The Long Run

by Leo Furey

  “What’s that?” Murphy asks.

  “Money,” Oberstein says, “or he’ll squeal.”

  We eat the rest of breakfast in silence. Oberstein doesn’t eat or drink. After breakfast, we approach Blackie and ask him to apologize. He says he shouldn’t, he hardly laid a finger on him. Oberstein says the stakes are awfully high, and Blackie asks us to tell Bug to come to the TV room. When we’re all assembled, Blackie slams his fist against the wall and says, “Sorry, Bug, but you insult America, you take a big chance . . .”

  “You shouldn’t of punched me.” Bug’s voice twangs with injury, and he begins to cry. “You’re twice as strong as I am. And I got a fucken hole in my heart.” The tears start really rolling.

  “I hardly touched you. It was just a gentle poke . . .”

  “I want financial compensation or I’m tellin’ McCann about everythin’ right fucken now,” he shouts, his whole upper body shaking with the emphasis of his words.

  “It was just a love tap,” Blackie yells. “For Chrissakes, Bug . . .”

  “Five dollars. And your canteen card. The clock’s ticking.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Blackie says. “Jesus, you’re touchy lately.” Bug’s lower lip curls as he bolts from the room like a singed cat.

  “He’ll be fine,” Blackie says. “He ain’t gonna squeal now.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Oberstein says.

  “I know Bug. I’ll talk to him. He’ll be fine.”

  “Talk to him soon,” Oberstein says, as we race after Bug. His face is ghostly. He’s worried. We find Bug where he always goes to sulk, the last stall in the washroom, which, as always, has a faint pissy smell. He’s sniffling and sobbing and saying fuck a lot and kicking the stall door.

  “Bug?” Oberstein says.

  Silence. I can picture him in there, kicking at the door, outraged, sniffling between each kick.

  “Bug, he shouldn’t of poked you.”

  “Punched me.”

  “Okay, punched you. I’m an American too, Bug . . .”

  “Yeah, and what ever happened to freedom of speech in the land of the fucken free? Blackie’s a bully. A big bully. And he’s a show-off. He thinks he’s King Tuk . . . And he knows I got a fucken hole in my heart.”

  “Tut. It’s King Tut, Bug.” There’s a strain on Oberstein’s face, like he has to go to the bathroom. “Look, I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”

  “Stop trying to pawn it off,” he interrupts. “Blackie’s a prick.”

  Oberstein leans his head against the stall. His face twitches as he whispers, “He’s sorry, Bug.”

  “He’s a first-class prick. He’s got no right to go around hitting people.”

  “You’re right, Bug. Hundred percent!” Oberstein says. “He was wrong to punch you. Blackie’s wrong.”

  “Fucken right, he’s wrong.” He sniffles and starts singing, but he’s half-sobbing and not hitting most of the notes:

  Yankee doodle went to town

  Riding on a pony.

  Stuck a feather up his ass

  And called it macaroni.

  Oberstein has to put his hand over my mouth to hold back the laughter.

  Silence. The sound of Bug peeing and sniffling.

  “You okay, Bug? Bug, you okay?”

  “You’re not snapping the lizard in there, are you, Bug?” I joke, trying to cheer him up.

  “Fly the fuck,” he says.

  Oberstein’s eyes pop. He strains his mouth and knifes his index finger across his throat. Another silence, followed by a loud kerplunk. Oberstein puts his hand over my mouth again.

  The toilet flushes. Bug sighs and appears, faintly white, except for his eyes, which are red rimmed as if he’s been rubbing them.

  “What are you looking at, fuck nuts?” He pulls his pants up over his belly button and tugs at his belt. “I want compensation. I got a hole in my heart.” He drops his jaw and cocks his head like a dog. And I almost burst out laughing.

  “Blackie’s agreed to that,” Oberstein says. “He’ll give you compensation.”

  I look at the pee stains on Bug’s pants as he cocks his head again and pushes past us.

  “Fucken well better,” he says.

  At lunch, Blackie asks if I’m all set for my big date, and tells Oberstein to give me fifty cents from the Bank of Newfoundland to buy something for my girl. “You don’t wanna be a cheapskate. And give Bug five dollars and a pack of cigarettes,” he says. “That’ll shut him up.”

