywhere. Oberstein made his mistake during an interview with McMurtry about the wine stealing. Fidgeting is the order of the day. Oberstein thumbs the edge of his Dictionary of Newfoundland and stares at the floor. Blackie sits with his arms crossed tightly against his chest, waiting for Madman to drop his dictionary, his usual signal that the quizzing is over.

  “Mr. Hynes. Let’s see, now, we’ve had none from central. Gambo, Mr. Hynes.”

  “Gambo. Central. Northeast of Glovertown, Brother. On October 3rd, this year, the communities of Dark Cove, Middle Cove, and Gambo were joined together to form the town of Gambo. Origin, Portuguese, Baie de les Gamas, Bay of Does . . .”

  Murphy twists in his seat, turns, and rolls his eyes toward Rowsell, who is white with fear. Rowsell has studied only the names of the central region of the island. It’s unlikely Madman will ask more than two or three place names from central. Rowsell slouches in his seat.

  “Lester’s Field, Mr. Yetman.” Madman drums his Dictionary of Newfoundland with the yardstick. It’s always a horrible sound, but today it’s unbearable.

  “Avalon, Brother. Used as an airstrip on June 14th, 1919, by Captain John Alcock and Lieutenant Arthur Whitten Brown for the beginning of the first nonstop
transatlantic flight from St. John’s to Ireland . . .”

  “Ireland?”

  “Clifden, Ireland, Brother.”

  “Part of the city, lad. Part of the city of St. John’s, Mr. Yetman. You neglected to say it was originally named for its owner.”

  Surprisingly, Madman does not give Yetman the traditional two whacks for screwing up.

  “Mr. O’Toole: St. Alban’s.”

  “St. Alban’s, Brother. Eastern, on Bay d’Espoir. It’s pronounced Despair, Brother.”

  Madman smirks. “Well done.”

  “First known as Ship Cove, Brother. The name was changed in 1915 by the Reverend Stanislaus St. Croix, the parish priest, who wanted a Catholic name for his Catholic parish. St. Alban was a third-century martyr, Brother, who was murdered on the site of St. Alban’s Cathedral, in the city of the same name in Hertsfordshire, England.”

  “St. Patrick would have been a more appropriate name, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Brother.”

  “Well done, Mr. O’Toole. Well done, lad.”

  O’Toole beams as Madman drops the Dictionary of Newfoundland to the floor. There’s a mad scraping of desks and a bustle of body movement. Madman always picks the boy he thinks is slouching the most. Again, Rowsell is odd man out. Madman kicks at his yardstick while strolling toward Rowsell’s desk.

  “You have a choice, Mr. Rowsell. One of life’s many choices, sir. You may take your two whacks now, or you may opt for double or nothing. Do you understand double or nothing?” Rowsell nods. “Very well, the final place name for the day . . .”

  Rowsell’s eyelids move at lightning speed. His body stiffens. He looks to Oberstein for help.

  “We’ll make it a little more interesting now, shall we?” He opens his dictionary. “We’ll give you a little hint now, Mr. Rowsell. The last name for the day will be from . . . let’s see, now . . . from the eastern. No . . . no . . . from Labrador. Unless you have a suggestion. Do you, Mr. Rowsell?”