The Long Run (35 page)

The air is damp and tastes sweet as I run toward JD's pine trees, their branches swaying against the gray sky. Spring will be here soon. I can feel it in the air. And soon, the snow will all be melted. I know I shouldn't be night running by myself. But I need to. Not doing it would be worse. Maybe I'm trying to ward off a bout of the spells. Blackie will kill me if he finds out.

The moon is bright. There's been no new snow for weeks. But there's still plenty down. I won't run far. To the Bat Cave and back. It won't take me long. Along the way, I listen to the silence. As I head up Major's Path to the trail, the moon drifts behind a cloud. At the cave, I sit on a tree stump and wait for the moon to reappear while gobbling up a candy bar I won from Brookes playing palms. I love the strange, deep silence of the woods.

So many thoughts race through my mind. That's one of the great things about running. When you're running, the thoughts come one at a time, slow and clear, and they hang with you for the whole run. You don't have to fight to hold a thought in your mind. But when you're alone, at times like this, or lying awake in bed, or in chapel or class, thoughts come so quick sometimes, like Whitey Ford fastballs. You feel like you're gonna have to duck. I think of the games we play. And what fun we have. King of the castle, which Blackie usually wins and Bug can never win because he's too weak. I remember the time Blackie told us to let him become king, but Bug figured it out and said he'd rather be the last king in the world than be a fake king of the castle. He said he'd rather be king of a bunch of lepers.

Remembering that makes me sad, so I think about Ruthie Peckford. I love her hair. The smell of it. I approach the door of the cave and try to lift the rusty iron bar locking the entrance. I don't know why. It always takes two of us to lift it off. I sit on a rock and think of the time we caught Father Cross getting his skin, and I wish I was inside the cave with Ruthie Peckford. Blackie's words race back to me. If you
believe
it will happen, then it
will
happen. I close my eyes and imagine her looking at me, smiling. I smile back. She is wearing a long winter coat with a fur collar and a soft felt hat. She is gorgeous. We are holding hands and walking along Water Street, looking for a restaurant. I have money and a job, and I'm looking forward to buying her a piece of jewelry or some flowers, a dozen roses maybe, to see her eyes light up, before taking her to dinner. I stop suddenly and touch her face with my fingers. “I love the way you touch my face with your hand,” she says. She looks me in the eyes and lifts her hand to my face in a way that makes it seem as if the hand is not hers. I lean down to kiss her, just before exploding. I don't think about necking and petting for a single second. Sex is the farthest thing from my mind. I'd really hate that. To mistake my own pleasure for love. That'd be like a runner forgetting he's always alone, that there's only him and the road and the wind. I repeat her name over and over in my mind. I can see her, plain as day—thin lips, sky-blue eyes, turned-up nose, blond bangs. She is pretty.

I stand and open my eyes. Blackie's right. If you wish it hard enough, it happens. I wish I had a cigarette. Then a voice comes from out of nowhere: Thanks for the lovely roses. I smile and break the magic and race down the silvery path leading to the cave. The black branches and the bushes are getting wet. The moon has gone behind the clouds again, and for a second the sky is the color of dull steel. It's dark and cold and misty. I'm glad I have my flashlight. I turn it on. Everything in front of me is blackish white and wet. I don't have my Mickey. But I know it's my best time.

As I approach the yard, a chill runs through me. The light over the cement porch by the handball courts is on. It wasn't on when I set out for the cave. I do not think of Ruthie Peckford anymore. Or of playing king of the castle. Or of how rainy it has become. I say three quick Hail Marys that I won't get caught, and think of what to say if I am. I'll say that Oberstein went missing during the night after we all went to the bathroom. I'll say I was running around the grounds looking for him. I'll start to cry as I say, “I couldn't find him. Maybe he's dead.” Oberstein is quick. If asked, he'll back me up. He'll say he went to his locker, or the chapel to pray. Oberstein will get me out of a jam if anyone can. The darkness deepens. My sweatpants are wet and clingy. There is no moon now, and the rain is coming down in buckets.

