The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  They looked to be in their mid- to late teens. Their clothing was soiled and ragged. They could have profited from a shower—possibly even a delousing.

  “Well,” Switch said, “your names?” Though it was a question, it was issued in the tone of a command. Mike felt an even stronger impulse to provide the information.

  But again, before Mike could say a word, Manny spoke. “We don’t think you’ll have much use for them.” He began to bounce the tennis ball against the pavement.

  Switch and the Blade were taken a bit aback; they had definitely not expected anything like this show of resistance.

  “That a new tennis ball?” The Blade tried an oblique approach.

  “You see a gift wrap anywhere?” Manny’s reply was rhetorical. “If it ain’t wrapped up like a present,” he said, “it probably ain’t new.”

  Switch and the Blade traded glances. The two made a habit of doing exactly what they were trying to do now: intimidating smaller, younger boys. Bullies, ordinarily they picked their targets at random. As long as the prey was vulnerable, the two were confident of taking booty, like pirates.

  Mike wanted out of here as badly as he had ever wanted anything. But, for starters, he doubted that Switch and the Blade would give him safe passage. More important, he would never abandon his buddy in such a threatening situation.

  But, oh, how he wished Manny would get rid of the chip that had unexpectedly appeared on his shoulder.

  “Wanna play a game?” Switch was definitely the spokesman for the twosome; outside of his oblique question, the Blade had done nothing more than nod when his cohort spoke—and try to look menacing.

  “We just got done,” Manny said.

  “Yeah, but I know a real good game.” Switch’s grin was malevolent.

  “What’s it called?”

  “Keep Away.”

  “Same as Monkey in the Middle?”

  “Sometimes.” Switch’s smile was smug.

  “Or Let’s Steal the Ball from the Squirts?”

  Switch’s chin thrust forward. “You accusin’ us of being thieves?”

  Manny’s lips curled down in an ironic smile. “And I would guess not very good ones.” The two hoodlums were furious. Manny had verbally cut them down to size. Their bluff had been called.

  They all knew where this was going.

  Manny tossed the ball behind him. His gesture was clear: If you want the ball you’ll have to go through me.

  Mike’s eyes bulged with fright.

  Switch, though livid, was the talker. The Blade was action. He dove at Manny.

  Switch and Mike had little choice but to follow suit; they began to scuffle. But although each ripped the other’s shirt, their hearts weren’t in it; after less than a minute they called it quits. They stood, irresolute, staring at the action between Manny and the Blade, both of whom, though exerting maximum effort, seemed strangely immobile. Like Ursus and the bull in “Quo Vadis?” Or like two powerful arm wrestlers straining toward a draw.

  For the moment, all four combatants seemed frozen in time.

  Then, as Manny and the Blade continued to push against each other, the Blade’s anchor foot began to slide to the rear. His knee buckled, and he fell backward, taking Manny down on top of him. Manny immediately pulled upright. Then, seated on the Blade’s chest, he rained punches on his now powerless opponent—rights and lefts from one side of the Blade’s face to the other.

  The Blade was now thoroughly defeated. It mattered not to Manny; it appeared he would continue his pummeling until the Blade was seriously battered and/or beaten senseless … or even possibly dead.

  The entire episode had reversed from its initial premise.

  The Blade, who had singlehandedly raised the ante from a verbal confrontation to a fistfight, was now helpless. His head, like a barely attached punching bag, reeled from side to side under Manny’s blows. Still, Manny, a seeming automaton, gave no indication of letting up.

  Mike and Switch, now almost totally oblivious of each other, both tried to pull Manny off. For only the briefest moment, Switch considered taking Manny on.

  That would not have been advisable. Switch could not hold a candle to the Blade when it came to street fighting or hand-to-hand combat—and Manny had totally disabled the Blade.

  Switch knew his arithmetic.

  Together, he and Mike were finally able to pull Manny off his unresisting adversary. Manny’s parting kick to the Blade’s ribs put the final punctuation to that story.

