by Leo Furey
Bug makes us laugh when he says he’d like to smear chocolate all over Cathy’s naked body and lick it off, real slow. Oberstein asks him if he would go to confession afterward for the big solution, which makes us laugh louder. Once Blackie conned Bug into believing that Cathy Doyle is wild about Old Spice aftershave. Bug gave up two canteen cards to get a bottle. He used the whole thing one Saturday, almost knocking out all three of the Doyle sisters. He stunk like a skunk. Nobody could go near him all week.
Pat Fitzpatrick starts bragging about how easy it is for him to get a girl. And it is. He is Hollywood handsome and could easily be in the movies. He has more moves than Kookie on 77 Sunset Strip. And he’s always snapping his fingers like a beatnik and combing his blond hair back, just like Kookie. When he pulls out his comb, we all sing, “Fitzy, Fitzy. Lend me your comb.” Fitz always smells different than the rest of the boys. He’s always fresh and smells of strong soap, aftershave, and Brylcreem. Nobody knows where he gets the stuff, but he always seems to have a variety. Unlike Bug, with his Old Spice, everyone likes the smell of Fitzy. We always return from chores or the gym sweaty and wet. Not Fitz. He refers to himself as a lady’s man. He’s going on about Karla being the prettiest sister. “A real looker,” he says.
“When it comes to girls, you’re a sleep-talker,” Blackie jumps in. “Why you wanna gal in the first place, Fitz?”
“Toldja. A few feels and a marathon necking session in the woods behind the soccer field.”
“You should wanna a gal for just one reason,” Blackie says.
“What’s that, Blackie?” Kavanagh says stupidly.
“Skin,” Blackie says. “Girls know that. And the best looker ain’t always givin’ the best lovin’. Looks ain’t everythin’.”
Fitz slicks back his hair with his comb. “I’m all ears, Blackie,” he says. A shaft of yellow light slips through the half-closed doors, making a small square on the ground.
“Forget looks. Looks don’t mean diddly squat. How big or how small her nose or how straight or crooked her teeth. How tall or how short. Gangly or chubby. None of that matters a row of beans. Listen to the way she breathes. And watch for the tail end of her smile. See if it lingers. If it’s looks you want, count Jane out right away ’cause of her acne. And she could be a tiger out grassin’. Forget about acne and warts and moles and all. That don’t mean nuthin’ when it comes to neckin’ and pettin’. Don’t be afraid to kiss her if she has pimples.”
Bug says, “Only need to know one thing about girls. Their plumbing’s on the inside. Ours is on the outside.”
“If you wanna know which gal’s the best necker, listen real careful to her voice. How light it is, how giggly, how bubbly. That’ll tell you somethin’.”
“Golly, whaddaya mean, plumbing on the outside?” Rowsell says.
“How high, how low the sound. Listen for whether she chews up her words when she speaks. And the speed, how fast she speaks. Most of all, watch how she moves. That don’t mean she gotta be a Mexican jumpin’ bean. Does she sit on that park bench just swayin’ a little every now and then? Read a woman, Fitz. Read her like a book, page by page. Word by word. Like you’re readin’ a mystery novel. Study all them love crumbs. Study her like you’re gonna have a big test the next day and your life depends on it. The length of her smile. The softness. A simple sway now and then. Maybe you’ll see a river or Niagara Falls all pent up there, just waitin’ to bust through and wash over you.”
“Blackie’s right,” Oberstein says. “A person’s face is like a book.”
“What about makeup?” Bug asks. “I love lipstick. And nail polish. I love shiny red nails.”
“Maybe a little,” Blackie says. “Like Marilyn . . . But God gave you one face, why create another? Take Ruby Gosse. She wears enough lipstick to paint a battleship and enough powder to blow it up.”
Bug almost chokes laughing.
“And a girl’s smile is a love print. If her smile’s a sort of grin, closing fast, hard at the corners—she’s tough. Like Kelly at shortstop. You don’t wanna mess with her any more than Kelly. A girl’s smile is a powerful signal every time. It’s like an X-ray. Like I said before, Kavanagh loves to smile. Watch how he bares his big teeth. And Rags has a perfect smile, his smile carries that comet’s tail every time. But you take McMurtry, his smile’s always lopsided, and he hangs on to it too long. It ain’t natural. He learned it somewhere. A smile’s a perfect gift from God. You can fake a lotta things. But never a real smile.”
