The Long Run (43 page)

“Gabe is up in the dorm,” Brother Walsh says. “He thinks he can get an arm around him and pull him in. He wants you to keep talking to him. Keep his attention away from the window.”

“Get back and stay back,” Bug roars. “I can last longer than a shower. I've been drinking water all day. And I'll pee on every one of you if you move any closer.” He shakes his pecker. “Haha-ha-
haaa
-ha.” He tries to sound like Woody Woodpecker. The crowd draws back again.

Brother Walsh looks up and says, “Brother Malone is very sorry, Brendan. He should not have strapped you.”

“Well . . . that's not good enough. And don't call me Brendan. I'm
Bug
. B-U-G, moron.”

Malone says, “Okay, Bug. I can only say that I'm sorry. I can't undo the strapping, Bug.”

“You can undo
something
. Make it up to me
somehow
.”

“How? What can I do, Bug? How can I make it up to you? Tell me what to do, Bug. Whatever you think is fair, I'll do, Bug.”

It's sickening to hear Madman sucking up to Bug by using his nickname all over the place. Sickening and sad. And at the same time, exciting to see Bug having some power over him for a change.

“I dunno. Something . . . anything.”

“What? What would you like me to do, Bug?”

“Canteen card,” Bug says.

“Canteen card,” Brother Malone repeats, clutching a straw. “Another canteen card, Bug? An extra one? You can have an extra one, Bug.”

“No . . . No . . . I want to . . . to strap you. I wanna strap you as hard as I can. Till it stings your hot dog. Just like you strapped me.”

“Okay. Okay, that's fair. That sounds fair to me.”

“And I wanna use
your
strap to do it.”

“Fine, Bug, you can use my strap. That's fair.”

As they're talking, Brother McMurtry leans out the window, grabs Bug and pulls him inside. All we can hear is squealing and screaming. My heart breaks for him.

Nobody tells us what happened to Bug. The brothers won't say. There's a rumor he's gone to the Mental. All I can think of is Christmastime and the choir and the tumblers performing at the Mental. We were all frightened to death. Babbling drooling patients kept trying to join the tumblers. Men in white suits kept taking them back to their seats. One old hunched-up guy made it to the middle of the line and screwed everything up so much we had to start over. I hope that's not where he is. A lot of us will have the spells if that's the case. Oberstein's sure that's what happened to him. He's really upset. He has that same downcast look he always has whenever he gets the spells. I try to perk him up by telling him Bug will be fine and that we've gotta spend all our time now on the marathon. It's getting so close. “Don't get the spells on us, Oberstein. We need you. The regatta's only a few weeks away.”

“If he's there, we're gonna bust in,” Blackie says, “and bust him out.”

“Jesus, breaking into the Mental,” Murphy says.

“Gosh, can you really do that?” Rowsell asks.

“They shouldn't strap people like Bug,” Oberstein says. “It's not fair. He's not like the rest of us. He's upset, and he has a hole in his heart. And he doesn't know what he's doing half the time lately.”

“He'll be a lot worse off in the Mental than at the Mount, that's for sure,” Brookes says, and starts to cry.

Oberstein puts his arm around Brookes. “‘Weeping endures for a night, but joy comes in the morning,'” he says.

“We're gonna bust in, and we're gonna bust out,” Blackie says. “Just like in the movies.”

“Gosh, are you gonna use guns?” Rowsell asks.

Bug Bradbury's not around anymore. Who wants to hunt for Bug? Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Our worst fear is true. The criers are right. Bug's not around anymore. He's been sent to the Mental. Five long days to Saturday free time before we can get to him. The days pass like years. But mercifully, as Clare would say, the waiting ends.

It's two o'clock when we arrive at the Mental in search of Bug. The Mental consists of two huge red brick buildings opposite Bowring Park, where we often go on Saturdays to watch the ducks and swans and to climb the Fighting Newfoundlander, a beautiful statue dedicated to the Royal Newfoundland Regiment of the First World War. Brother McMurtry told us the Newfoundlanders fought like lions during the Battle of the Somme.

