The Long Run (27 page)

Someone coughs. A bed creaks. The curtain blows lightly from the open window, and another single bar of light crosses the lockers. Soon they'll all be awake. Brushing their teeth and washing their sleepy eyes, putting on their school uniforms and lining up for inspection in front of the bunk beds. I think of the marathon, and how Oberstein said that the first guy who ever ran one dropped dead of exhaustion. I say a Hail Mary that that doesn't happen to any of us. I close my eyes and watch Richardson crossing the finish line, with nobody near him for a mile. And I think of what the brothers will say when they learn that a Mount Kildare boy has won the Royal Regatta Marathon. I smile and put my hands behind my head again and stretch some more.

And in the golden silence I think back to what Oberstein said that day in the yard about how the place grows on you. And I try to imagine what it will be like years from now when these sleepers are no longer in my life. I block the thought. They will always be with me . . . Blackie and Oberstein and Bug and Ryan and Murphy and Brookes and Kavanagh and Father Cross and Rowsell . . . even O'Grady . . . everyone.

I look at my Mickey. The buzzer will sound any minute. I stretch some more and shiver and crack my fingers and let my leg dangle over the side of the bunk and wish I could feel like this every morning, the way a baby must feel when it wakes.

There's a new guy. There's a new guy.
New guy . . . There's a new guy.

O'Connor's shouting echoes through the corridors like gun shots.
There's a new guy
. . . He came last night after we were in bed. Such news always creates intense excitement among us. Who is he? How old is he? What's he look like? Does he have any brothers? Where's he from? Is he a townie or a bayman? What dorm will he be in? And, of course, Blackie wants to know if he's a runner. Blackie has devised all sorts of games to test a new guy's running skills.

New guys are extremely vulnerable. They usually have money and clothing and food, and are easy targets. Even new brothers are easy targets, especially if they are young. During the Christmas and summer holidays, new brothers, usually young novices, as they're called, fill in for the regular brothers for a week or two. The Boot-Camp Boys, Murphy calls them. They are innocent and green and easy to take for a ride. For example, on Sunday nights our dorm always goes straight to washup and bed after watching a movie or
Walt Disney
. It's always the same, every Sunday. There is never an exception. When there's a new brother, Ryan or Murphy will pipe up that the regular brother always gives us an extra hour on Sundays. Once, Bug Bradbury convinced Brother Hefferton, a dopey young brother with a mole on his nose, that we were allowed to be in town on Saturdays until eight o'clock. I remember Hefferton squinting his big, dumb eyes and straining his turkey neck. “Is that the rule, boys?” he asked. “Oh, yes, Brother, eight o'clock if you're in St. Martin's or St. Luke's dorm. St. Mark's gotta be back in by six,” Bug said.

“Okay, okay, you people know the rules. Martin's and Luke's by eight. Mark's by six. Don't be late,” he said in a tone that was a pathetic attempt at sounding like he was in charge.

The last new boy came just after Thanksgiving. His name is Lionel Chafe. He's from England. Liverpool. His father was a sea captain in the British Navy. Lionel's father died at sea. That's all Lionel knows about his death. A bunch of us were talking about it. It's pretty sad. Anstey almost started crying. He started thinking of his own father and how easy it is to die at sea. He started befriending Lionel right away, which was really good because Lionel is a skinny little runt and Anstey is the size of a barn door. Lionel was placed in the Mount when his mother got sick. She has a disease that keeps her in bed half the time and in a wheelchair the other half. Lionel has a really nifty accent and some very strange expressions. The brothers are always asking him questions in class just to hear him speak. The other day, in Newfoundland geography class, Madman asked Lionel to recite the names of all the coves along the northern peninsula near the Strait of Belle Isle.