  After lunch, Oberstein and Kavanagh walk to the General Hospital with me, and we horse around by Quidi Vidi Lake until two o’clock, when it’s time to go visit Clare. A sparrow of a nurse leads me to her room on the second floor, where Clare has one hand hooked up to a machine and the other holding her rosary. She looks sad and anxious, as if in a dream, and her thick blond hair is hidden by her new white novice veil.

  “I miss seeing your golden hair,” I say.

  “It’s cut off,” she says. “You have to cut your hair when you take the veil. Thought I might as well get used to it.”

  “Big game last night,” I say, examining the machine. “Canadiens clobbered the Leafs five to one.”

  “I’d rather talk about the greatest hitter who ever lived,” she says. “About his records, which will never be broken.”

  “You mean Lou Gehrig?” I say, teasing her.

  “Who’s he?” she says.

  I don’t say anything. I’m amazed by the pole she’s hooked up to. It looks like a lamp post. It’s got a plastic bag attached to it, and there’s a tube going from the bag to the back of Clare’s hand. She sees me gaping and says, “That’s called an intravenous. That’s how the antibiotics get into my system to fight the infection.”

  “It looks pretty scary,” I say. “And you look kinda weak.”

  “I’m not,” Clare says. “And that’s just fighting the infection. But you don’t have to concern yourself with it. What’s new at Mount Kildare?”

  “Not much,” I say. “I came fourth in a long-distance race last week. Shorty Richardson came first. Beat us all by ten minutes.”

  “He must be fast.”

  “Fastest boy in the Mount. Runs like the wind.”

  “I am never alone, Lord, your wings widespread and ready for flight,” she says, her eyes becoming heavy lidded, as if fighting sleep.

  “Give them wings, Lord,” I whisper.

  “What did you say?” she asks.

  “Nothing, just something Oberstein always says. Do you really think Ted Williams’ record will never be broken?”

  She smiles and says nothing.

  “Whatcha thinkin’?” I ask.

  “My beloved Red Sox . . . If I had been able to go to his games, I would have had tears in my eyes every time he came to the plate.” She looks at me like she’s remembering a date she had with him, and I think of Evan. “During his senior year in high school, while pitching and playing outfield, he batted .406. On the mound, he was just as good, a sixteen-and-three record. Once, he struck out twenty-three batters. The Yankees offered him two hundred dollars a month to sign with them, but his mother said no. She wanted him to finish his schooling. So he played semi-pro for three dollars a week. Thank God for mothers. Ted Williams could have been a Yankee.”

  She laughs and drops her rosary, reaches inside her habit and withdraws a package of bubblegum baseball cards. I rip open the package and pull out the cards. Two Cincinnati Reds and one Yankee, Elston Howard. I throw my arms around her neck and give her a big kiss.

  “Easy,” she says, “you’ll unhook the tube.”

  I offer her some bubblegum, which she loves, and we both sit there, chewing away and talking about baseball, mostly, and a bit about religion. She wants to know if I say my morning and night prayers. She says my first and last thoughts each day should be of God. I tell her I do, which is a lie, and add that I offer Mass up for her every morning, which is true.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  Around t
en to three I get kind of antsy, and tell her the brothers gave me a quarter to buy her something from the canteen. She says she’d like a hazelnut bar or a Tootsie Roll. We chat until my Mickey says three minutes to three and I bolt. The canteen is on the ground floor. When I get there, the first thing I see is the back of Ruthie Peckford’s head, that beautiful blond hair. As usual, she is wearing a plaid skirt and high heels. She asks if I’d like anything from the canteen. There are no hazelnut bars, so I ask for two Tootsie Rolls, which she insists on paying for.

  “I don’t have much time,” I say. “I’m visiting my sister on the second floor. She had a cyst on her ovary and after the operation got a bad infection.”

  “Jeepers, that’s pretty bad luck.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And there’s more bad luck. We only got about ten minutes. I’ll tell my sister I got lost.”

  “Come this way,” she says, taking my hand and leading me down an unlit corridor. The feel of her soft hand is beautiful, and I want to jump her in the corridor and kiss her like crazy for ten minutes.

  “Have you ever gone steady?” she asks, stopping by a huge green door.

