by Leo Furey
“Yeah, put your hands on her hips, but don’t forget to pull her toward you.” Bug wolf-whistles and makes panting noises.
Everyone laughs and wishes me luck. Before I head out, Blackie asks if I know how to kiss.
“Oh, I know how to kiss,” I say.
“How do you do it?” Blackie says.
“On the lips,” I say. “You just kiss her on the lips.”
“Ain’t that simple,” Blackie says. “You gotta be careful when you smooch. You don’t wanna look stupid, or worse, be taken for a sissy. And most important of all, you gotta be sure your noses don’t knock. You gotta tilt your head at an angle so your noses don’t knock.”
He grabs Bug and demonstrates.
“Got it?” he asks. To a chorus of laughter, Bug yells yuck, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” I say, “I got it.”
“And don’t forget to buy her a cola or something,” Murphy says. “You don’t want her to think you’re a cheapskate.”
As I leave, Father Cross tells me I’ve forgotten something. He passes me a wallet, which he has made from old scraps of leather. “The pièce de résistance,” he says. “You won’t get very far in life without one of them.” I open it and find a one-dollar bill inside.
Oberstein and Bug walk with me to the gate. The smell of the unthawed earth fills the night. It is stronger than Bug’s Old Spice.
“You look real pretty,” Bug says, giggling and wiggling and bellowing like a cow.
“You smell like the whore of Babylon,” Oberstein says.
Halfway across Elizabeth Avenue, I can still hear them laughing and shouting: “Don’t forget to let her put her head on your shoulder . . . Just like in the song!” Bug’s shrill off-key voice is almost drowned out by Oberstein’s boom: “Put your head on my shoulder . . .”
At the entrance to McPherson Junior High, I search frantically for Ruthie Peckford, who’s nowhere in sight. My heart’s in my throat as I follow the plan and join a group of people entering the building. Inside, one of the parent chaperones, a skeleton with jug ears dressed like an undertaker, welcomes us. He stares at me oddly and says, “And what’s your name, sonny?”
“Floyd,” I say in my toughest Cagney. “Floyd . . . Oberstein.”
“Oberstein . . . That’s not a St. John’s name. What does your father do? Does he work for the government?”
“Visiting,” I whisper hoarsely, “from Toronto . . .” I lower my head and stare at my new sneakers.
“Toronto? Whereabouts in Toronto?”
“Washroom,” I squeak, grabbing my crotch and crossing my legs while straining like I’m gonna piss myself.
“Oh heavens,” he says, “right this way, right this way.” He escorts me to the boys’ washroom.
Inside the smoky room, there’s a hubbub of activity. Two guys in leather jackets puff hard on their cigarettes, while another guy fans smoke toward an open window. Guys are checking their ducktails in the mirrors above the long row of sinks. A beefy guy with a wart on his forehead is arguing with his buddy about stealing his date. I slouch inside a cubicle, lock the door and sit on the toilet. When the argument ends and the noise dies down, I check my hair in the mirror. The Vitalis is holding up fine. Pretty soon, the band starts up. There’s chaos and hurry and girls squealing outside as everyone heads for the dance floor.
Ruthie Peckford’s blond bangs are unmistakable. I love the way her hair hangs, mournfully, like it’s begging to be touched. I spot her near the entrance, straining to get a view of the newcomers. She looks beautiful in a deep-blue velvet dress with a light-blue collar patterned with snowflakes. And she is anxiously looking for her date. I sneak up behind her, and in my best Humphrey Bogart accent say, “Hey sweetheart, would you like to dance?”
She turns and beams. “I knew you’d come. I just knew it.” She hugs me like I’m a long lost friend. We head to the dance floor and dance for a while, but she’s very pretty so everyone keeps cutting in and dancing with her. I keep waiting for a slow waltz to cut back in, but all the songs are fast and I’m really nervous about dancing fast. I stare around the gymnasium. Along the walls are fold-up chairs with girls who aren’t very pretty sitting very straight and staring at all the lucky girls who’ve been asked to dance. I feel so sorry for the girls sitting around that I start to get tears in my eyes thinking how stupid and unfair it all is, so I approach one, a thin girl with Coke-bottle glasses, and ask her to dance. She springs forward like she’s just been pinched. We’re dancing away to a slow song, and Ruthie Peckford cuts in, which I later learn she’s not supposed to do because it isn’t proper. The thin girl stops dancing with a jerk, slaps a hand on her hip and huffs, before storming off. We dance for a minute, but I’m afraid someone’s gonna cut in, so I walk her to the canteen and buy her a cola and a bag of chips.