  Adrenalized, Manny, still in fighting mode, turned full attention to Switch. Mike was shouting, urging, pleading with Manny to cease and desist. Switch, fists clenched, glared at Manny, took half a step forward, thought better of it, and turned to his prostrate buddy.

  Amazingly, in spite of the drubbing, the Blade, with assistance, was able to stand. The red on Manny’s shirt belonged mostly, if not exclusively, to the Blade, who was bleeding copiously from nose and mouth.

  Leaning on Switch for support, the Blade staggered from the parking lot. But not before shooting a mixed look of wrathful defeat and sworn revenge at Manny.

  Manny collapsed on the steps. He reached behind him and picked up the tennis ball. Mike watched him carefully. Manny’s hands trembled as if with Parkinson’s. Slowly the adrenaline subsided.

  Mike was in a state of near shock. When this altercation had begun, he’d thought the worst: that they would suffer anything from the humiliation of having to surrender their ball to getting a beating.

  Then, completely unexpectedly, Manny had taken the field and saved the day. At the same time, he had revealed something about himself: Manny had a temper that could be explosive.

  “All this blood,” Manny mused. “How am I gonna explain it? Ma’ll kill me. If she doesn’t, Pa will.”

  At this point Mike couldn’t think of anyone who would or could kill Manny. “Why don’t you just tell the truth? We were just playing when a couple of jerks tried to take the ball away from us. You wouldn’t give it up. From that time on, it was self-defense.”

  Manny brightened. “Yeah. I guess that would work. And it is the truth.”

  The picture was getting clearer in Manny’s mind. His mother would bawl him out for fighting. She would tell him that he could get hurt. “Look at all that blood! Was it worth all this mess? Better you should let them have the silly ball. We can always get you another toy. You sure you weren’t hurt? Lemme look you over. Okay. Take off those dirty clothes and take a bath. Look! Your pants are ripped in the knee! I’ll try to fix them. Now clean up before your father gets home and sees this!”

  But that ultimate threat wouldn’t come to pass the way his ma threatened. Rather, when Manny’s dad arrived home from the factory, Manny would tell him what had happened. And, as Mike suggested, he would tell the truth. Dad would let him finish, then he’d ask, “The kids were bigger than you and Mike?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “And you didn’t start it?”

  “No. Like I said, they wanted our ball. They just came up and said so.”

  Mr. Tocco would shake his head. “Hooligans! Pickin’ on little kids. Did you get hurt?”

  “No, Dad. I just got kinda dirty—well, bloody. But it was the other guy’s blood.”

  Manny’s dad would feel a surge of pride. He would try to hide any indication of this. But it would be there.

  No, on second thought, the prospect of going home bloody and torn didn’t seem nearly as foreboding. As long as it worked out the way he projected.

  Mike’s voice returned Manny to reality. “Why did you do that anyway, Manny? I was all for giving them the stupid ball.”

  Manny began again to bounce the ball. Mike noted that his friend’s hands still trembled, but not as pronouncedly as they had.

  “I don’t know, Mike. I’ve never felt like that before. It was like these guys just had to be stopped or they would be pushing littler kids around forever.”

  “Weren’t you afraid?”

  Manny though
t about that. “No. I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t even think about being scared.

  “Anyway,” he said after a moment, “I didn’t start it. They did. That guy Blade did. I think Switch would’ve just talked away if the Blade hadn’t been there.”

  “You did toss our ball behind you.”

  “Yeah, I almost forgot. I don’t know why I did that.”

  Mike hesitated. “Well, you couldn’t have thought that was going to bring peace.”

  Manny contemplated the ball he now held. “Mike, honest, I wasn’t thinking of anything. I just wasn’t thinking. What they were doing was wrong. I couldn’t let them get away with it—especially so easily.”

  “You never ran into anything like this before, did you?”

  Manny shook his head. “No … not like this. This was so … so black and white. They were goons. If we had given them the ball, they probably would’ve just thrown it away.”

  “Well, you sure were impressive.”

  “Maybe then. But I don’t think now.”

