The Long Run (2 page)

A fly lands on Tracey's desk. Brother McCann eyes it cautiously. “Don't move Traceys,” he whispers, and whacks at it with the rolled magazine. It buzzes away. “I told you not to move, Traceys.”

“I didn't, Brother.”

He whacks Tracey on the side of the head with the magazine.

“Don't talk back, boy. Money and jobs,” he continues. “Can you imagine? They are accusing us of buying souls?” He pauses, snickers and strolls to the other side of the room. “Of what is our Church being accused, boys?”

“Buying souls, Brother.”

“Very good, class. And what do we say to this accusation? Is it true, class?”

“No, Brother,” we chant.

“Well done, class. Well done.” He breathes a deep sigh, raises his eyebrows and unrolls the magazine. “Pay close attention, boys, as I read the pack of lies being propagated against Holy Mother Church. Against all Romans worldwide. Listen carefully now to what I read. And remember our theme. Christ the Evangelist. Ready now. This is the monologue. Pay close attention. The dialogue will follow.” He sighs deeply and reads:

Little Pundhu Ghanga, seven years old, shudders as he recalls the Hindu radicals who came to his dirt poor village and dragged him to a river to be scrubbed clean of Christ.

“You heard right, class. That's what the text says: ‘to be scrubbed clean of Christ, scrubbed with the bark of trees and with jagged rocks.' Now listen to this, boys. Listen: ‘When the cleansing was complete, little Pundhu was forced
. . .
' That's what it says, boys—
forced
—‘to worship a picture of Hanuman.' That's right, class. You all heard correctly. Your ears did not deceive you. Little Pundhu was forced to worship a picture of Hanuman. And do you know who Hanuman is, class?”

“No, Brother.”

“Hanuman is a monkey, class. That's right, boys. A monkey. But Hanuman is no ordinary monkey, boys. Oh nooooo.”

Bug Bradbury puckers his lips and points toward Brookes, who has a monkey face. Bug can be as bold as brass.

“No ordinary monkey, this . . . this Hanuman. And do you know why, boys? Do you know, Murphys?

“No, Brother.”

“No. Of course not. How would you? Then I shall tell you, class. Make good note of it. Your souls depend on such knowledge. Hanuman is none other than the Hindu Monkey God.” Brother McCann shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. His mouth is wide open, and the boys in the front rows can see his crooked yellow teeth. “The Hindu Monkey God. And little Pundhu, baptized in the blood of our Lord and Savior is
forced
to worship Hanuman, to bow down to a monkey. Little Pundhu is
forced
to ignore this—
this . . .
”

He swirls around and grabs the ivory crucifix from his desk, raises it high above his head. “
This
,” he screams, spraying spit everywhere. “Jesus, his Savior. Can you imagine it? He must ignore the blood of Christ and worship
this
.” He swirls again and grabs the
National Geographic
picture of the monkey, and with his free hand raises it above his head. “This? Or
this
?” he shouts, the veins in his neck standing out. “This is little Pundhu's choice. Can you imagine it, boys? Can you? Hanuman or Jesus?” He shakes his head, opens his mouth wide and gapes again at the ceiling, gasping for breath. “A monkey, for God's sakes. Or . . . or Jesus our Savior? A monkey? Or God? Some choice, class. Some choice, boys. But little Pundhu's choice. Little Pundhu Ghanga. That little Roman's choice. Much younger than most of you, boys. Half your age in fact. And that little Roman made the right choice. A little martyr in the making. Little Pundhu chose the Son of Man, who died on the cross for our vile sins.”

Silence. Rapid breathing. He does not look at us but seems to gaze on some faraway scene. A line of blue spruce trees outside the classroom window splinters the sunlight.

“And who would you choose, boys?”

“Jesus our Savior, Brother.”

“Mr. Spencers, Jesus or Hanuman?”

“Jesus, Brother.”

“Kellys?”

“Jesus, Brother.”

“Wait for the complete dialogue, Kellys.”

“Yes, Brother.”

“Hanuman or Jesus?”

“Jesus, Brother.”

“Ryans, choose ye this day whom ye shall serve. Jesus or Hanuman?”

“Jesus, Brother.”

He goes around the room questioning everyone, and we all answer Jesus. Except for Smokin' Joe. That's Rowsell's nickname. But most of the time we just call him Rowsell. He smokes like a Labrador tilt, every finger is yellow. He always carries a Zippo lighter. Every time someone takes out a cigarette, Rowsell's there clicking open his Zippo. He's large-eyed, with a big moon face that turns beet red whenever he has a cigarette. Rowsell's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and when his turn comes to answer, Brother McCann slightly changes the question.