The four of us—Blackie, Oberstein, Murphy, and me—scramble through a thicket of alders, climb a long-hedged bank and struggle through the sudden green-and-yellow shock of summer to the big parking lot in front of the buildings. Blackie tells us to wait in the lot while he cases the joint. As he heads for the side entrance, an ambulance arrives, its red light flashing. Men in white uniforms shuffle a struggling man wearing a straitjacket toward the ambulance. He has a square pink face and sleepyhead hair.

“Another fighting Newfoundlander,” Murphy says.

Patients gather in the doorways and windows, bluebottle flies buzzing around their heads. Those at the back stand on their toes to watch. Somebody screams from an open window, “Hence! Home, you idle creatures . . . Mooooo . . . Get you home. Is this a holiday?”

“Bug!” Oberstein says. “Second floor, last window over.”

“Friends, Romans, St. John's cunts, lend me your tears . . .”

And sure enough, there's Bug, bigger than on a movie screen, leaning out a window and squawking, “I have come to straitjacket Bernie, not to praise him. Bernie, you forgot your smokes.”

A fat cook comes out in his apron to have a cigarette and to see who's causing all the racket. He is joined in a few minutes by a thin man with a walrus moustache who wears a white uniform.

“Poor bastard,” Oberstein says. “Wonder why they put him in a straitjacket?”

“Hope it doesn't have anything to do with Bug,” I say.

Blackie returns and tells us that getting in is a piece of cake. “No security guards. Geared to keepin' people in. Guess they don't care 'bout keepin' people out. There's an open window on the second floor,” he says. “It's not too high up.”

“We spotted Bug,” Oberstein says. “Last window, second floor.” Blackie looks in the direction Oberstein is pointing but Bug's no longer there.

“Gonna need a human ladder to get through the window,” Blackie says, looking at Murphy. “We should be able to get in standing on his shoulders.”

“Jesus, never thought we'd ever be breaking into the Mental.” Murphy strains as he lifts Blackie onto his shoulders.

Once inside, Blackie and I head straight for the corner room on the second floor. The door has
BRADBURY
stamped on it. We push through the heavy door. The room is painted a glossy white. It's tiny and plain, with a bed and a night table. The walls are bare and lonely. On the table is a stack of Classics comics that Oberstein collected and sent. Bug is sitting up in bed, smoking a cigarette and reading
Alice in Wonderland
.

“Took you long enough,” he says, without looking up from his comic. He burps loudly. “Gas keeps bubbling up.” He licks his arm.

“How'd you know it was us, Bug?” I ask.

“You kiddin' me, brother? Pretty hard to miss.” He snaps his fingers, jumps out of bed and goes to the window. He's wearing a pale-white gown, the kind the patients wear on
Ben Casey
. “You guys are real dopes. Hanging around the parkin' lot like a crowd of crooks. Looked like hoods from a Cagney movie.
Dumbos
. Wonder someone didn't lock you up.”

Blackie laughs. “How's the world's most famous hot dog?” Blackie asks. We crack up.

“Still getting longer,” Bug giggles. “Got a ruler?” He scratches his crotch and says, “I'm some glad my plumbing's on the outside.”

I ask Bug about the guy they took off in the straitjacket.

“Ahh, that's just Bernie,” he says. “Thinks he's the Bird Man of Alcatraz. Jumped out a window. They're takin' him to the General for an X-ray.”

Blackie laughs again. “They treatin' you okay, Ladybug?” he asks. “What've you been up to?”

“Hangin' out with headshrinkers, mostly. Puttin' the make on a few nurses. There's a really cute patient from Labrador on the third floor. Name's Wendy. I tell her she's Wendy the good little witch. I sneak up to her room a lot. We smoke cigarettes and watch TV and do lotsa heavy necking. But she won't pet. She says it could lead to twins. She has twin brothers. She's got a really wet tongue. You should see it, it's longer than mine. Almost got caught red-handed in bed with her once. There's another old guy from Hare Bay who fell off a ladder and landed on his head. He thinks he's Joey Smallwood. I tell him I'm Julius Caesar. We have some pretty good chats. But it's all Greek to me. He wants me to join the Liberals. Think Cross can make him a pair of Joey glasses? This guy's a whiz at playing crib too. Beats me at every game.”