  “No,” I say.

  “Wouldja like to?” she asks, pushing the door open and pulling me through to the other side.

  “Like to what?” I ask.

  “Go steady . . . with me,” she says, kissing me hard on the lips. I start to tremble, and my knees get weak. I’m not sure if it’s because of the question, her kiss, or the fear of getting caught.

  “This is the linen room, where they store the clean sheets and pillow slips. There’s no one here. I checked it out.” She kisses me again, and her lips are as soft as marshmallows. “Now that we’re going steady,” she whispers, “we can neck.” While we’re necking, she shuffle-dances past the door and pins me to the wall, teasing my teeth with her tongue. In no time, I’m hard as a rock. Out of the blue, she starts a giggling fit and puts both hands to her mouth.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, sure that she’s laughing at my hardness.

  Her giggles turn to laughter as she says, “I was just thinking, if you knocked me up, this would be the perfect place to be to have a baby.”

  I get the quickest reverse hard-on in the history of the world.

  “Gog. Got. Go . . .” I mumble. “My sister’s stuck to a pole.” I look at my Mickey. It’s three-fifteen. I wiggle away from her.

  “Don’t forget the sock hop,” she yells. “Next Saturday!”

  I race to Clare’s room, arriving in a sweat.

  “What took you so long? I was beginning to worry about you.” Clare’s eyes are strained, and her face flushes as she questions me.

  “I got lost in the halls. They’re winding. Full of turns, and it’s really dark down there,” I say, handing her a Tootsie Roll.

  “It’s a big hospital. It’s easy to get lost.”

  “Did I tell you I got asked to the McPherson sock hop next Saturday?”

  “You have a girlfriend?” “Not really. She just asked me to the dance.” “Well, that’s nice. Behave like a gentleman at all times. Do you have some money to buy her something?”

  “Yeah, I have fifty cents,” I lie, “from the last time you gave me money.”

  “Well, have a good time. And don’t take cigarettes from anyone. It’s a very bad habit.” She unwraps her Tootsie Roll and gives me half. “Save yours for later,” she smiles. “I only want a bite.” We sit there, munching away on the sweet candy. When we finish, she smiles and passes me her rosary beads and says, “Close your eyes and say a sorrowful decade for my recovery.”

  I close my eyes and pretend to mumble Hail Marys, but all I can think about is Ruthie Peckford’s blond bangs and soft lips and how long it will be before we have to get married, now that we’re going steady.

  Back at the Mount, Brother McMurtry has called a meeting of our dorm. Small and pale, he stands in front of us and wipes his swollen forehead with the palm of his hand. “I have decided to offer a reward,” he says. “A reward for information that will help us find the culprits who stole the wine. Actually, there will be several rewards. A new canteen card for next month, in addition to your regular canteen card. The boy who supplies this information will have two canteen cards for next month. Two canteen cards to use at his leisure.” He holds up a silver key and passes it to McCann. “Brother McCann will open the canteen three additional weeknights for the boy or boys with an extra canteen card. That’s one reward. Another reward will be extra free time in town on Saturdays. And the best reward of all: a pass to a Saturday night hockey game at Memorial Stadium to see the St. John’s Caps.” Brother McMurtry steps aside, and McCann moves to the center of the classroom.

  “Any boy or boys who would like to report information that may be helpful to us may do so at any time simply by slipping a note underneath the monastery door. Or my classroom door, whichever is convenient. If Ryans, for example, or Kavanaghs or Spencers wants to provide information, all you have to do is write a note and slip it under the door. Simple. Very simple. Are there any questions? Raise your hand if you have a question.”

  Bug propels his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Bradburys.”

  “What about if you want a different kind of prize? What about if you wanted to trade the hockey game prize for a Saturday movie at the Nickel? Would you be allowed to do that?”

  McCann looks in Brother McMurtry’s direction.

  “Of course,” Brother McMurtry nods his head. “A movie is an excellent idea for a reward. A movie downtown, at the Nickel, with popcorn and soda pop.”

  “That would be a better prize,” Bug sulks.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bradburys. Are there any other questions?”

  “What if someone thinks he has information, Brother,” Bug says, sucking up, “but it turns out to be no good. Does anything happen to him?”