“I can’t stay past eight-thirty,” I say. “I’m diabetic. I’ve got to be home to take my medicine.”
“Oh, what a sin!” she sighs, like I just told her I had three weeks to live. “I’ll walk home with you.”
“That’s okay,” I lie. “Brother McMurtry’s coming to pick me up.”
We go back to the dance floor and stand there for a long time, not speaking, just staring at the dancers moving in the strobe light. Now and then a boy asks Ruthie to dance, but she says no. Then, out of the blue, she says, “You’re really cute.”
I don’t say anything.
“Guess how long we’ve been going steady?”
Her best friend, Paula, who has wavy brown hair and long red fingernails, passes by with her boyfriend. She introduces me. When they’re gone she says, “They’re going steady.”
“What’s that?” I ask, pretending not to know.
“Dontcha remember? I asked you that day you were visiting your sister at the hospital.”
“I don’t remember,” I lie.
“Well, it’s been two weeks,” she pouts. “Dontcha know? Dontcha know that when a boy and a girl really like each other a lot, and they don’t want to go out with anyone else, the boy gives the girl a ring and they go steady. Dontcha know? Then a while later, they become engaged . . . then they get married. That’s how it all works. That’s how babies begin.”
The band starts playing a slow song, the lead singer dragging out the words. To avoid talking about going steady, I ask her to dance. She leans her head on my shoulder and sighs like she’s about to fall asleep. I put my fingers on her hips. They’re so bony I pull back like I’ve been burned.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“Nuthin’,” I say and grab her hips hard, thinking back to what Blackie said about a girl’s looks and size and shape.
As we’re swaying to the music, I loosen my grip. And for a minute it feels like we’re perfect together. When the song is over, she stares into my eyes a long time and whispers, “I love you.”
“I gotta go,” I say. “I gotta take my insulin.”
As I start running home, I can see the big Celtic cross above Mount Kildare blinking on and off. The air smells of wet earth. I stare at my new runners and hope the last of the melting slush won’t ruin them, and I know I’m making great time as I enter Elizabeth Avenue. It’ll soon be bedtime. The feeling of love pounds in my runner’s heart. I think of the marathon and pick up speed passing Rennie’s River, which is raging from the spring thaw. I think of Virginia Waters, and how all the rain and melting snow must’ve created a roaring river by now. I love being by a river when it’s roaring. It sounds alive. Like an animal. I check my Mickey and beam as I fly past St. Patrick’s Mercy Home, my heart outracing me as I move closer to the blinking cross and my bunk bed and dreams of getting married to Ruthie Peckford.
16
* * *
Interviews in the TV room. Interviews in the TV room. Interviews. Interviews.
THE NEXT MORNING, after breakfast, Brother McMurtry announces over the PA that all the boys in St. Luke’s and St. Martin’s dorms are to line up outside th
e TV room for individual interviews on what he calls “the facts of life” with the Brother Superior, who has just arrived from Rome. There will be another meeting later with the assistant to the Brother Superior for anyone the brothers think might have a vocation to the brotherhood.
“Gosh, what’s the facts of life?” Rowsell asks.
“You know, world history and all that stuff,” Murphy says.
“No, it ain’t. Don’t be such an idiot. It means having babies and all that old crap,” Bug Bradbury says. Bug has seen the light. He’s become a true atheist since an argument in class between Brother Walsh and Oberstein about the Church’s official teachings. Oberstein argued that common sense is more important than ancient laws. Brother Walsh said we need the official teachings of the Church to prevent people from fooling themselves into doing whatever they feel like. Otherwise, people would deceive themselves, he said. It was a really big argument.
