The Long Run (34 page)

I know they're up to their secret talk again, but I don't let on. Then Oberstein asks him a bunch of questions about his dream, all the little details, like what color clothing is the medicine man wearing and what time of day is it and did he hear anything or smell anything or taste anything. Oberstein is really big on the small details. He carries around a little spiral notebook and writes down everything he can about every dream he's trying to figure out. Practice makes perfect, he says. Except for Bug's dreams, we all take his interpretations seriously because once he told us that O'Grady's dream about looking for his little sister in the forest meant she was going to die. A few weeks later, O'Grady found out that his sister had leukemia.

“I have another one besides Marilyn Monroe in the elevator,” Bug says.

“Shoot!” Oberstein says.

“I'm lying in a hospital bed, and all these old doctors—they are all about a hundred and fifty years old and they look like Japanese sumos, but they have long white beards—they're examining my lizard, which is world famous 'cause it has grown down to my knees. And it keeps growing, like Pinocchio's nose. One of the doctors is laughing and showing the others a headline in the newspaper that says ‘World's Most Famous Hot Dog.'”

Blackie laughs so much he falls off his throne. We all howl pretty hard.

“That's an easy one to interpret,” Blackie says. “A case of wishful thinking.”

“Did it grow when you told a lie?” Oberstein plays along.

“Nope, only when I went to confession,” Bug says.

Even Oberstein laughs now.

Then we settle down again for a while and everyone is quiet. Just lazing—“cronking,” Rags calls it during rehearsal breaks—and looking at Blackie nodding his head and twirling the speaking stick and surmisin', as he's fond of saying.

Suddenly, out of the silence, a small voice says, “I have a dream sometimes.”

We all look at Nowlan, who rarely says a word he is so shy and so sad all the time. When he sees us all looking at him, he lowers his pointed face.

“Let's hear it,” Oberstein says.

Nowlan starts describing his dream. It's Hallowe'en. It's dark. There's only a night-light on. He's in bed in the infirmary. Someone, a man, is dressed really weird; he's wearing a wig and red lipstick and a long black dress. Like a girl would wear, Nowlan says. And he's putting makeup on Nowlan's face, powder and lipstick and eye shadow. Then the light goes out, and there's only the occasional glow from the blinking Celtic cross. And the weird man sits on his bed and waits for a long time. What seems forever, Nowlan whispers. Then he removes his dress and leans over the bed and babbles something, and starts coughing and drooling like he's sick. He's wearing a black bra and white panties. Girl's clothes, Nowlan says.

When he finishes describing his dream, Nowlan's eyes light up as he waits to hear Oberstein's interpretation. There is a long silence before Oberstein starts going on about how the dream means that Nowlan is going to make a lot of money running a clothing store, or a costume house, or maybe even a restaurant. But we know that Oberstein is feeding him a crock. We all look at Blackie and then at each other. And everyone in the cave knows we're all thinking the same thing. That it's no dream.

To avoid saying any more about the dream, Oberstein starts to sing. He's so good at improvising. He's always taking songs like “Tumbling Tumbleweed” and “Camptown Races” and sticking in someone's name, so we all have a grand old laugh waiting for the next guy's name and to hear what Oberstein will make up. Oberstein's amazing voice just gets better and better. No wonder the brothers always pick him to sing solo at funeral Masses and Christmas and holy days of obligation.

Kelly starts making a feed of roasted spuds. A few boys have started playing cards, a few others stones—our name for jacks, because we use five smooth stones—when Blackie asks Oberstein to make up a new song. Oberstein starts singing a beautiful song called “Wilde Mountain Thyme,” which we always sing whenever there's a concert. There are always a lot of requests for it. Only, Oberstein changes the chorus from “Will you go, lassie, go?” to “Will you glow, Blackie, glow?” We all perk up pretty fast. Everyone has the same thing on his mind. How will Blackie react? We all wonder if he will get angry, and maybe punch Oberstein. But he just laughs and says it's pretty funny, but not as funny as Oberstein's “Panis angelicus, don't pee on your mattress.”

Blackie asks him to sing the chorus again so we can all join in. He says it will be a nice song to sing on special occasions. “Gonna make it our Klub anthem,” he shouts. And as Oberstein booms out the chorus, Blackie stands up and takes a stick from the woodpile and starts directing us just like Brother Walsh does:

And we'll all glow together,

Through the wilde mountain thyme

All around the bloomin' heather

Will you glow, Blackie, glow?