  “If you mean, will that boy be punished,” McMurtry says, “the answer is no. Absolutely not. In fact, if he is sincere and thinks the information is accurate, that boy will most likely get a treat for trying to help us catch the culprits. Isn’t that right, Brother McCann?”

  “Yes, Brother,” McCann says.

  “Raise your hand if there are any further questions. If there are no hands,” he says, staring sharply at us as if to see what we are secretly thinking, “Brother McCann will review the procedure for reporting information.”

  There are no more questions, so McCann reminds us once again where to put the note. “And be sure to sign it,” he says, “so we’ll be certain to know who gets the reward.”

  “Of course,” Brother McMurtry says, “if you wish to provide information and do not wish to sign your name, you wish to remain anonymous, that will be fine. Your privacy will be protected.”

  “I don’t like it one bit,” Oberstein says after we’re dismissed. “That’s a pretty big carrot they’re dangling in front of the Klub members.”

  “And that’s a pretty hard birch stick we got at the cave,” Blackie says. “If someone squeals . . .”

  “But what if someone gets jittery and caves in?” Murphy says.

  We all look at Blackie, who is tapping his gold tooth. Not a good sign. He is nervous.

  “What are we gonna do, Blackie?” Ryan asks.

  “Someone’s gonna have to write a note,” Blackie says.

  “Sure ain’t gonna be me, brother,” Bug says.

  “A note?” Oberstein says. “Whaddaya mean? What kinda note?”

  “Let’s think about that,” Blackie says. “Let’s think real hard.”

  When Oberstein tells me there’ll probably be a door charge at Ruthie Peckford’s school dance, I’m beside myself until Blackie tells me not to fret, I can take it from the Bank of Newfoundland. “Won’t be too much,” he says. “Fifty cents, maybe.”

  “I’m really, really nervous,” I say. “I’ve never been to a dance before. What do I do? What if I can’t find her? What if she’s late or she doesn’t show up? Or I’m late and she’s al
ready at the dance?”

  “Relax,” Oberstein says. “When you get to the dance, if you can’t find her, just follow a bunch of people inside and walk around looking for her. She’ll be there somewhere. Or just find a spot to sit down and talk to someone. Or stand around listening to the band. Just do what everyone else is doing. Nobody will notice you. Relax. Just don’t squint your eyes a lot. You look kinda dumb when you do that.”

  “If you’re really lucky, maybe some gal will ask you for a kiss and shove her tongue down your throat,” Bug hollers.

  The night of the dance, I’m as ready as can be. Father Cross has given me a really neat haircut and lends me his razor to clean up my peach fuzz. And Fitzy lends me his comb and some Vitalis. Murphy gives me his underarm deodorant. Everyone is really excited for me. Even Bug, who offers his Old Spice. Out of nowhere, Blackie and Oberstein come up with a shoebox that Cross has been painting all week. It’s really beautiful. Every color in the rainbow.

  “Open it,” Blackie says. “Big surprise for the lady’s man. For the big shindig.”

  I open the box and stare at a new pair of sneakers. Not the black-and-white canvas kind all the norphs wear. Real runners. Red Converse high-tops. They look magical.

  “Give him wings, Lord, that he may fly,” Oberstein chants.

  As I take them out of the box, I start to cry.

  “Hey, cut that out,” Blackie says. “Predictin’ an eight-minute mile tonight. Eight, could be seven if you kiss her long enough.”

  When I’m all laced up and ready to go, Father Cross steps back and examines me. “Cat’s meow,” he says, and starts splashing my face with aftershave. After he touches up my hair they each take turns teaching me how to dance. Bug shouts, “Chubby Checker got nuttin’ on me, brother.” He flaps his arms and puckers his lips and twists like a maniac. Watching Bug dance around, smooching his lips and wiggling his bum, cracks me up so much I can’t concentrate. Finally, Father Cross shows me how to twist without being too noticeable. “It’s all in how you hold your head,” he says. “That’s how Chubby Checker does it. Think of Chubby Checker when you’re moving around. And don’t worry about the slow dances. The slow dances are easy. But don’t take jerky steps. Just get the girl to lay her head on your shoulder and hang on to her hips. Like they do on American Bandstand.”