“If Jeremiah or Isaiah had to depend on anyone, they wouldn’t have been prophets,” Oberstein said after class. “It makes more sense to be your own priest and prophet, rather than depend on somebody else.” He convinced Bug that common sense is more important than any law. “If you lose your marbles, you’re a dead duck. You’re finished without common sense. You have nothing,” Oberstein said. “You’ll become just like a robot. Just like Gort in The Day the Earth Stood Still.” Bug beamed. He’d seen the light.
“You’re right on the money, brother,” he said to Oberstein. “Why should I feel guilty about snapping the lizard all day? Shag that.”
Bug’s a new man. His attitude has completely changed about everything religious. He’s an atheist, he says, and proud of it. He even lies in confession. He says it’s fun, and having a few laughs is more important than trying to be a holy-holy. His last trip to the confession box, he told Monsignor Flynn that he’s having a very serious discussion with the devil about getting to spend a night with Marilyn Monroe. Then he almost gave old Flynn a heart attack when he said he was having impure thoughts about sleeping with Marilyn and Jane Mansfield at the same time. Another time he asked old Flynn if he ever tugged the toad. Luckily, old Flynn didn’t know what he was talking about. He thought he was confessing to blowing up a frog.
It’s an odd sight. All the norphs leaning silently against the oak wainscoting outside the TV room, waiting obediently for an interview with the Brother Superior, a man we’ve never met. But we’re sure he’s very important because he has come all the way from Rome to talk to each of us about the facts of life. The long line stretches through the corridor and down the stairs leading to the cafeteria. The only other time we line up like that is when we have confession during Lent. A dozen priests from the Basilica come, and temporary confessionals are set up all over the place so that the hundreds of boys can fulfill their Easter duty. Which means you have to go to confession at least once a year to remain a Catholic. Which Oberstein says defies common sense, like eating meat on Friday.
Oberstein is behind me in the lineup. Ryan is in front of me, and Bug is ahead of him, driving everyone nuts, chanting “Mooooo” and running his knuckles back and forth along the wainscoting, acting like he’s Liberace. When the Brother Superior calls for the next boy in line, you’re supposed to go into the TV room and sit on a chair and ask this brother who’s visiting from the head office in Rome any question you want about the so-called facts of life.
“I haven’t got a clue what to ask,” Ryan whispers.
“Neither do I,” I confess.
“Just ask where babies come from,” Oberstein says. “The Brother Superior will give you an explanation, and you nod your head and leave. There’s nothing to it.”
“Is there penance?” Ryan asks. “Will we be tested on it?”
“No, there’s no penance, no test,” Oberstein says. “It’s not like confession or school. It’s more like a private conversation.”
“Omigod! I’m not askin’ that. A two-year-old knows where babies come from,” Bug squeaks. “I’m not askin’ nuthin’. I’m gonna be tellin’ Brother Hoity-Toity Know-It-All from Rome a thing or two. Not askin’. Those guys don’t know nuthin’ about girls. I’ll be tellin’, not askin’.”
“Tellin’ what?” Ryan asks.
“That masturbation’s not a mortal sin, Mr. Smarty-pants. And that you’re not goin’ to hell for doin’ it. That McCann’s wrong about it. That Holy Mother Church is wrong. That the Romans are wrong. And another thing, brother, I’m gonna tell him that it’s not even a venial sin to eat meat on Fridays. And anyone who thinks it is a sin is nuts, including Monsignor Flynn and Brother High-Falutin’ Superior Know-It-All from Rome. And even the Pope, if you wanna know.”
“Eating meat on Friday has nothing to do with the facts of life,” Oberstein says. “The facts of life only have to do with the birds and the bees, sex-related issues.”
“Okay then,” Bug yelps. “I’ll tell him it ain’t a sin to get a hard-on thinking about a pretty woman. Like a movie star. Marilyn Monroe.” Bug puckers up his lips.
“You’d better not say ‘hard-on.’ You’d better use a different expression. Say ‘getting aroused,’” Oberstein says.
“Yeah. The Brother Superior might strap you for saying something like that,” Ryan says.
