by Leo Furey
Blackie raises his hand. There’s a long silence.
“Goin’ it alone. Ain’t no other way. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men . . .’”
There’s another long silence, and Blackie indicates he wants to say goodbye to each of us, one at a time. He fixes his eyes on Murphy and Kavanagh, pats them both on the shoulders and passes them a piece of paper. “Name of the street I lived on in Harlem,” he says, “in case you wanna visit sometime.” It’s the saddest moment, because we’re thinking about what will happen to him if he gets caught. Or worse, if he makes it to Nova Scotia. How will he make out? What will he eat? Where will he sleep? We’re worried for him, and sad because we’re losing our leader and we know nobody can replace Blackie, ever.
When he gets to Oberstein, he hugs him and smiles a long smile and says he’s the smartest man in Newfoundland. “Rabbi, you’re the noblest norphan of all. Everything kosher?” he asks, and Oberstein says everything’s kosher, and Blackie laughs again. He tells him he will send him a postcard from New York. “Gonna sign it Yogi Berra,” he says. Oberstein turns away to hide his tears.
He shakes everyone’s hand, Roman style. “When you’re runnin’,” he says to Richardson and Ryan, “be thinkin’ of me. When I’m runnin’, I’ll be thinkin’ of you.”
When he gets to me, he locks my eyes in a terrible gaze, and my heart jumps. Then he smiles a wide smile, flashes his gold tooth and puts a hand on each shoulder. I can feel the heat of his hands through my sweater. As he speaks, his thumbs press hard against my neck like he is sending a signal for me to listen carefully.
“The last of the Romans . . . There’s a writer hidden in you somewhere,” he tousles my hair. “All you gotta do is let him out. You got what it takes. Stuff you wrote ’bout Floyd Patterson . . .” He shakes his head. “A sports writer, maybe. Don’t let nothin’ get in your way. Remember to listen hard when someone speaks. Like Rags. Most people never listen hard.” He removes his hands from my shoulders and just stands there with that far-off look on his face. “‘Forever and forever, farewell, Cassius.’” I try to speak. The words barely come. “I’ll miss you, Blackie,” I say, and turn away.
“Gonna miss you too,” Blackie says, “for a day or so.”
Everyone laughs, and Oberstein starts booming out: “And we’ll all glow together . . .”
Ryan wakes me in the middle of the night. “Got a cigarette?” he says.
“You’re runnin’ tomorrow, Ryan. Jesus.”
“I need a cigarette.”
I go to Cross’s bed and fetch a Viceroy. Ryan sits on my bunk and lights up.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “As much as I’ll ever be.”
He’s dragging pretty hard on the cigarette, so I tell him not to inhale so much. He doesn’t say anything, so I poke him and tousle his hair, the way Rags does when he wants you to cheer up.
“Don’t touch me,” he says. “You know I hate being touched.”
I tell him I’m sorry. We smoke for a while and outta the blue he asks, “Did you ever think you could kill someone?”
I swallow my Adam’s apple. “Jesus, Ryan, what are you getting on with?”
“It’s been on my mind. Since what he did to Blackie.”
“Ryan, we’ve all been strapped . . .”
“Not like that . . .” he shakes his head. “Not like that.”
“But killing . . .”
“I know. I know. It’s a mortal sin. I’m not saying I’ll do it. I’m just saying I want to. The thought’s entered my mind, that’s all. I know I don’t have the balls to. But Blackie does. Maybe that’s why he’s taking off. He told me once that he’d like to kill McCann.”
“He didn’t mean it. Blackie wouldn’t—”
“He meant it. One time at the cave he told me he would do it or find someone who could. Someone who could believe strong enough.” Ryan passes me the cigarette. “I might not run tomorrow,” he says. “I might just see Blackie off and go to the races.”
He starts to cry. “Why the fuck did Bug do it? Back-stabbin’ Brutus! Blackie was his best friend. Some fucken friend. With friends like that, who needs enemies?” He rocks back and forth, his face grimacing.
“Bug’s gone now, Ryan,” I say.
“Yeah. Bug’s gone. And Blackie’s goin’. And I might too. We all should. How far’s New York, anyway?”
“Quite a ways! Far as ever a puffin flew.”