Blackie looks very funny, and everyone sings and has a really good time of it. And the singing is right on key. And it gives us a big lift to be singing so powerfully. We smile to beat the band and have a grand old time watching Blackie mimic Brother Walsh as he directs us with his stick. And we sing as loud as we can and laugh like crazy even though it's a sad and mournful song.

After the singing and a feed of roasted spuds, Blackie changes the subject to girls. I pray Oberstein hasn't told him about Ruthie Peckford. Only Oberstein knows I like her. We only know a few girls. The Doyle sisters and Ruthie Peckford and her friends. They all hang out Saturdays at a planned spot, Bannerman Park or Quidi Vidi Lake, waiting for us with pop and chips and cigarettes. We have a lotta fun with the Doyle sisters. Blackie has even promised to let them come to one of our Klub meetings. Karla is the prettiest, tall and soft with dark eyes, and she loves to go grassing down by Quidi Vidi Lake. But her hair is always like a birch broom in the fits. Cathy is slim and stiff with golden hair, and she is always sniffling. Jane is different. She has the tiniest worm-shaped scar on her lower lip, the color of lightning. She is pretty, but short and fat with gorgeous brown hair that curls at her shoulders.

Bug makes us laugh when he says he'd like to smear chocolate all over Cathy's naked body and lick it off, real slow. Oberstein asks him if he would go to confession afterward for the big solution, which makes us laugh louder. Once Blackie conned Bug into believing that Cathy Doyle is wild about Old Spice aftershave. Bug gave up two canteen cards to get a bottle. He used the whole thing one Saturday, almost knocking out all three of the Doyle sisters. He stunk like a skunk. Nobody could go near him all week.

Pat Fitzpatrick starts bragging about how easy it is for him to get a girl. And it is. He is Hollywood handsome and could easily be in the movies. He has more moves than Kookie on
77 Sunset Strip
. And he's always snapping his fingers like a beatnik and combing his blond hair back, just like Kookie. When he pulls out his comb, we all sing, “Fitzy, Fitzy. Lend me your comb.” Fitz always smells different than the rest of the boys. He's always fresh and smells of strong soap, aftershave, and Brylcreem. Nobody knows where he gets the stuff, but he always seems to have a variety. Unlike Bug, with his Old Spice, everyone likes the smell of Fitzy. We always return from chores or the gym sweaty and wet. Not Fitz. He refers to himself as a lady's man. He's going on about Karla being the prettiest sister. “A real looker,” he says.

“When it comes to girls, you're a sleep-talker,” Blackie jumps in. “Why you wanna gal in the first place, Fitz?”

“Toldja. A few feels and a marathon necking session in the woods behind the soccer field.”

“You should wanna a gal for just one reason,” Blackie says.

“What's that, Blackie?” Kavanagh says stupidly.

“Skin,” Blackie says. “Girls know that. And the best looker ain't always givin' the best lovin'. Looks ain't everythin'.”

Fitz slicks back his hair with his comb. “I'm all ears, Blackie,” he says. A shaft of yellow light slips through the half-closed doors, making a small square on the ground.

“Forget looks. Looks don't mean diddly squat. How big or how small her nose or how straight or crooked her teeth. How tall or how short. Gangly or chubby. None of that matters a row of beans. Listen to the way she breathes. And watch for the tail end of her smile. See if it lingers. If it's
looks
you want, count Jane out right away 'cause of her acne. And she could be a tiger out grassin'. Forget about acne and warts and moles and all. That don't mean nuthin' when it comes to neckin' and pettin'. Don't be afraid to kiss her if she has pimples.”

Bug says, “Only need to know one thing about girls. Their plumbing's on the inside. Ours is on the outside.”

“If you wanna know which gal's the best necker, listen real careful to her voice. How light it is, how giggly, how bubbly. That'll tell you somethin'.”

“Golly, whaddaya mean, plumbing on the outside?” Rowsell says.

