The Long Run (6 page)

3

First Friday of the month. First Friday of the month. First Friday . . . First Friday . . .

ONE OF THE MOUNT CRIERS
, as Oberstein calls them, is shouting in the hallways. There's always a crier or two racing around, half-singing, half-screaming something or other that may or may not be true. Usually, there's more than one. They get a big kick out of running around shouting out something at the top of their lungs. The brothers never mind. Rags says it's a good way to remind us of things. For the boys, it's like a competition to see who can be first to break some news or remind everyone of some scheduled event.

There's always a million things happening at the Mount. So it's easy to forget Skinny Ryan's strapping or Oberstein's spells or Blackie's beating. Every minute there's something new. “Every day is mayday at the Mount,” Oberstein always cheerfully reminds us.

Today, the crier is right. It is the first Friday of the month. We always have confession after breakfast. Monsignor Flynn, who has gray wisps of hair and thick eyebrows that stick out like antennae, says that if you go to Mass and confession and make a novena seven First Fridays in a row you will not die without being in a state of grace. “Ergo,” he says, “you will go straight to heaven.” He always uses that word. “No stops,” he says. “No transfers. You're on the Express Line to heaven. And pray to Jesus, boys. Remember, you can do all things through Jesus.” Monsignor Flynn lives in a small apartment attached to the Mount. He says Mass every day for the brothers and boys and hears confessions every Saturday and on special occasions like First Fridays. He walks with a stoop in his shoulders, and whenever he speaks there's always a rattle in his throat.

Bug Bradbury sighs and waves his hand. Oberstein thinks that Bug's not really a believer. He says Bug has what Brother McMurtry calls the
doubts
. It's hard to tell with Bug because he loves to annoy everyone, especially old Flynn. Once, during confession, I was on the other side of the box, and he started telling his sins without saying, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Old Flynn blasted him for not saying “Bless me, Father.” Then I heard Bug say, “Excuse me. Scripture says, thou shalt have but one Father, thy Father in heaven,
sir
.” Next thing I heard was the screen sliding across and Bug screaming. Old Flynn must've given him quite a poke.

“But, Monsignor, how can you be so sure? Maybe there's a stain or two on your soul, and you need to spend a day or two in purgatory on the way.”

Monsignor Flynn's antennae twitch furiously. He stares at Bug with sad eyes. “If a boy makes the seven First Fridays, there are no exceptions. Ergo, no stops, not a single stop. Making the seven First Fridays guarantees the penitent the last rites of Holy Mother Church. Ergo, the Express Line to heaven, Mr. Bradbury. Is that clear, sir?” Bug hunches his shoulders and turtles his head. He knows when to shut his mouth. Another word and old Flynn would poke a finger in Bug's eye. That's how he punishes a boy. If he stops you in the chapel hall or on the stairway and asks you a question from the catechism, like what is a sacrament, and you don't say right away, “A sacrament is an outward sign of God's grace,” he pokes a finger in your eye. It hurts. You see stars for a few minutes, but it's better than the strap.

The entire dorm is on the way to the chapel for confession. Monsignor Flynn will lead us in the general act of contrition, followed by his usual lecture on how God is listening. “God is always listening, boys. God knows all. Omni
potent
and omni
present
! Be sure to tell everything. You will be forgiven, and your souls will be washed clean. Remember, boys, no sin is too great. Our God is a loving God. And He's an all-knowing God. All-knowing but all-loving.”

Bug Bradbury's hand becomes a propeller again. “What if I got a gun and killed everyone in Mount Kildare? Like that guy in
Gunsmoke
. Every last soul? God wouldn't forgive me then, would he?”

Monsignor Flynn smiles a knowing smile. “God would forgive you, yes.”

“But wouldn't you get excommunicated?” Bug asks, with windmill arm motions.

“No, you would not, Mr. Bradbury. You would be forgiven. Our God is a loving God. You are only excommunicated for opposing Church doctrine.”

Bug slumps in his seat, mute as a mouse, defeated again.