  “Whaddya mean not now?”

  “Now that I think it over. Now that I can think it over, it scares me. I think I actually could’ve killed the guy. That’s scary.”

  Mike’s mouth formed an “O” of disbelief. “You wouldn’t have gone that far … ?”

  “Yeah. I think you know better. You were pretty strong yourself … or you couldn’t have pulled me off him.”

  “I refuse to believe it. You would have stopped. You were counting on us—better make that on me; Switch wasn’t working that hard—you were counting on me to pull you off.”

  “No. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t have any fight left in him.”

  They were silent for a few minutes.

  “Whaddya say, maybe we ought to go home,” Mike said finally. “Let’s get the explanations out of the way. My ripped-up shirt, and all that blood on you.”

  “And the tear in my jeans.”

  “Yeah … oh, and one more thing,” Mike added. “When the Blade’s buddy was helping him get out of here, did you see the look Blade gave you?”

  “I saw.”

  “He sure looked like he was thinking about revenge. Shouldn’t we be doing something about that?”

  Manny thought a moment. “I can’t live that way. If he comes, he comes. But”—he shook his head—“I don’t think he will. He got beat up pretty bad.”

  Mike turned to leave, then stopped. “I don’t care how cold Lake Huron is, I sure could use a little corner of that Great Lake right now.” He grinned. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  FIVE

  ROSE SMITH WAS BRUSHING HER HAIR. One hundred strokes. It was a nuisance to observe this beauty tip religiously each night. But it seemed to be paying off: Her blond hair was lustrous and silken.

  Alice McMann was another case; she considered such self-pampering a futile extravagance.

  The Smiths and McManns were neighbors and close friends. Whenever Rose’s or Alice’s parents were called away or had a night out, the one girl would spend that time at the other’s house.

  Tonight, the two girls, each in bathrobe and pajamas, were in Rose’s bedroom. Alice’s parents were off to a wedding in Philadelphia.

  Alice was paging through a movie magazine. Had she her druthers, she’d be downstairs listening to Frank Sinatra records. But she thought it better to wait for Rose.

  The Smiths had not yet retired for the night. They were listening to the “Jack Benny Show.” Mrs. Smith was knitting. Mr. Smith was leaning back in his upholstered chair, smoking his pipe and living the word-pictures the Benny ensemble was painting.

  Mike, Rose’s twin brother, was doing homework. Since learning of the importance the seminary placed on English courses, he had taken a renewed interest in grammar, especially the diagramming of sentences.

  The family group was a contributing factor in Alice’s decision to wait for Rose to complete her nightly ritual rather than going downstairs without her.

  If she had joined the others downstairs, she would’ve been a fifth wheel. The adults could be counted on to silently communicate with each other. While Mike, oblivious of the radio comedy, would pour over his studies. If she were there, she would be intruding on the adults, who would feel impelled to make conversation for her benefit. As for Michael, he would effectively freeze her out.

  So Alice held to the routine that had developed between the Smiths, and Mike and Rose. Except that Alice found the magazine boring. She allowed it to slip from her fingers and fall to the floor. The soft noise caught Rose’s attention. She turned, while continuing to brush her hair. “I don’t blame you, Al,” she said. “Those movie and entertainment mags aren’t worth the trees that have to be cut down to make the paper they’re printed on.

  “Well”—she stopped brushing for a moment—“that was an awkward sentence. But you know what I mean.”

  Alice nodded, as Rose turned back to the mirror. The brushing continued.

  Alice sprawled on the bed. “Why does Mike hit the books so hard? He hardly needs to. He’s a genius—just like you.”

  Rose giggled. “We’re not geniuses. Oh, we may be kind of smart—but we both have to work to live up to our potential. Right now, Mike’s working harder than I am. It’s for the seminary. He doesn’t want to repeat the fiasco that Bob Koesler went through. Of course, Bob hadn’t brought the documents they wanted because he didn’t know they were required. Mike wants to be completely prepared.”