Dog-tired, I duck inside the porch and wait until my heart stops racing. I wish it was for Ruthie Peckford. But it's not. It is fear. Fear of the strap. Slowly, I make my way across the yard, enter the building and remove my sneakers and socks. I stand in the doorway, dripping wet, and listen to the silence before sneaking up the stairs. The dorm is still. No snoring. No tossing and turning. No sleep-talking. Nobody budges as I undress and put my wet clothes on the radiator to dry before slipping into bed.

Right away, I think of Ruthie Peckford, and the image of her thin wet lips haunts me until I give in to them. I imagine her waiting for me again near the birch trees by the Bat Cave. Nobody around. Her blond bangs blowing about. The night-light flickers madly for a bit and then goes out as if it knows my thoughts. And I see my hands remove her white woollen scarf, then her winter coat, then her heavy sweater. I notice a tiny patch of pimples on her shoulder and think of the Burin Peninsula on the Newfoundland map. I remember what Blackie said and start kissing the patch, light pecks, until I drift into sleep kissing the rosebuds of her milky white breasts.

Spring 1961

15

THE FREEDOM OF THE WIND
in our faces makes us feel like we're flying. You can smell it. The cool air in your nostrils, the buds on the trees, the mud splashing on your shins. Everything new begins to appear. Everything has a new smell. The smell of first-time things. Even in the Sugar Loaf woods the snow is all but gone and the sun shines brightly on the yellowy grass. With the weight of winter behind us and the marathon looming closer, each run is different now. Special.

Spring, next to Christmas, is my favorite time of year. Everything is new and fresh and full. I just love the smell of the new earth. And I love watching Virginia Waters overflow its banks. And I love the rain. I love running in it when it falls so hard it hurts. We all love running in the rain. Seeing Blackie's drenched afro and Murphy's glasses splattered with mud. Seeing the final crusts of snow melt away each day until all of a sudden there isn't a patch to be seen anywhere, not even deep in the woods.

Soon we will be up to thirty miles. Nobody will beat Richardson. Blackie feels we may even take the silver medal, Ryan is running so well. Every run now is so important. Each time out, I look forward to tying up my sneakers. Sometimes I have butterflies in my stomach, the way I look forward to meeting Ruthie Peckford or the Doyle sisters. It's such a feeling. Like walking on air. Sometimes, finishing up a run, I imagine it's the big day, the St. John's Royal Regatta Marathon, and Ruthie Peckford is there, beaming as I cross the finish line, yards ahead of the second runner. But I know I'm dreaming. My role during the marathon will be to ride shotgun as a sprinter or a peashooter or a supplies carrier. Anyway, I could never beat Shorty Richardson. Nobody can. He's amazing. And he's getting stronger by the day. Blackie says he must have African blood, he's so good. “Yeah, Shorty, you got some black blood,” Blackie always says, each time Shorty knocks off another second or two. Oberstein says all the great Olympic runners are from Africa. They win the Olympic marathon every time. I felt awfully good to hear that, because it's the poorest place in the world and running is the one thing you don't need any money for. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other. It's pretty simple and anyone on earth can do it. Oberstein says some of the Kenyans run barefooted. When I heard that, my heart almost stopped. That is truly amazing. Imagine! Running twenty-six miles in your bare feet and beating every runner in the world. Wow! I'd rather have a hero like him than Rocket Richard or Mickey Mantle or maybe even Floyd Patterson.

This Saturday we're going to try to get permission to go to town a few hours earlier than usual. Blackie says he has a new route, which will take us out to the Trans-Canada Highway. He wants to check out a few of the logging roads. “Runnin' toward Argentia,” he says, “where they get the ferry to the mainland.” He's really anxious about the route. He and Oberstein were chatting about it again the other day after supper. But they stopped talking when they knew I was listening. “It's not a Comrades. But it's close,” I heard Oberstein say. “Helluva good run.” I got the feeling he wasn't talking about the marathon. Blackie's really going to run all the way to Argentia. In my heart I'm sure that's what they mean. And I think back to the time I heard Blackie tell Oberstein he would get to New York and find his mother after he performed the impossible trick. Then Oberstein began telling Blackie about hitting the wall. “You'll have to refuel by eating on the run,” he said, “but you'll lose speed. You can't have both. Otherwise you'll hit the wall.”