“I’m glad my plumbing’s on the outside.” Bug wolf whistles, grabbing his crotch and wiggling his bum.
That cracks us all up. As things settle down, Blackie gets that faraway look of his and says, “When I was six, seven, maybe, back in Harlem, the neighbors had a doggie. One day it got wet in the rain and shook water from its back, drops sprayin’ in every direction, the way McCann does when he shouts. I saw a man take out a revolver and walk up to that beautiful white doggie and put that revolver to that dog’s head and shoot it. Bang. Poor doggie just dropped. Kerplunk. And that man said, ‘Two types of dogs in this world. Them with spunk and them without.’ I was small, but I remember. I remember it same as if it happened two minutes ago. Now, that man thought he was killin’ something beautiful. God maybe. But God’s like the dandelions out in the baseball field. You tear them out, they keep comin’ back somewhere else. Sure as the sun shines every day, they’ll keep comin’ back.”
Fitzpatrick puts his comb back in his pocket without saying a word.
“If you quit ’cause of Jane’s pimples, you’re goin’ nowhere real fast.”
There’s a long silence as we pass around the last of the toutons. Blackie is such an amazing guy. He’s always saying stuff like that, stuff that makes you think hard and long. We don’t say anything as we finish eating. We all just mope and think awhile and look at Blackie scattering the ashes from the fire. I get to wondering about what he said. I’m not sure he’s right. Girls are awfully mysterious. But Blackie believes every word he says. And when Blackie believes something, he can be pretty convincing.
That night it’s more difficult than usual to sleep. I think about Blackie running away and about Clare and Evan, and I hope they run away instead. Not Blackie. Then Mom and Dad pop into my head, and Oberstein’s spells. And Brookes being shunned and Rowsell getting strapped all the time. And I think of the hole in Bug’s heart, and for some crazy reason I picture the rabbit looking at his watch and saying he’s gonna be late and Bug falling through the rabbit hole. And I’m so sleepy I think the rabbit’s a decoy. Then Bug appears with rabbit’s ears, bellowing “Moooo.” Then I worry about the brothers finding out about the marathon or catching us for stealing the wine. And my head starts to really pound. Like it’s being hit with a board.
I fall asleep for a short while and wake and lie in my bunk listening to the night noises: the coughing and snoring and bedsprings popping and sleep-talking. And I watch the nightlight dim off and on, down by Ryan’s bed, until it gets quiet and peaceful for a while. As I start to fall asleep again, I think about the three Doyle sisters, and what Blackie said this afternoon at the Bat Cave.
I do not sleep long. Everything’s eating at me. The marathon, the wine stealing, final exams, Ruthie Peckford. What Blackie said the other day about my lousy time sprinting to the cave. I sleep in snatches. Crazy sleep. Something’s still eating away at me. Ruthie Peckford maybe. Or the way Clare looked the last time we met. Pale and sad and sickly. Or what Blackie said about my sprinting time . . . I reach beneath my mattress for my running gear. I suit up and head out alone. Sprinting against my own best time.
The air is damp and tastes sweet as I run toward JD’s pine trees, their branches swaying against the gray sky. Spring will be here soon. I can feel it in the air. And soon, the snow will all be melted. I know I shouldn’t be night running by myself. But I need to. Not doing it would be worse. Maybe I’m trying to ward off a bout of the spells. Blackie will kill me if he finds out.
&n
bsp; The moon is bright. There’s been no new snow for weeks. But there’s still plenty down. I won’t run far. To the Bat Cave and back. It won’t take me long. Along the way, I listen to the silence. As I head up Major’s Path to the trail, the moon drifts behind a cloud. At the cave, I sit on a tree stump and wait for the moon to reappear while gobbling up a candy bar I won from Brookes playing palms. I love the strange, deep silence of the woods.