“Wish we could all fly that far,” he sighs. “I’m gonna ask Blackie to let me join him when we head out tomorrow. I know he’ll let me go with him. I just know it. He will, won’t he?”
“Blackie’s goin’ alone, Ryan. You know Blackie. Besides, we need you for the marathon.”
“Fuck the marathon,” he says. “I hope I die of exhaustion. Like the first guy who ran one.”
He’s so upset I start to worry. “We better get some sleep. Got a big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah, the big day,” he says, and walks away.
Oberstein rouses me at five o’clock. “The heavens opened an hour ago,” he says. “Worse than Noah’s flood. It’s coming down in buckets.”
Murphy appears. “Jesus, it’s pissin’ out,” he says. The rain is so heavy you can hear it pattering on the windowpanes.
Soon all the runners are up. We stare out the open window at the gray rain. The pigeons are cooing mournfully from the shelter of the eaves, as if they know our plight. I lean my head out, straining to see if Nicky’s around.
“Never rains but it pours,” Oberstein chuckles.
“Shuddup! What’s the forecast?” Blackie says.
“Spoze to clear by noon,” Oberstein says.
“Shit. I gotta go,” Blackie says. “I’m New York–bound. Gotta leave by nine. Got a heavy date.”
“It’s gonna clear. Relax. It’ll clear,” Oberstein says.
“Better. Can’t run in this shit.” Blackie slaps the wet stone of the window frame.
“Don’t worry, Blackie, it’ll clear.”
“Gonna talk to one of your prophets. Noah, maybe?” Blackie’s angry and nervous that something might go wrong.
“Noah’s not a prophet,” Oberstein scoffs.
“Where’s your God when we really need him?” Blackie whines. “Always on holiday when he’s needed.”
The rain beats harder. “Jesus! You can’t all run in this shit. Best to let Shorty and Ryan run it alone. Others join the peashooters. Work the sidelines. Gonna be our best chance.”
“We’ve prepared for all conditions,” I say. “You’re the one who says to believe.”
“Shit,” Blackie says, staring out the window. “Can’t even see Torbay Road. He turns and stares at everyone. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
He kicks one of the wooden lockers. And for the first time, I detect a flash of defeat in his beady black eyes.
Father Cross appears. “Richardson’s fine. Slight temp, but he’s okay. Says he’ll win by a country mile.” Oberstein is moody, but determined to beat all odds. “We’re taking Blackie’s advice,” he says. “Only Richardson and Ryan will run. The rest will join the trackers and spotters and peashooters and work from the sidelines. I want the whole Klub peashooting. Make sure we get a medal.”
The rain slows after breakfast, around nine o’clock, just before Blackie and Ryan head out. Murphy’s transistor informs us that the St. John’s Royal Regatta Marathon will take place on a gray, drizzly day. Richardson is up and about, stretching and running on the spot. “He’s never looked better,” Father Cross says.
When Ryan returns, he refuses to do warm-ups. We learn that he ran with Blackie the short distance across Elizabeth Avenue to Kenmount Road. Blackie stopped there, hugged him and told him to go back. Ryan was shocked. He thought he’d run with him all the way to the Nova Scotia ferry. To freedom, Ryan whispers. He felt at first like he was being betrayed, and later like a dog leaving his master. He kept looking back at Blackie running toward the horizon. He tells us he yelled ou
t Blackie’s name once and started running toward him. Blackie stopped and laughed and picked up a stone and threw it at him and told him next time he wouldn’t miss. He told him to hurry on back to the Mount to help with the marathon. Ryan says he stood and stared until the green boxers disappeared. Then he turned and ran toward the city, crying his eyes out. He was crying so much he said he couldn’t see the road. He had to start walking. He couldn’t run for the longest time.
He is pouting and downcast. His departure from Blackie has given him a severe bout of the spells. Oberstein is worried. “He’s in no mood to run a race,” he says. “Go get Kavanagh and try to perk him up.”
“Do you want something to eat, Ryan? Some juice?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
I try to understand his bitter mood. So much happens at the Mount, your mood can change in a flash. I think of the day he got strapped for running away. Maybe something happened to him that day and it took all this time. Maybe it took seeing it happen to someone else to make him as angry as he is now. I look at him and know that he’s thinking of Blackie and wishing he was by his side, running to freedom. I half understand, and I want to go to him and whisper that I wish I had the guts to run away.