“Naaah! He wouldn’t strap anyone,” Bug says.
“Why not?” Ryan asks.
“’Cause he’s from Rome,” Bug says.
“What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” Oberstein says.
“’Cause he’s over there in Rome with all the other holyholies saying the rosary and going to Mass and Benediction and meditating all the time. They don’t go around strapping anyone over in Rome. They’re not like the clowns around here. They don’t have the time for it.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Ryan says. “A brother is a brother, no matter what, and he can strap anyone anywhere in the world, if you ask me.”
“Who’s askin’ ya?” Bug shrieks and gives Ryan the finger.
“I’m not gonna tell the Brother Superior anything. I’m taking Oberstein’s advice. I’m just askin’ one simple question. Where do babies come from?” Ryan says.
“I’m not askin’ Brother Smarty-pants anything. I’m gonna tell him where babies come from. And then I’m gonna ask him if he has any Italian cigarettes,” Bug says, just as the door to the TV room opens for his turn to be interviewed.
The Brother Superior is a bullish man whose upper lip curls outward so that almost all his teeth are entirely exposed.
Bug cocks his head toward the Brother Superior. “Jerry Lewis,” he says, and walks to the door.
“And what’s your name, son?” the Brother Superior asks.
“Darby O’Gill,” Bug says, recalling the name from a movie we once saw called Darby O’Gill and the Little People.
“Very well, Darby, my name is Brother LaForgue. Right this way, if you please.”
The door closes, and everything becomes silent for a few minutes, and then we hear the Brother Superior screaming, “Because it is a sin, that’s why. A sin is a sin.”
There’s silence for another minute, and then the Brother Superior’s voice booms again, “I am not here, young man, to argue with you about what is and what is not a mortal sin.”
Another brief silence. Again, the Brother Superior’s voice, this time much louder. “No, I do not have any Italian cigarettes. I do not smoke.”
And with that, Bug comes charging through the door, his head cocked to one side, proud as a peacock, looking as if he’s just arrived at home plate after hitting a grand slam.
When my turn comes with the Brother Superior, I tell him my real name and sit on one of the straight-backed chairs he offers me.
“You know this young O’Gill fellow, yes?” he asks, with a humorless snicker. “He is a friend of yours?”
“No,” I answer, not realizing he’s referring to Bug.
“A very argumentative little fellow,” he says. “Amazingly argumentative for su
ch a young man. And amazingly arrogant for a norphan.” He removes a snow-white handkerchief from the inside sleeve of his soutane and silently blows his nose. “But it mustn’t be easy, being a norphan. There must be many an argument among all you boys.”
I don’t say anything. He leans forward slightly, places his hands on his knees, drums his fingers and stares at his shiny black shoes.
“You are familiar with the facts of life, yes?” he asks shyly.
“Sort of,” I say.
“You have some questions you would like answered?”
“I’d . . . like to know . . . where . . . babies come from,” I stammer.
“You know something about this subject, yes?” he asks.
“Nothing, Brother,” I lie.
“Very well.” He lowers his voice. “When the man and woman, husband and wife, have intercourse, at the appropriate time, the man’s penis becomes erect.” His voice becomes a whisper as if he’s sharing some great secret. And he forms a small circle with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand.
“The woman, at the appropriate time, receives the erect penis.” He raises the index finger of his right hand, points it at me, accusingly, and pushes it back and forth through the circle, his brow furrowing with each push. “During the intercourse, at an appropriate time, the penis releases semen, which the woman receives. And voilá . . .” He throws his arms up, flicking all his fingers outward at the same time. “The recipe is complete. Nine months later, little Junior comes howling and screaming into this vale of tears.”
He looks at me with a big stupid grin, and all I can think of is Jerry Lewis. I bite my tongue and squint my eyes hard, trying not to laugh.
“You now fully comprehend the facts of life, yes?”
I tell him that I do, and thank him for his explanation. I race past the blank faces to search for Bug Bradbury to compare notes and to get all the juicy details of Bug’s encounter with the man who from that day forward would always be known as Brother Jerry Lewis.