So many thoughts race through my mind. That’s one of the great things about running. When you’re running, the thoughts come one at a time, slow and clear, and they hang with you for the whole run. You don’t have to fight to hold a thought in your mind. But when you’re alone, at times like this, or lying awake in bed, or in chapel or class, thoughts come so quick sometimes, like Whitey Ford fastballs. You feel like you’re gonna have to duck. I think of the games we play. And what fun we have. King of the castle, which Blackie usually wins and Bug can never win because he’s too weak. I remember the time Blackie told us to let him become king, but Bug figured it out and said he’d rather be the last king in the world than be a fake king of the castle. He said he’d rather be king of a bunch of lepers.
Remembering that makes me sad, so I think about Ruthie Peckford. I love her hair. The smell of it. I approach the door of the cave and try to lift the rusty iron bar locking the entrance. I don’t know why. It always takes two of us to lift it off. I sit on a rock and think of the time we caught Father Cross getting his skin, and I wish I was inside the cave with Ruthie Peckford. Blackie’s words race back to me. If you believe it will happen, then it will happen. I close my eyes and imagine her looking at me, smiling. I smile back. She is wearing a long winter coat with a fur collar and a soft felt hat. She is gorgeous. We are holding hands and walking along Water Street, looking for a restaurant. I have money and a job, and I’m looking forward to buying her a piece of jewelry or some flowers, a dozen roses maybe, to see her eyes light up, before taking her to dinner. I stop suddenly and touch her face with my fingers. “I love the way you touch my face with your hand,” she says. She looks me in the eyes and lifts her hand to my face in a way that makes it seem as if the hand is not hers. I lean down to kiss her, just before exploding. I don’t think about necking and petting for a single second. Sex is the farthest thing from my mind. I’d really hate that. To mistake my own pleasure for love. That’d be like a runner forgetting he’s always alone, that there’s only him and the road and the wind. I repeat her name over and over in my mind. I can see her, plain as day—thin lips, sky-blue eyes, turned-up nose, blond bangs. She is pretty.
I stand and open my eyes. Blackie’s right. If you wish it hard enough, it happens. I wish I had a cigarette. Then a voice comes from out of nowhere: Thanks for the lovely roses. I smile and break the magic and race down the silvery path leading to the cave. The black branches and the bushes are getting wet. The moon has gone behind the clouds again, and for a second the sky is the color of dull steel. It’s dark and cold and misty. I’m glad I have my flashlight. I turn it on. Everything in front of me is blackish white and wet. I don’t have my Mickey. But I know it’s my best time.
As I approach the yard, a chill runs through me. The light over the cement porch by the handball courts is on. It wasn’t on when I set out for the cave. I do not think of Ruthie Peckford anymore. Or of playing king of the castle. Or of how rainy it has become. I say three quick Hail Marys that I won’t get caught, and think of what to say if I am. I’ll say that Oberstein went missing during the night after we all went to the bathroom. I’ll say I was running around the grounds looking for him. I’ll start to cry as I say, “I couldn’t find him. Maybe he’s dead.” Oberstein is quick. If asked, he’ll back me up. He’ll say he went to his locker, or the chapel to pray. Oberstein will get me out of a jam if anyone can. The darkness deepens. My sweatpants are wet and clingy. There is no moon now, and the rain is coming down in buckets.
Dog-tired, I duck inside the porch and wait until my heart stops racing. I wish it was for Ruthie Peckford. But it’s not. It is fear. Fear of the strap. Slowly, I make my way across the yard, enter the building and remove my sneakers and socks. I stand in the doorway, dripping wet, and listen to the silence before sneaking up the stairs. The dorm is still. No snoring. No tossing and turning. No sleep-talking. Nobody budges as I undress and put my wet clothes on the radiator to dry before slipping into bed.
Right away, I think of Ruthie Peckford, and the image of her thin wet lips haunts me until I give in to them. I imagine her waiting for me again near the birch trees by the Bat Cave. Nobody around. Her blond bangs blowing about. The night-light flickers madly for a bit and then goes out as if it knows my thoughts. And I see my hands remove her white woollen scarf, then her winter coat, then her heavy sweater. I notice a tiny patch of pimples on her shoulder and think of the Burin Peninsula on the Newfoundland map. I remember what Blackie said and start kissing the patch, light pecks, until I drift into sleep kissing the rosebuds of her milky white breasts.