“How high, how low the sound. Listen for whether she chews up her words when she speaks. And the speed, how fast she speaks. Most of all, watch how she moves. That don't mean she gotta be a Mexican jumpin' bean. Does she sit on that park bench just swayin' a little every now and then? Read a woman, Fitz. Read her like a book, page by page. Word by word. Like you're readin' a mystery novel. Study all them love crumbs. Study her like you're gonna have a big test the next day and your life depends on it. The length of her smile. The softness. A simple sway now and then. Maybe you'll see a river or Niagara Falls all pent up there, just waitin' to bust through and wash over you.”

“Blackie's right,” Oberstein says. “A person's face is like a book.”

“What about makeup?” Bug asks. “I love lipstick. And nail polish. I love shiny red nails.”

“Maybe a little,” Blackie says. “Like Marilyn . . . But God gave you one face, why create another? Take Ruby Gosse. She wears enough lipstick to paint a battleship and enough powder to blow it up.”

Bug almost chokes laughing.

“And a girl's smile is a love print. If her smile's a sort of grin, closing fast, hard at the corners—she's tough. Like Kelly at shortstop. You don't wanna mess with her any more than Kelly. A girl's smile is a powerful signal every time. It's like an X-ray. Like I said before, Kavanagh loves to smile. Watch how he bares his big teeth. And Rags has a perfect smile, his smile carries that comet's tail every time. But you take McMurtry, his smile's always lopsided, and he hangs on to it too long. It ain't natural. He learned it somewhere. A smile's a perfect gift from God. You can fake a lotta things. But never a real smile.”

“I'm glad my plumbing's on the outside.” Bug wolf whistles, grabbing his crotch and wiggling his bum.

That cracks us all up. As things settle down, Blackie gets that faraway look of his and says, “When I was six, seven, maybe, back in Harlem, the neighbors had a doggie. One day it got wet in the rain and shook water from its back, drops sprayin' in every direction, the way McCann does when he shouts. I saw a man take out a revolver and walk up to that beautiful white doggie and put that revolver to that dog's head and shoot it.
Bang
. Poor doggie just dropped.
Kerplunk
. And that man said, ‘Two types of dogs in this world. Them with spunk and them without.' I was small, but I remember. I remember it same as if it happened two minutes ago. Now, that man thought he was killin' something beautiful. God maybe. But God's like the dandelions out in the baseball field. You tear them out, they keep comin' back somewhere else. Sure as the sun shines every day, they'll keep comin' back.”

Fitzpatrick puts his comb back in his pocket without saying a word.

“If you quit 'cause of Jane's pimples, you're goin' nowhere
real
fast.”

There's a long silence as we pass around the last of the toutons. Blackie is such an amazing guy. He's always saying stuff like that, stuff that makes you think hard and long. We don't say anything as we finish eating. We all just mope and think awhile and look at Blackie scattering the ashes from the fire. I get to wondering about what he said. I'm not sure he's right. Girls are awfully mysterious. But Blackie believes every word he says. And when Blackie believes something, he can be pretty convincing.

That night it's more difficult than usual to sleep. I think about Blackie running away and about Clare and Evan, and I hope they run away instead. Not Blackie. Then Mom and Dad pop into my head, and Oberstein's spells. And Brookes being shunned and Rowsell getting strapped all the time. And I think of the hole in Bug's heart, and for some crazy reason I picture the rabbit looking at his watch and saying he's gonna be late and Bug falling through the rabbit hole. And I'm so sleepy I think the rabbit's a decoy. Then Bug appears with rabbit's ears, bellowing “Moooo.” Then I worry about the brothers finding out about the marathon or catching us for stealing the wine. And my head starts to really pound. Like it's being hit with a board.

I fall asleep for a short while and wake and lie in my bunk listening to the night noises: the coughing and snoring and bedsprings popping and sleep-talking. And I watch the nightlight dim off and on, down by Ryan's bed, until it gets quiet and peaceful for a while. As I start to fall asleep again, I think about the three Doyle sisters, and what Blackie said this afternoon at the Bat Cave.

I do not sleep long. Everything's eating at me. The marathon, the wine stealing, final exams, Ruthie Peckford. What Blackie said the other day about my lousy time sprinting to the cave. I sleep in snatches. Crazy sleep. Something's still eating away at me. Ruthie Peckford maybe. Or the way Clare looked the last time we met. Pale and sad and sickly. Or what Blackie said about my sprinting time . . . I reach beneath my mattress for my running gear. I suit up and head out alone. Sprinting against my own best time.