“I say, you've got quite a few,” Lionel chimed. “Blue Cove, Seal Cove, Black Duck Cove, Deadman's Cove . . . I say, jolly interesting, that lot. Bear Cove, Flowers Cove, Nameless Cove. I say, rather odd, that, Nameless Cove. Savage Cove . . . Oh dear, are there savages there? I must remember not to travel along that route. Sandy Cove, Shoal Cove, Payne's Cove
. . .
”

Everyone loves his accent and his odd little expressions. But it puts him in a tough spot, because he's always being called upon to read the morning prayer or say the grace or answer questions in class. And some of the boys laugh at him a lot. It's a tough spot to be in for a new guy, especially a skinny little guy.

The rumor is that the new boy is an American. But later we find out that his name is Merrigan and someone confused the sound of his name with his being an American.

It's really sad to see a new guy, especially if he's all alone. Lots of boys who come to the Mount come with a brother or cousin, which makes it a bit easier on them. But it's really bad if a boy is all alone. He often has the spells for a long, long time. Poor old Whelan had the spells for about a year. We all felt really sorry for him. Every Thursday, he'd start. “My Auntie's coming for me this weekend,” he'd say. And he'd pull out the old wine-colored cardboard suitcase and fill it full with his clothes. “I gotta be ready for when she comes.” His big round face would shine like the sun. “I can't afford not to be ready the minute she gets here.” And he'd stare out the big dorm window for hours waiting for her car to pull into the long gravel driveway outside. I used to feel so sad for Whelan, but I never let on. I would even help him pack. It never did me any harm to play along. So I did it. And I think it helped him a lot. It gave him hope in a way. To have somebody else also believe that his aunt was coming to take him home to Stephenville.

Every new guy goes through it, at least for a few weeks. His first bout of the spells. “I'm not in here for very long. Just for a little while. Then my uncle's coming to get me. He promised he'd come and get me in two weeks . . . two months.” It's always the same story. Different voices. But always the same story. The weeks give way to months, and the months give way to years, and suddenly Merrigan or Pittman or Walsh is sixteen, and Brother McMurtry arrives with a brand new suitcase and new clothes and a new wallet with twenty freshly minted dollar bills inside. And there is a Mass and a Benediction and a rosary, after which Brother McMurtry gives a little speech about the boy who is leaving, how the Mount has prepared him with the tools to survive in a hard world. Brother McMurtry's speech is always the same, ending with that predictable conclusion: “And don't forget to come back and visit us once in a while. You know where to find us. Even in the dark. Sure, you can see the Celtic cross at the top of Mount Kildare from anywhere in St. John's. It's always lit, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.”

Unfortunately, when Randy Walters left that's not what happened. Brother McMurtry was sick, and McCann filled in for him. McCann announced that all dorms from ours to the seniors' were to go to the gymnasium. He singled out Walters and said, “I've only got two things to say to you, Walters: One, don't ever show your face around here again. And two, if you've got any high hopes leaving here, forget 'em.” Then he gave Walters the customary letter of reference and saw him to the door. He didn't even get us to line up and shake Walters' hand, the way Brother McMurtry does when a boy leaves for good.

Walters is a cocky kid with straight floppy hair and oversized glasses. He just shrugged and curled his lip. I guess he was just as happy to be getting rid of McCann. Blackie found out later where Walters was staying and called an emergency meeting of the Brotherhood and had a collection and sent Walters a note and some money. Father Cross made a card out of cardboard with a sketch of everyone in the Klub on it. It was a really good card. The sketches were really lifelike. We all signed our names and wrote a comment beneath our sketch. We got a really big kick outta what O'Grady wrote beneath his sketch: “Brother MucCan is a big count.” O'Grady can't spell his own name. Blackie delivered the card one Saturday afternoon.

“Walters was a good egg,” Blackie said. “McCann shouldn't of treated him like that. It ain't fair what happened.”

12

Two weeks to Christmas. Choice cards at the post office. Two weeks to Christmas. Fill out your choice cards. Choice cards at the post office.