“Rowsells? Jesus, human and divine, named by God. Or a monkey, named by . . . God knows who. A monkey! Who, Mr. Rowsells?”

Rowsell thinks he is being asked to name the Hindu monkey god.

“Hanuman,” Rowsell says.

What happens next takes place at lightning speed. Brother McCann bolts toward Rowsell's desk.

“Jesus, I mean Jesus, not Hanuman.
God
, not the monkey god. Jesus.”

Too late. Brother McCann's strap is out.

“Up, Mr. Rowsells. Get them up. Higher.
Higher
. Hanuman over Jesus, is it, Rowsells?” Specks of spit splash on desks and school clothes. “A monkey? An animal over our Savior, is it? Well, let's see if you can endure some of the pain for your monkey god that little Pundhu endured for Jesus, our Lord and Savior.”

“Jesus, I meant
Jesus
, Brother.” Rowsell is crying. “Not Hanuman. Please.
Jesus
. I don't know what got into me.”

“Oh, I know very well what got into you, Rowsells. Very well. The devil got into you, sir. The very devil I'm about to exorcise.” McCann's spit is flying everywhere. “The very devil the Little Missionary Brothers must fight each day in the battle for souls that rages in the jungles of Africa and India.” The strap strikes at bullet speed, and with each blow Brother McCann shouts a letter. His voice is high and hysterical: “H-A-N-U-M-A-N.” He returns to the front of the classroom. “Now, is there anyone else who would like to worship Hanuman, the monkey god?” He's spitting like crazy and breathing so hard it sounds like he's having a heart attack. “Any more worshippers of Hanuman?”

“No, Brother.”

“Very good, class. Very wise.”

Silence. The radiator hisses. It seems like a good deal of time passes, but it is really only a few seconds.

Bug Bradbury, who'll say anything to get some attention, asks if Pundhu's cleansing would be an example of Baptism by Desire, which was the subject of Brother McCann's last Monologues and Dialogues. Bug cocks his head to one side and grins proudly at us. He's more interested in outdoing everyone than sucking up.

Brother McCann's eyes bulge. “Yes, oh yes.” He sounds like he's just won top prize at a raffle. “It certainly would be. Or blood. Yes, of course, blood. Probably more an example of Baptism by Blood. That is, if he hadn't already been baptized,” he stammers, and stares excitedly at the ceiling. “If little Pundhu bled profusely during the cleansing, he would most certainly have experienced the Christian soldier's Baptism by Blood. A very good question, Mr. Bradburys, very good.”

Catching McCann's excitement, Bug propels his hand and asks if a boy, like Oberstein, has a monkey teddy which he sleeps with at night, would that be a sin or an occasion of sin, a sort of monkey worship? Bug's always trying to stump other boys, especially Oberstein, who's the smartest in the class. Brother McCann rolls his eyes so that only the whites are visible. He stares up at the ceiling as if receiving divine intervention.

“Yes. It could be so. It could be an occasion of sin . . . if the requirements were met.” He reaches for Tracey's catechism and raises it high. “And what are those requirements, class?”

“Knowledge and awareness, freedom to choose,” we chant the memorized response.

“If a boy ignores his rosary, his night prayers, and asks protection of his monkey, treating his teddy as a sort of Hanuman, that would definitely be a sin, a mortal sin, wouldn't it, Brother? And that little teddy monkey would be an occasion of sin?” Bug cocks his head at Oberstein.

“Well, let's ask Mr. Obersteins. Do you worship your little monkey teddy, Mr. Obersteins?”

“No, Brother McCann, I do not,” Oberstein is much quicker than McCann. “I worship Jesus, Brother.” The words race back to him from a previous lesson. “Jesus, the Son of the living God.” Oberstein is Jewish. Brother McCann wants to make him a soldier in the army of Jesus Christ, but Oberstein wants to stay Jewish, like his father and grandfather. Oberstein memorizes a lot more than the rest of us. He has to, in order to keep McCann off his back. Oberstein is always a step or two ahead of everyone, including McCann.

“The Son of the living God,” Brother McCann parrots the words. He repeats them again, slowly. Then he stares at the ceiling as if entering a trance. “Peter's response to Jesus when he inquired, ‘Who do you say that I am?' Yes. Yes.” He cocks his head but does not look at us. He stares instead at some distant thing he seems to have spied outside the window.