Before chapel, we're permitted twenty minutes to wander about the building during the examination of conscience. We all wander off, even Oberstein. Although he's Jewish, he has to participate in all the Catholic stuff, even confession. The brothers take the examination of conscience very seriously. My sister, Clare, says it's the most important thing about being a Catholic, because when you examine your conscience you have to follow what you find even if it means going against your own church. “Conscience decides everything,” Clare once said to me. “That's all that matters in the long run, not the rules, not the catechism book, not the sacraments, only conscience . . . conscience decides.” She kinda scared me when she said it. She was so deadly serious. Oberstein says she's right, and that conscience is just a fancy name for common sense. And if you lose that, you lose everything.

Bug Bradbury and Oberstein and I wander toward the gymnasium, which is always empty at such times. Most boys wander off with Blackie for a smoke behind the outdoor pool. It's a safe spot with high wooden walls. Fast runners stand guard at either end to warn the swarm of smokers in the middle if a brother appears. We have great fun there in the summertime. A few boys head to their lockers to munch on a hidden treat. Bradbury and Oberstein are arguing about telling the truth in confession. Bug would argue with the devil.

He's a little guy with a squeaky voice and a bad heart. He's just over three feet tall, and he walks around with his deformed chest puffed out like he owns the place. He's really cocky for a little deformed guy. Saucy as a mutt. Out of the blue, he once said to Oberstein, who is really proud of his silky hair, “Oberstein, you got too much soft, silky hair. Why dontcha do yourself a big favor and get it all cut off?” He whistles when he breathes, and he has a saucy, high-pitched voice, which wouldn't sound so bad if he didn't act like he knew everything about everything. Because of his poor health, he has to go for extra meals in the morning and afternoon, and he has mug-ups—hot cocoa and toast—at night before bed. When we tell him he's spoiled rotten, he snaps, “You guys want extra meals, go get a hole in your heart.” He got the nickname Bug because Blackie said one day that he looked like a ladybug.

“If someone gotta big brush and painted you red with black dots you'd look just like a ladybug, a ladybug with a human head,” Blackie said.

“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” Murphy and Ryan always tease him. “Your house is on fire and your children are gone.”

I never tell the truth in confession. Old Monsignor Flynn can get pretty cranked up if you say you stole a loaf from the bakery or robbed someone's canteen card. Instead of saying I stole a loaf, I say I cursed six times. You have to say something like that. Even if you haven't sinned, you have to make something up. You can't just kneel down and say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been two weeks since my last confession, I've been good.” Old Monsignor Flynn depends on lots of sins to make him feel good about his job.

As we enter the empty gymnasium, Bug squeaks, “Ain't you guys afraid?” His voice is becoming more nasal.

“Afraid of what?” I ask.

“Hell!” Bug whistles. “You stupid sonofabritch.”

“Bitch,” Oberstein says. “It's sonofa
bitch
.”

I tell Bug I'm not afraid, that I don't believe in hell, so it doesn't scare me one bit.

Oberstein agrees that there's no such place. “You can't have an all-loving God and innocent children in hell,” he says. “It's contradictory.”

Bug sighs a few whistle breaths and says he's not sure about heaven but he believes in hell. “It's like a bad horror movie,” he complains, “like the ones that give you nightmares. Like
Night of the Zombies
or
The Fly
. And maybe Monsignor Flynn is right. God
is
everywhere. Ergo, He knows everything. And maybe He punishes you when you're bad. That's why I'm going to confess to Monsignor Flynn that I snapped the lizard six times since my last confession.”

“Don't!” I shout. “You can't crank up old Flynn. He'll have a canary if you tell him that. Tell him you took the Lord's name in vain twenty times or you had five hundred impure thoughts.”

“My God is a loving God,” Bug squeaks, mimicking old Flynn, “and He's always listening. He knows all. I gotta confess. I gotta get the big solution.”

“
Absolution
,” Oberstein corrects.

“Besides, Monsignor Flynn won't believe me if I lie. He'll know.” His eyes flutter and close as he speaks.

“Oberstein, tell him it doesn't matter if he jacked off or stole a loaf. Tell him it's all the same. It's all sin. Tell him, Oberstein,” I plead. “Tell him it's a worse sin to crank up old Flynn. Tell him, Oberstein, he'll listen to you.”

“You can say you had a few hundred impure thoughts about girls, Bradbury, you don't have to say you actually snapped your lizard,” Oberstein says.