Oberstein returns, smoking a cigarette. His fingers are yellow with nicotine.
“Hence, home, you idle creatures,” he laughs. “The brothers are all gone. They just left for Hogan’s Pond. Only poor little norphs at a norphan home.” He looks at Ryan. “Are you gonna warm up? Richardson’s been asking where you are. He’s down in the yard.”
“I’ll warm up,” he says.
“And you gotta eat, drink some juice.”
“I’ll drink some juice.”
Quidi Vidi Lake is barely a mile from the Mount, near the bottom of Kenna’s Hill, behind Memorial Stadium. We run very slowly, warming up by sprinting and stretching as we go. The air feels wet and salty. Every now and then we backtrack to be with Oberstein, who’s chugging along with us. Thousands of people are at the lake. The shores have been turned into a carnival. People with dreamy looks sit on the banks and watch the races or walk around lakeside buying treats and playing games of chance. There are hundreds of stands and bell tents with spin tickets and plush toys. The place is like a gigantic raffle. On the far side of the lake, at the boathouse, a man with a megaphone announces all the races.
All the Dare Klub members have been at the lake since nine o’clock. They’re hanging out at the oily pole. The favorite stand of every boy at the Mount is Double Your Dole at the Oily Pole. It’s just a greasy pole that you pay a quarter to climb to the top of. If you make it, you get fifty cents back. If you don’t make it, you slide back down into a big pool of water. O’Grady’s so good, they only let him do it twice.
It’s not hard to spot a Mount Kildare boy. We always look like we belong in a Charlie Chaplin movie. We all dress the same, patchy ragamuffin clothes that are either too big or too small. And always the norph glasses and those black-and-white canvas sneakers. You could walk around Quidi Vidi Lake all day just looking at feet and you’d spot every Mount Kildare boy at the regatta.
The racing shells are in the water. They’re six-oared boats with fixed seats. There are races all day long and into the night. The biggest trophy of the day is the Silver Cup. The course record is nine minutes and thirteen seconds, and it was set in 1901 by a crew from Outer Cove. Seventy-five years later, the record still stands. The marathon record is three hours and thirty-six minutes. It’s broken almost every year. Richardson says he’ll break it again today.
We sit on the yellowing grassy bank and watch the first women’s race of the day. The women are wearing fiery red shorts and singlets. They all have their hair tied back. A man wearing a baseball cap sits in the coxswain’s seat. A little girl is running along the shore screaming to her sister, “Row, Jackie, row. Row, row, row, Jackie, row.” And I want to stand and scream, until my head hurts: “Glow, Blackie, glow . . .”
The race is beautiful to watch, the boats lifting out of the water as if they’re floating. I look at the way the rowers’ bodies move. They move like dancers. And they’re like us too, when we run. Together. And I think of all the hard work they must’ve done to get ready for today—the sores on their hands and bums and the buckets of sweat. And I think of how rowing must be harder than running in a way. All six rowers having to do exactly the same thing at exactly the same time for the whole race. I don’t know if I could do that. When you’re running, it’s just you and the wind and the feel of your sneakers on the road. There’s no one else in the whole world. No one to bother you, to tell you what to do. I could never trade that for anything.
Still, I envy them as I watch. I want to be out on the water. I think they must feel and know things only rowers can feel and know. And they remind me of our night running, all of us strung together, running along as one. And I wonder how the runners would do in a boat. I look at the coxswain and see Blackie rocking back and forth, urging us to victory, giving us his strength. And I close my eyes and see us practicing in the early morning, the way we ran, flashlights strapped to each oar, their light cutting into the murky water with every stroke. And for a moment we are all there. Water, boat, and crew are one.
“We could do that,” Murphy says. “If we practiced, we’d win a medal.”
After the race, we pry our way through the dense crowd and head toward the homemade track.
“Year of the penguin,” Oberstein says.
A special lane around the lake has been created for the runners to start and finish. As we approach, dressed in our green boxers, singlets, and new sneakers, the Doyle sisters scream and wave. They are wearing white headbands and colorful halter tops.
“Where’s Blackie?” they yell. “Where’s Blackie?”