“Besides, Brother, I gave up my teddy last year. I'm too big for a teddy now.” Oberstein's cheeks flush as if he's been slapped.

“Too big for teddy, Mr. Obersteins, but not too small for the Son of the living God.” He stares off into space for a long time. Then he looks at his watch. “You would all do well to respond as Mr. Obersteins, class. A very fine response. Very eloquent. A divinely inspired response. Worthy of a true disciple. Which I'm sure you will one day become.” He turns, walks to the blackboard and begins writing out our homework assignment.

Oberstein looks over at Bug, who cocks his head and winks. Oberstein grins, returns the wink and gives Bug the finger. Bug turns away sheepishly. Oberstein has won another round. Lucky for all of us. Oberstein's really got McCann's number. He knows how to settle him down, prevent him from flipping out.

McCann flips out a lot. Almost every day. I watch him spin from the blackboard, as Sullivan is drifting off a bit, grab the metal mission box and rifle it at him. Sullivan ducks, and it hits McCarthy in the forehead. He has a purple lump there now and maybe a dent for the rest of his life. McCann pulls his strap out of his soutane. He has the longest and thickest strap in the Mount. He waves it above his head and charges Sullivan, who jumps from his seat and runs around the classroom. McCann chases after him, striking him—his neck, his shoulders, his back, his face, his arms—wherever the strap strikes, until poor Sullivan falls to the floor, exhausted.

McCann crouches over him and straps his face. “And do you know why you are being punished, Mr. Sullivans?”

“Yes, Brother,” Sullivan whimpers. “Because I ducked.”

“Nooooo, Mr. Sullivans, nooooo! Not because you
ducked
. Because you were daydreaming, Mr. Sullivans. Daydreaming in
my
class.”

“I wasn't, Brother. Honest,” Sullivan sulks.

Whack
. “But I saw you, Mr. Sullivans. Do not lie. I saw you daydreaming. I saw you with my own eyes.”

Sullivan moans and weeps loudly. “I was paying attention, Brother. Honest, I was.”

Whack
. “More lying. More deceit, you young devil.”

“I
was
listening to you.” More tears.

“Well, one thing is certain, Mr. Sullivans. One thing is certain. You won't be daydreaming in this class ever again. Nor will anyone else. Isn't that right, class?”

“Yes, Brother McCann.”

“Good. Very good. That's what I want to hear, class.” He spins around, slime hanging from the stubble on his chin. His breath comes in quick sharp wheezes. He scans the class. “And does anyone else? Is there another young devil thinks he can get away with daydreaming?” His eyes freeze on Kelly. Instead of shying away, Kelly freezes and lowers his head. But it's too late. He's a goner. McCann grabs a fistful of his shirt. He buckles him over the desk top and slaps him hard, bouncing his head off the wood.

“Look at me when I speak to you, Mr. Kellys,” he screams, spit spraying into Kelly's face. “Do you think you can get away with it, Mr. Kellys? Do you?”

Kelly cringes.

“Well, doooo you? Stand up, sir.” Silence. “Doooo you?”

Kelly stands up.

“Do I what, Brother?” Tears drip from Kelly's cheeks.

Whack
. McCann knocks him back into his desk. “Do you think you can get away with daydreaming?” He screams so loud Kavanagh puts a hand over one of his ears.

“No, Brother. I don't, Brother.”

“Good. Good. Because you will not.” He scans the class. “Nobody will get away with it. Not Mr. Kellys. Not Mr. Sullivans. Not Murphys. Not Brooke. Not Kavanaghs . . . Not anyone. Not anyone. Is that clear, class?”

“Yes, Brother McCann.”

“Is that crystal clear, class?”

“Yes, Brother McCann, crystal clear.
”

“Am I ever going to see another boy daydreaming ever again in this class, boys?”

“No, Brother McCann. Never again.”

“And if I do, if I so much as see a boy staring out the window, the strap will come out. What will come out, boys?”

“The strap will come out, Brother McCann.” Fear of the strap hangs over every class.

“That's right. And the boy who feels its sting will feel it until his body is black and blue. Is that clear? Until his body is what color, class?”

“Black and blue, Brother McCann.”

Silence.

“Now, take out your catechisms and answer the assigned questions. And don't let me hear so much as a peep out of one of you.”