“I believe in hell. And I'm not going there. I'm getting the Express Line to heaven. And I believe God knows all. He's listening to us right now.” Bug puffs out his chest. “I can't lie. I just can't.” He makes a fluttering gesture and clamps his hands over his ears.

“I can't tell the truth,” Oberstein says. “If I steal a loaf from the bakery, I say I took the Lord's name in vain seven times. If I haven't sinned, I say I swore or I had a thousand impure thoughts. I never confess the truth. And I rarely do penance. If I do, two Hail Marys and an Our Father becomes half a Hail Mary and a Glory Be. I just mumble through the act of contrition. I never do any of it right. And God hasn't struck me dead yet. Tell Monsignor Flynn you took the Lord's name in vain a hundred times since your last confession, and that you're really, really sorry. Spell it out, Bradbury. Tell him you said two hundred God-damns, one hundred Christ Almightys, and three hundred Jesus Christs. Believe me, he'll believe you.”

“Ask him for extra penance, Bradbury,” I say. “That always throws old Flynn off. He'll tell you not to be so hard on yourself.”

“You're a dope, Carmichael. God is listening. Ergo, He knows everything,” Bug whistle-breathes and squeaks like crazy. “He will know. Monsignor Flynn will know. And besides, your sins won't be forgiven. My sins
will
be forgiven if I confess. Every sin will get the big solution. My soul will be washed clean.
Your
souls will remain stained,
stained
, throughout all eternity.” He jumps around like a cat on hot rocks.

“But you can't tell old Flynn you were tugging the toad,” I say. “He'll have a friggin' heart attack. For God's sake, Bradbury, make something up.”

“I don't have any choice,” Bug squeaks. “I'm confessing to everything ever, masturbating, swearing, dropping a roll of toilet paper in the toilet.”

“Jesus, you don't confess to that, do you?” Oberstein says. We both howl. Oberstein's stomach shakes as he laughs.

“Certainly,” Bug squeaks. “And once, I peed on the bathroom wall, and another time, I soiled my underwear during class.”

We laugh so hard we almost fall down. Murphy wanders into the gym, asks what's so funny and joins in laughing. Bug is so serious he has us in stitches.

“You don't have to confess everything, Bradbury. Nobody confesses everything. Not even Father Cross,” Murphy tells him. Father Cross is Chris Cross's nickname. He wants to be a priest.

“Well, I'm not Father Cross,” Bradbury squeaks and puffs his chest at Murphy. “I reckon it's better to confess than not. It's better to have a clean plate.”

“
Slate
,” Oberstein corrects him.

“The brothers don't even confess all their sins,” Murphy says, his mouth a side-slanting grin.

“You can't prove that. You got no proof of that.” Bug is angry now, and his voice is squeakier and saucier than ever.

“Well, they put saltpeter in our food, and none of them confesses to that,” Murphy says.

“What's saltpeter?” Bug whistles.

“Chemical stuff they put in the food to stop you from getting a hard-on,” Oberstein says. “They get it from the Americans at the base, at Fort Pepperrell.”

“Well, it doesn't stop me,” Bug squeaks. “I get a hard-on all the time, a hundred times a day, at least.”

“I don't think that's normal,” Oberstein says.

“Do you confess to wetting the bed?” Murphy asks, his freckles brightening as he speaks.

“Yes,” Bug wheezes, backing away. “I confess to everything. I don't wanna get excommunicated.”

“You can't get excommunicated for that,” Murphy says, poking me in the ribs and laughing. “Besides, you've got a waterproof rubber sheet, so even if you piss yourself it's okay. So why confess?”

“It's not a sin to wet the bed anyway,” Oberstein says. “It's natural, same as snapping the lizard. God might see it, but He's not gonna send you to hell for doing something that's natural. And they're both natural, like eating and sleeping.”

“I'm also gonna tell Monsignor Flynn that Blackie stole money from the collection box. I saw him. And
God
saw him. Last Sunday during public Mass. He threw a dollar bill behind the statue of the Virgin and got it after Mass when he was cleaning up. I'm gonna confess it. I gotta. And I'm gonna tell him about the wine stealing and the fresh loafs from the bakery too. I gotta.” He turns and puffs his chest and pushes past us, stomping toward the door. Bug is mad now.