WE JUST LOVE CHRISTMAS.
As Rags says, it's the best time of the year. All through December, everyone is always happy. We spend a lot of time making wreaths for all the doors in the Mount. And making the two cribs, one for the chapel and a huge one for outside by the front gate. The brothers pick up a lot of money during the Christmas season. People come from all around to see the beautiful big crib and to say a prayer at it. And they always throw a coin inside for a norphan.

We decorate all the dorms with red-and-white streamers and Santa Clauses and candy canes. And all the statues are spruced up. We hang lights all over the place, inside and out. The older boys cut down a great big tree up in Major's Path and drag it home and stand it up in the cafeteria. It takes days to get all the bulbs and lights and decorations on it. And it looks wonderful when it's finished. At supper time we eat with only the Christmas tree lights on. And at night, in the dorms, the brothers light candles. Rags always tells special Chop-Chops stories during the twelve days of Christmas. We always look forward to what Chop-Chops will get for Christmas. It's such a great time. And there's no school for two whole weeks.

The food is better all during Christmas week. It's the only time we don't have Diefenbaker meat. No Diefenbaker meat for a whole week. The businessmen on Water Street donate money and gifts. And the American soldiers bring us tons of food, and a group of women from town comes and cooks up a storm. We have midnight Mass and light candles, and afterward we sing carols all the way to the cafeteria, where we stuff ourselves while we open our gifts.

At the beginning of December every year, members of the Dare Klub meet and draw names. Whatever name you pick, you have to give that boy a little gift. Blackie's made one rule. It has to be something you own. Everyone gives something simple but nice. Once I gave my five little pebbles for playing jacks to Kavanagh. You can give a used comic book or a bag of marbles or some used stamps to start a collection. We meet at the cave on Christmas Eve and open the gifts in front of a raging fire. Sometimes the gifts are funny and we have a great laugh. Last year, Father Cross gave Murphy a pair of girl's underwear. We got a big laugh outta that. He said they were Karla Doyle's, but we all knew he made them.

Christmas day we have turkey dinner with dressing and gravy and mashed potatoes and carrots and turnips and beets and pickles and even dessert, plum puddings and fruitcakes. There's always tons of food. And an endless supply of treats, such as Purity syrup and peppermint knobs. We stuff our pockets and our lockers.

Everything is usually great until the day after Christmas. Boxing Day. At the Mount that has a special meaning. There are usually a lot of fights because lotsa boys don't get what they asked for and lotsa gifts are stolen. My first Christmas, I got a Lone Ranger set, toy guns and a mask and cowboy hat. Somebody stole the set on Christmas night. I cried for a week.

Even Madman Malone puts his strap away at Christmas. If he wasn't such a lunatic, Madman's nickname would've been Baldy. He has a shiny bald head, and his eyes are slightly crossed and set deep into his red face. Really deep, like they're abnormal. And they're just narrow slits, so narrow that they sometimes look closed. Like a makeup artist did him up for a movie. And he has little puffy sacks under each eye and wrinkles all around them, like wild chicken tracks. Whenever he sits down, he props his feet upon his desk.

Even during Christmas, he has a St. Patrick's Day concert. He's always making references to Ireland. The Old Sod, the Emerald Isle, the Land of Saints and Scholars. “Ah, sure, where would we be without St. Paddy?” he's always saying. “Sure we'd be heathens, the lot of us.” On Christmas Eve he makes all the little ones in St. Dominic's dorm dress up as leprechauns. And he parades them into chapel and seats them in the front pews. They look really cute. He's an Irish fanatic. Irish football and Irish poetry. Irish sayings and Irish songs. Irish monks and Irish castles. County Cork and County Kilkenny. He's from County Kilkenny. Sometimes, right out of the blue in the middle of class, he bursts into song: “Now in Kilkenny, it is reported, sure they've marble stones there as black as ink
. . .
” And he has a pretty good voice. For some reason, the gravelly sound disappears whenever he sings. He's no match for Oberstein, but he isn't bad. Only he sings the same song most of the time. He might be on supervision in the study hall or walking around the cafeteria during meal duty, and he'll start singing, “Now in Kilkenny, it is reported . . .”