Murphy bolts to tell them to shut up. Ruthie Peckford is with them. She waves to me and wiggles the fingers of her right hand. She is wearing a white blouse and khaki shorts. I wave my hand, the way the queen does on TV. She blows me a kiss. I pretend I’m talking to Oberstein.
Prior to the start of the race, during the registration and warm-up, O’Connor takes out his peashooter and whistles a direct hit at number 28’s ear. Luckily, the runner doesn’t find the source of the sting. He swats the air like he’s been stung by a wasp. Number 29, a skinny guy with glasses, is a bit of a hotshot, showing off his sprinting power and stretching to beat the band. Oberstein orders Murphy to put the peashooters in line. The plan is to use the shooters during the race at important times, when they are hidden and sure to make a strike.
“I’m worried about number 29, Oberstein,” I say. “He looks really good.”
“He’s a hot dog,” Oberstein says, as he registers Ryan and Richardson.
An old man with a double chin sits behind a wooden table, chewing on a cigar.
“Ye all in competition? Two dollars each if ye’re in competition.” His cigar moves as he speaks.
“Only two in competition,” Oberstein says.
“That’ll be four bucks,” the man says. “Only competitors do the first lap around the lake,” he says.
He hands them their numbers, 116 for Richardson, 117 for Ryan. We’re dressed to run, but we’re not in competition. We’re riding shotgun, with a hundred plans and a dozen shortcuts to make sure that every plan succeeds. Richardson and Ryan are stretching and running on the spot. Every now and then, Ryan stops and looks around at the crowd. The man with the megaphone calls the competitive runners to the starting line.
The racing pistol sounds, and the moment is finally here. The two runners in green boxers and white singlets sprint to a huge lead. We’re all so excited we’re jumping and screaming and shouting. When the cheering dies down, Oberstein stands, like a statue, and stares at the figures of Shorty Richardson and Skinny Ryan moving past the still lake. He beams, and tears roll down his chubby cheeks as he booms in his loudest voice ever: “Give them wings, Lord . . .”
“That they may fly,” we all sing out.
O’Connor and the peashooters are ready. Ned Kelly, the spotter, is waiting with his stolen bike at the top of Kenna’s Hill.
Ryan stays with Shorty and the lead runners for the first half of the race, but the second time he’s heading up Kenna’s Hill in the final miles he stops, hunches over, bites his lower lip and dry-heaves. His knees buckle, and we watch as his body topples to the pavement. Rowsell and Kelly, the two assigned spotters for that leg of the race, run to him and splash him with cold water. They help him up and walk a few yards with him. After he drinks from the water bottle, he tells Rowsell he’s fine and starts running again. Kelly bikes ahead at full speed to the next station stop to inform the other spotters that Ryan’s in trouble. Before we race back to help Ryan, Murphy tells the peashooters to storm the leads, which means they are to deliberately attempt to pick off anyone ahead of Shorty or Ryan during the last few miles. To knock them out of the race.
When the five of us reach Ryan, we try to lift his spirits. But he falls farther behind. As he slows, we fall back with him.
“C’mon, Ryan, keep up with us, for God’s sakes,” Brookes says.
“You gotta push Richardson,” I tell him. “C’mon, he needs you.”
“Yeah, c’mon, Ryan, we’re almost there. You can do it,” Murphy says. “Remember the day you took Kenna’s Hill in a freezing storm. C’mon!”
Father Cross offers him a Crown Cola bottle filled with water, but he pushes it aside.
“C’mon, Ryan,” Murphy says. “Jesus, we didn’t do all that training to finish in the middle of the pack.”
“Perk him up, Kavanagh,” I say.
“It’s useless,” Murphy says. “He’s out of it.”
Brookes starts to cry. “Jesus, all those night runs for nothin’, all those laps around the soccer field . . .”
Father Cross offers Ryan a piece of hardtack, but he waves it off. “Leave me alone,” he says. “Just leave me alone.”
“C’mon, Ryan,” Kavanagh says.
“Fuck Bug . . . Fucken Brutus,” Ryan says, and starts crying. He looks pitiful, wiping his eyes as he runs. We’re sure he’ll stop crying soon, but he sobs and breathes heavily for half a mile. Murphy pulls beside him and puts his arm on his shoulder.