The Long Run (32 page)

“I'll bring the book to McCann right away,” Oberstein says.

Blackie grabs Oberstein's arm and snatches the book from him. “Tell him you just remembered. Like it just came to you. Outta the blue.”

“Good idea,” Ryan says. “Tell him you remember reading about it in a medical book in the library. Let McCann hunt for the book.”

“Seek and ye shall find,” Father Cross sings.

“Oh, he'll hunt for it. He'll hunt for it, and he'll find it.”

Blackie puts the journal back on the shelf where Ryan found it, and we head out, feeling a whole lot easier than we did when we came in.

On the way to our next class, Oberstein is downcast.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

But I know he's not. He feels he has let Blackie down.

McCann approaches the front of the classroom and shakes the chalk dust from his soutane. Another session of Monologues and Dialogues is about to begin. He has two props:
Missions Magazine
and a poster of a red maple leaf on a white field. He tapes the poster to the front of his desk, shakes his head slowly and stares at it for a long time. He turns, rolls the magazine slowly and taps it on Tracey's desk.

“A leaf. A simple maple leaf. Worn by our Olympic athletes since 1904. Or is it? Is it a mere leaf?” He squints, drops his jaw and stares at the ceiling.

Brookes raises his hand. “If you look at the whites around the two leafs, Brother, it looks like two angry men.”

“I . . . don't see . . . any men.”

“You gotta stare just at the whites, Brother.”

“Quiet Brook!” McCann can't see the angry men. “Today, class, there will be a new twist to Monologues and Dialogues, a one-time-only Monologues and Dialogues session. A special event, if you will. During today's Monologues and Dialogues, there will be no Dialogues. That is correct, class. No Dialogues. Only Monologues.” He unrolls the magazine and opens it. “With talk of Vatican Two, the Holy Father has asked all Romans to take a keen interest in the culture of our foreign brothers and sisters. Remember, boys, we are a small church in a large world. What are we?”

“A small church in a large world, Brother.”

“You've been told that we are to enter into dialogue and discourse in order to discover that ray of truth to be found in other world religions.” He eyes the magazine. “In the current issue of
Missions Magazine
, Father Yukio Basho, a converted Roman from the Asian persuasion, a Japanese Roman, has written a koan, as it's called, not to be confused, class, with ‘cone' as in ‘ice cream cone.'” He giggles foolishly. “My Japanese brother loves both kinds of koans. In his recent letter he informed me that in Japan the study of koans begins by investigating the koan
Mu
, pronounced Mee-oo in Japanese. Let me hear that now, Bradburys.”

“Mooooo,” Bug bellows.

McCann reaches over and smacks him in the side of the head. “Meee-ooo, Bradburys. Like a cat, not like a cow. Let's hear it, everyone.”

“Meee-ooo!”

“Excellent, sumos. When Master Chaochou was asked if a dog had the Buddha nature, he said,
Mu
. All sumos must practice the
Mu
sound. Repeat it inwardly over and over during the day, everywhere you go. Let it be your mantra. Chant it during meditation. This is very important, sumos, most important.
Mu
is associated with the power pack—breathing from below the belly button. Concentrate on locating the
Mu
in the belly button and become one with it when you chant. Later, we will take the lotus position and practice.

“Yikes, the lotus position,” Oberstein sighs.

“Now for an example of a Japanese koan: You know the sound of two hands clapping . . . but what of the sound of one hand clapping?” He giggles again. “This koan is spelled with a K. . . .
K-O-A-N
.” He is dead serious again. “Will you remember that, Kellys?”

“Yes, Brother. Koan with a K, Brother.”

“Very good, Kellys. K-E-double-L-Y. Kellys, with the green necktie. Father Yukio Basho's koan, which you shall hear momentarily . . . This koan, like all Japanese koans, is not meant to be discussed. It is
. . .
” He pauses and stares at the ceiling, searching for a word. He snaps his fingers. “Yes, it is an enigma. No. More than an enigma. It is an enigma wrapped in a conundrum. And conundrums aren't meant to be discussed, class. They are beyond the reach of the ordinary intellect. They are meant to be contemplated. Meditated upon. You see, that's what the Japanese Romans your age do, boys.” He is extremely excited. “They sit quietly, contemplating their koans.”

“'Scuse me, why do they count their koans, Brother?” Rowsell asks.

“Not counting, Rowsells. Contemplating. Thinking, man, thinking. Something foreign to people like you, Rowsells. These Asian Romans contemplate, boys, to gain understanding and enlightenment. All sumos will contemplate koans privately, under my guidance. I will assign koans to each sumo. You will meet with
Yokozuna
to present your answers for my approval or rejection.”

“Brother, where do koans come from?” Murphy asks.

McCann rolls his head toward the ceiling. “Who's to say? Nowhere special. Everywhere and nowhere. Listen to koans in your daily life. All around you. Brother Walsh muttering, ‘Canteen card, please.' One of the little ones singing, ‘Catch me if you can.' A Newfoundland fisherman saying, ‘Far as ever a puffin flew.' A sumo saying, ‘Come in out of the rain.' Koans are everywhere . . . and nowhere.

“Now then, to our Monologue, our koan from Father Basho's sermon. Pay close attention now, boys, close attention. This is Oriental wisdom. As there will be no Dialogues, you will be expected to sit still for the remainder of the class, contemplating the koan. Here it is, boys. Listen carefully, now.”