Spring 1961
* * *
15
* * *
THE FREEDOM OF THE WIND in our faces makes us feel like we’re flying. You can smell it. The cool air in your nostrils, the buds on the trees, the mud splashing on your shins. Everything new begins to appear. Everything has a new smell. The smell of first-time things. Even in the Sugar Loaf woods the snow is all but gone and the sun shines brightly on the yellowy grass. With the weight of winter behind us and the marathon looming closer, each run is different now. Special.
Spring, next to Christmas, is my favorite time of year. Everything is new and fresh and full. I just love the smell of the new earth. And I love watching Virginia Waters overflow its banks. And I love the rain. I love running in it when it falls so hard it hurts. We all love running in the rain. Seeing Blackie’s drenched afro and Murphy’s glasses splattered with mud. Seeing the final crusts of snow melt away each day until all of a sudden there isn’t a patch to be seen anywhere, not even deep in the woods.
Soon we will be up to thirty miles. Nobody will beat Richardson. Blackie feels we may even take the silver medal, Ryan is running so well. Every run now is so important. Each time out, I look forward to tying up my sneakers. Sometimes I have butterflies in my stomach, the way I look forward to meeting Ruthie Peckford or the Doyle sisters. It’s such a feeling. Like walking on air. Sometimes, finishing up a run, I imagine it’s the big day, the St. John’s Royal Regatta Marathon, and Ruthie Peckford is there, beaming as I cross the finish line, yards ahead of the second runner. But I know I’m dreaming. My role during the marathon will be to ride shotgun as a sprinter or a peashooter or a supplies carrier. Anyway, I could never beat Shorty Richardson. Nobody can. He’s amazing. And he’s getting stronger by the day. Blackie says he must have African blood, he’s so good. “Yeah, Shorty, you got some black blood,” Blackie always says, each time Shorty knocks off another second or two. Oberstein says all the great Olympic runners are from Africa. They win the Olympic marathon every time. I felt awfully good to hear that, because it’s the poorest place in the world and running is the one thing you don’t need any money for. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other. It’s pretty simple and anyone on earth can do it. Oberstein says some of the Kenyans run barefooted. When I heard that, my heart almost stopped. That is truly amazing. Imagine! Running twenty-six miles in your bare feet and beating every runner in the world. Wow! I’d rather have a hero like him than Rocket Richard or Mickey Mantle or maybe even Floyd Patterson.
This Saturday we’re going to try to get permission to go to town a few hours earlier than usual. Blackie says he has a new route, which will take us out to the Trans-Canada Highway. He wants to check out a few of the logging roads. “Runnin’ toward Argentia,” he says, “where they get the ferry to the mainland.” He’s really anxious about the route. He and Oberstein were chatting about it again the other day after supper. But they stopped talking when they knew I was listening. “It’s not a Comrades. But it’s cl
ose,” I heard Oberstein say. “Helluva good run.” I got the feeling he wasn’t talking about the marathon. Blackie’s really going to run all the way to Argentia. In my heart I’m sure that’s what they mean. And I think back to the time I heard Blackie tell Oberstein he would get to New York and find his mother after he performed the impossible trick. Then Oberstein began telling Blackie about hitting the wall. “You’ll have to refuel by eating on the run,” he said, “but you’ll lose speed. You can’t have both. Otherwise you’ll hit the wall.”
Later, they both lectured the runners on diet. “You have to be careful of your glucose. That’s your blood sugar. Careful it doesn’t drop too fast,” they’d say, “or it’ll be like banging into a cement wall. We’ll stash bars along the route the day of the marathon so everyone will have enough sugar. Remember, fat for distance, sugar for speed.” Blackie made us walk around in a circle chanting in unison fifty times: “Fat for distance, sugar for speed.”
When Father Cross asks Blackie if it wouldn’t be smart to eat a big meal before we race, Blackie laughs and says, “Mount Kildare Lions eat after the chase, not before.”
We’re all looking forward to Saturday. It’s our longest race yet. And our most important competition. Blackie says there’s a big prize for the winning pack.
“Dress right,” Blackie says. “We’re goin’, rain or shine.”
If we can get away right after lunch, stash our play clothes behind the Dominion Stores and head out, we should have lots of time. We’re all edgy. There’s a lot at stake. We’ve all got cards on the line. I’ve put my only Mickey Mantle against Ryan’s Whitey Ford. If I lose, I’ll just die.