  Alice absently twisted a strand of hair around her index finger. “How about that fight Mike and Manny were in last week? That’s getting to be a popular topic around school … around our class anyway.”

  “Nothing to it, really,” Rose said.

  “I heard there was blood … lots of blood.”

  “You don’t want to believe everything you hear.”

  “No blood?” Alice sounded disappointed.

  “The other guy’s. But Mike’s shirt was torn up pretty bad.” Rose hoped the shredded shirt would satisfy Alice’s seeming fascination with senseless violence.

  “How about Manny?” Alice pursued. “Was that just scuttlebutt too? About how he took the big bully to the cleaners? And got him pretty well beat up too?”

  Rose grinned. Alice couldn’t see the expression. “No. That seems to be the God’s honest truth. And my information is firsthand—from my brother. After all, he was there—and God knows he tells the truth.”

  Silence, as Rose reached fifty-three strokes and Alice busied herself in trying to untangle the knot she’d made in her own hair.

  “And all that over a tennis ball!” Alice exclaimed. “Boys!”

  “I think it was kind of brave of them,” Rose said thoughtfully. “It’s like they say about the war … you know: We’re making the world safe for democracy. Well, Mike and Manny are making the playground safe for other kids.

  “Besides … it’s already done some good. The Brothers have set up patrols of seniors and juniors to keep a watch when school’s out and on weekends.”

  Alice thought about the ramifications of what Manny and Mike had done. Manny more than Mike. But Mike had made a contribution. “I guess,” she said, “the guys were pretty brave.”

  “Especially Manny. He’s the one who came up with a reaction ‘above and beyond,’ as they say.”

  “Yeah,” Alice agreed, “but what kind of priest is he gonna make? I mean, priests aren’t supposed to get physical, are they? I never heard of one who did, anyway. Look at Father Flannigan of Boys’ Town. He doesn’t go around boxing guys’ ears.”

  Rose laughed. “Al, Manny hasn’t turned into some kind of goon or thug. Remember: Manny didn’t start this whole thing. He just responded to the bad guy’s challenge. Like the war: We didn’t start it. We didn’t even want to get into it. Then came Pearl Harbor.”

  “Yeah …” Alice pondered that incontrovertible fact.

  “Mike and Manny …” Alice reflected.

  “Mike and Manny …�
�� Alice repeated. “Do you realize, Rose, that Mike and Manny are the only two guys in our class that I know? And I know them only because I know you. You’re Mike’s twin. That’s how I know Mike. And Mike’s best friend is Manny, and that’s how I know Manny.

  “Doesn’t that seem odd?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Think about it,” Alice persisted. “Public school kids seem to know everybody … I mean everybody in their own class anyway. And you and I know a sum total of two boys!”

  “And all our girl classmates,” Rose reminded.

  “It just doesn’t seem right. We go through seven years; we’re in the same building—at least through sixth grade, then all of a sudden we’re not only not in separate classrooms, we’re not even in the same building.”

  “And,” Rose added, “the boys aren’t taught by the nuns. Their teachers are the Brothers of Mary.”

  “That’s right. Why do you suppose the boys have to wait until seventh grade to get the Brothers? I mean, they’re already in separate classrooms. How come they don’t get the Brothers right off the bat? In first grade.”

  Rose paused in mid-stroke. “I suppose it’s simply supply and demand.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe there aren’t enough Brothers to go around. It comes down to numbers.”

  “Really?”

  “Mike and I have talked about it.”

  “And?”

  “Well, take the girls … our classmates … ourselves. The plan—at least in Redeemer—is for all the girls to be taught by nuns, with maybe an occasional laywoman. When the girls graduate, most of them get a job. A few go to college. But, in any case, practically every one of them is looking for a husband. After all, being a housewife is the ultimate goal … right?”

  “Hmmm. Yeah … I guess so. But what about girls like us … who want to go to the convent?”

  “Then …” Rose was having trouble keeping track of the strokes. “ … we go to the convent. Ordinarily, girls like us naturally go to Monroe—to the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. You know, that’s the religious order that trained and taught us.