He reads from the magazine:

The wind was flapping the temple flag and two monks were having an argument about it. Monk number one said, “The flag is moving.” Monk number two said, “The wind is moving.” They argued back and forth but could not reach the truth. The sixth patriarch said, “It is not the wind that moves. It is not the flag that moves. It is your mind that moves.” The two monks were struck with awe.

Silence. Oberstein slips me a note: What of the sound of pigeon droppings?

Brother McCann raises his forefinger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispers. “No Dialogues . . . Shhh . . . Conundrums are beyond the reach of the ordinary intellect.” He turns and tiptoes back to his desk and sits down. He puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispers. “Contemplate. As the Holy Father has requested.” He points to the maple leaf, smiles foolishly and closes his eyes. Then he tilts his head and listens as if straining to hear some distant music.

I look at Blackie, who rolls his eyes, raises a finger to his ear and spins it rapidly. Murphy glances at me, shrugs his broad shoulders and closes his eyes. I look around the room. Everyone except Blackie has his eyes closed. I look at my Mickey. Thirty minutes left. Thirty minutes to stare at the two angry men in the maple leaf or contemplate Father Basho's koan.

McCann jumps to his feet. He has dozed off contemplating Father Basho's koan, and the buzzer jolts him.

“Composition books, boys. Double period. Take out your composition books. Today's essay topic is an ecumenical one. And there is a big prize for the boy who writes the best essay.” McCann smiles, tilts his chair and lolls his head, looking upward, as if searching the ceiling for a hairline crack he knows is there.

We all look at Oberstein, who will not only win the essay contest but during the double period will write some of ours. Oberstein keeps detailed records of how many spelling and grammar mistakes he deliberately places in the essays he writes for Kavanagh and Bug and many of the other boys. “It's important to have the same pattern in each essay,” Oberstein says, “but not the exact number of mistakes each time.” I write essays for some of the boys too. But I'm not as picky as Oberstein. I guess if I want to be a real writer I should be more like Oberstein.

“The boy who writes the best essay will receive a big prize. A suitable prize.”

“What's the topic, Brother?” Kavanagh asks.

“Today's topic is
. . .
” McCann straightens his chair and smiles his stupid smile, “If Jesus Were Japanese.”

Bug looks at Blackie and rolls his eyes.

“Break into groups, class. You have ten minutes for dialogues.”

“What a topic!” Oberstein says. “Why Jesus Is Jewish would at least make some sense. Why couldn't he at least give us a sensible topic?”

“If Jesus Were Japanese is pretty dumb, if you ask me,” Murphy says.

We break into groups and discuss writing an essay about Jesus being Japanese. We all agree to call him Jesus-san. We are permitted to chat for ten minutes before writing. Most have pretty ordinary ideas: describing Jesus-san wearing a kimono or Jesus-san eating Japanese fish, something called “sushi,” or Jesus-san going around bowing a lot to Peter-san and Andrew-san.

Kelly's is really interesting. He writes about the boy Jesus-san in the temple at the age of twelve. Instead of Jesus-san mesmerizing the Pharisees with his knowledge of Scripture, Kelly has him jumping around as a sumo showing the Pharisees all kinds of new moves.

Oberstein writes about Jesus-san wandering around a Shinto garden the night before he is crucified. He has Jesus sweating blood in a Japanese garden while contemplating an original koan about nature spirits. Then he has him fall asleep and go to Shinto heaven with Peter-san and James-san and John-san, where he dreams they are skipping on rose-petal water while playing a game called H
₂
0-ku, which Oberstein made up, and which is a half-assed combination of water polo and box-ball.

Halfway through the second period, McCann asks each boy to read what he has written. Oberstein's essay is chosen as the best in the class, which doesn't surprise anyone. McCann says he awarded it the big prize for its creativity and realism, which makes Oberstein roll his eyes and jab his fingers in his mouth.

After lunch we are called to the chapel for the rosary and a special ecumenical assembly for the presentation of Oberstein's big prize. Brother McCann and Brother McMurtry give brief speeches. Brother McMurtry talks about the importance of the universal church, the ecumenical movement, and the coming of Vatican Two. McCann says we cannot pray hard enough for our separated brethren of the Asian persuasion. He then echoes what he says and adds a bit about the importance of reading and writing.

All the brothers go on about the importance of reading and writing. When I told Rags once that I might become a writer, he promised to take me to the Gosling Public Library. “I'll introduce you to the
New York Times
and the
New Yorker
,” he said, “the best writing in the world.”

Brother McMurtry agrees with McCann, and lectures us about how a boy will get nowhere in this vale of tears without knowing how to read and write. “When a boy leaves Mount Kildare and enters the real world he will need to know how to read and write more than anything else.”

When he finishes his speech, Brother McMurtry announces that Oberstein is the winner of the ecumenical prize and calls him up to the altar rail, shakes his hand, and urges us to give him a big round of applause. Then they ask Oberstein to read a sample paragraph from his winning essay. Oberstein reads the part about how difficult it is for Jesus-san to say sayonara to the disciples the night before his crucifixion. How it made Jesus-san weep tears of blood the color of rose petals.

When Oberstein finishes, Brother McCann urges everyone to clap again. Then he presents Oberstein with his prize. He snaps his fingers, and two older altar boys appear, each carrying something from the sacristy. One holds a large, colorful Japanese fan. The other carries a finely embroidered silk kimono. Oberstein looks oddly at Brother McCann, a vacant, slightly bored look. He squints several times, as if not believing what he sees, then glances at the altar boys, who stand dumbly, holding his prizes.