“You seeing a shrink, Bug?” Blackie asks.

“Almost every day. He thinks I'm okay. But he's nuts. He wears a magnifyin' glass that he keeps on a string in his top pocket. You know, like the Planter's Peanuts man. I call him Mr. Peanut. He's only a tiny guy, but he doesn't seem to mind bein' called that. He can't ask a question without hauling out his magnifyin' glass and lookin' at you through it. He keeps buggin' me about my relationship with my mother. I told him she gave me cigarettes and coffee when I was still in a high chair. And that I think about her when I snap the lizard. That got him off my case for a while.”

“How's the food? You eatin' good? Betcha miss the Diefenbaker meat.”

“Food here's pretty good. They don't serve bog juice. Real tea and real coffee. Ice cream, pop, chips. The whole shebang. Every day's a wingding, brother.” When he finishes, he takes short, squeaky breaths. Then he murmurs to himself and moans softly and sits down on the bed.

“I've been getting winded a lot lately. And I fainted in the shower the other day. Mr. Peanut told me he's gonna get me a wheelchair if I keep fainting. Guess what, I been fainting twice a day. I'd love a wheelchair.”

Blackie and I look at each other. We're not sure if he's bullshitting.

“Gotta get you outta here,” Blackie says. “We're gonna bust you out, Bug.”

“Don't need any help. ‘Bug from bondage will deliver Bug.' Besides, it won't be necessary, they're sending me home Monday.”

Blackie's so happy he gives him a big hug.

“That's great, Bug,” I say. “It'll be good to have you back at the Mount. I was worried you might miss the marathon.”

“You kiddin' me? This place is
paradis
e. I'd rather stick around here, any day. Lotsa cigarettes. TV whenever you want. We're allowed to stay up till midnight to watch wrestling. Like I said, food's a lot better. And tons of it. No fucken Diefenbaker meat in here, brother. No rules. No class. No study hall, Mass, rosary. Perfect place for an atheist.”

We laugh. Then there's an uncomfortable silence. Bug looks as if he's trying to remember something. Blackie's eyes jump, taking in the room.

“‘If it were so, it would be, and if it was so, it might be . . . but seein' how it isn't, it ain't.'” He rolls up the comic and bops himself in the forehead. “It's all in
Alice
,” he says. Then he takes out his little silver cigarette case and snaps the cover open and shut a few times.

“Ole Flynn was here to see me the other day. Tried to give me holy communion. I told him to stick it where the sun don't shine. Asked me if I wanted to go to confession. I didn't go, but I told him we stole the wine.”

Blackie's jaw drops, as we stare in disbelief.

“Relax. Just kiddin'. Gettin' yer pee hot, weren't cha?” He laughs himself into a coughing fit, choking and sending spit everywhere, the way McCann does.

Blackie's eyes twitch madly. He races to Bug and smacks him on the back.

“Everyone misses you, Bug,” I say.

He lets out a long, squeaky, doleful sigh.

“I don't miss anybody.
Nobody
. Except, maybe . . . Rags. Yeah, I guess I miss Blackie too. Blackie and Rags.” He whimpers and stares blankly at the clock on the wall. His eyes fill up, and we know he misses everyone. He closes his eyes. There is another doleful squeak. He can't say anything. For the first time in his life he seems to have lost the power of speech.

We don't say anything. It's a really dense silence, the kind that invites the sort of thoughts that can give you the spells. “Ladybug, Ladybug, fly away home” comes into my head, and the words won't go away. They play over and over. Like when the needle's stuck on a record player. Blackie reaches into his pockets and brings out fistfuls of Tootsie Rolls and suckers.

“For the Bug,” he says.

“Jeez, thanks, Blackie,” Bug lets out a wild little yelp.