Later, they both lectured the runners on diet. “You have to be careful of your glucose. That's your blood sugar. Careful it doesn't drop too fast,” they'd say, “or it'll be like banging into a cement wall. We'll stash bars along the route the day of the marathon so everyone will have enough sugar. Remember, fat for distance, sugar for speed.” Blackie made us walk around in a circle chanting in unison fifty times: “Fat for distance, sugar for speed.”

When Father Cross asks Blackie if it wouldn't be smart to eat a big meal before we race, Blackie laughs and says, “Mount Kildare Lions eat after the chase, not before.”

We're all looking forward to Saturday. It's our longest race yet. And our most important competition. Blackie says there's a big prize for the winning pack.

“Dress right,” Blackie says. “We're goin', rain or shine.”

If we can get away right after lunch, stash our play clothes behind the Dominion Stores and head out, we should have lots of time. We're all edgy. There's a lot at stake. We've all got cards on the line. I've put my only Mickey Mantle against Ryan's Whitey Ford. If I lose, I'll just die.

We've just finished supper. Diefenbaker stew, which is thick as tar, with homemade bread and bog juice. I hate the bog juice, but I love the bread. And there's usually plenty of it. A fresh Mount Kildare loaf is the best in the world, especially the fat slices that appear periodically on the plate with the other five regular slices. Fat slices are rare. They only appear when the bread cutter loses a blade. One boy stands on a chair behind the cutter and lines up five or six loaves and guides them through the blades while another boy turns the handle. Many a bread pusher has cut his finger by failing to keep ahead of the boy turning the handle. With three turns of the handle, a dozen fresh slices fall into the huge metal bread drawer beneath the blades. Every now and then a blade snaps, and a double slice from each loaf falls into the bin. When Blackie's turn comes to cut bread, we know there'll be fat slices. He uses his pen knife to remove a blade, cuts a few dozen loaves and replaces the blade. Blackie's the only one with guts enough to do that.

The stew wasn't too bad tonight, thicker and hotter, not as Diefenbaker-ish. But, as usual, there wasn't enough. There's never enough food. After supper we go directly to the chapel for the rosary. Sometimes there's Benediction too. But tonight there's only the five joyful mysteries. Very boring. I sit next to Murphy, and we play odds and evens and rock, paper, scissors. So there's a little bit of joy at least.

After rosary we have a fifteen-minute break before study hall. We aren't allowed to have phone calls. The telephone is off limits. There's only one phone, and it's in the monastery. One of the brothers might let you use the phone if someone in your family is really sick or dying or something. But that's the only time you're allowed to use it. So I'm really surprised when Rowsell comes looking for me to tell me I'm wanted on the telephone. Every once in a while a boy is given phone duty. He's told to sit at a desk in the monastery and take phone messages. Rowsell must not have known the rules. He must've thought we're allowed to take phone calls. It's a miracle he finds me right away. I'm playing blackjack with Rogers by the corridor leading to the gymnasium. It's even more of a miracle that Rowsell doesn't know the rule about phone messages. But Rowsell can be kinda stunned at times.

“Hello,” I say into the black receiver.

“Hello, it's Ruthie . . . Ruthie Peckford.”

“Hello,” I say again. All I can think of is how she looked at Bannerman Park the last time I saw her. She had her hair in a ponytail, and she was wearing Minnie Mouse white highheeled shoes, which she must've carried in her purse because McPherson girls aren't allowed to wear high heels with their school uniforms. Ruthie Peckford is the first girl I ever kissed, which is no big deal because every boy from the Mount dares every other boy to kiss any girl who comes within ten feet of us. That's how the Dare Klub started, on a dare to kiss one of the Doyle sisters. Ryan and Blackie dared me to kiss Ruthie one afternoon at Bannerman Park. After an easy chase, I caught her and drew her toward me and kissed her hard on the lips. She has really soft lips, so I felt kinda bad about kissing her so hard.