The Wine of Youth (7 page)

She laughed. That meant I guessed right. When people laugh that way, they mean you have guessed right.

Before she said good-night she told me to go to the sacristy and pray our Lord to make me a priest. I went. I prayed the way she said, but I did not pray very hard, because I did not really want to be a priest. I am going to be a big leaguer. I did not pray to get into the big leagues, though, because I pray for that on Sundays. I go to Communion for it. I am making a Novena for it, too. A Novena is when you go to Holy Communion nine straight times. If you make a perfect Novena you can ask our Lord for anything in the world. But I do not really need a Novena to make the big leagues. I am already a great player. A Novena cinches it for me.

Just when I got up to leave, I thought of a wonderful idea. I knelt down again and made up a prayer. A swell prayer. Here it is: “O dear, sweet Infant Jesus, if You will help me get Sister Agnes's picture, I will make my next Novena one about asking you to make a priest out of me.” I prayed like the dickens. I was holy. I knelt up straight. I kept my hands togeather.

After praying, I went to Sister Agnes's classroom. I was going to ask her for the picture. I sure wanted it. Oh, you should see that Sister Agnes!

She was not there. But you could hear forks and knives in the convent. That meant the Sisters were eating supper. I sure wanted that picture.

So I stole it. I put it under my waist. I sneaked away and beat it for home. After supper I went up to the attic and hid the picture. I keep all my important stuff there, and nobody can see the picture. Nobody but me.

Next day I got to thinking, and I did not know what to do. It was awful, because Sister Agnes knew I did it. When I got to school, I did not go out on the field. I sneaked into the washroom and locked myself in until the bell rang. I stayed in the washroom at recess too. I stayed in there at twelve o'clock too.

After school, I broke ranks and ran behind the church. George McClure saw me, so I went into church to make an Act of Contrition, because stealing is a mortal sin. While I was kneeling there, up came George McClure.

He said: “Hey, Sister Agnes is looking for you.”

I said: “What for?”

He said: “Search me.”

I said: “Does she look sore or anything?”

He said: “Not that I know of.”

Before I went to see her, I made up another prayer. It was a pretty good one. Here it is: “O dear, sweet Infant Jesus, if You ever helped anybody, please help me now.”

Sister Agnes was playing the organ. She heard me come in. I was so scared I could not talk. I was all leery and freezy. It felt like the time she came down the aisle when I was a little second-grader.

She said: “Hello!” It was fishy. I can tell.

I said: “Hello.”

She said: “You must never come here again.”

She said: “You must never talk to me again.”

Then she hollered: “You hear me?”

I said: “Yes, Sister.”

She said: “Go home.”

And after that she never liked me. I know she will never like me again. I can tell.

I did not go home, though. I went out on the ball field. I
thought I would practice hitting some long ones. I did. That night I hit six home runs and five triples.

M
Y MOTHER DOESN'T BELIEVE
I got arrested for stealing carbide. I try to prove it and try to prove it, but she won't believe me. It doesn't do any good to talk to her.

This is how it happened. Me and Dibber got arrested on Sunday, right after church let out. We had paper sacks. We went behind the Colorado Miners' Supply Company. We hid in the high weeds in the alley. Nobody was looking, so I threw a brick through the back window. It made an awful racket, just like when a brick goes through a window. Me and Dibber got pretty scared. Nobody came, though.

Me and Dibber climbed through the busted window. Right there was the carbide in big black drums. The drums weighed five hundred pounds apiece, so we couldn't get away with one of them very well. Even if we could get away with one of them, we'd have to break down the door. Even if we did break down the door, we'd have to carry the drum home, and it was too heavy. Even if we did carry the drum home, we wouldn't know where to hide it. Even if we did know where to hide it, we'd have too much carbide. So we filled the paper sacks.

We didn't hear a sound. But just when we got through, Mr. Krasovich came into the back room from the front part of the store. He wasn't much to be scared of. Oh, no—not much! He only owns the store, that's all.

He said: “Just a minute, boys.”

Dibber tried to jump through the window. Mr. Krasovich grabbed him by the pants. He had me by the necktie. I always wear a necktie on Sundays, darn it. But I wasn't trying to get away.

He said: “Come with me, boys.”

He took us to his front office. He called on the telephone. He didn't call anybody very important. Oh, no—not very important! He only called the cops, that's all. He hung up. He swung around in his chair and looked at me and Dibber. He thought he was tough.

Dibber said: “If you'll leave us go, Mr. Krasovich, we'll promise never to steal from you again.”

Mr. Krasovich said: “No, boys. I'm going to send you two to the state penitentiary.” But he couldn't scare me and Dibber with that kind of talk. Me and Dibber are not so dumb as you think.

He sat there like he was the big cheese himself. We didn't want his old carbide, anyway. All we wanted was two little bitty sackfuls to blow the corks out of bottles.

Then Mr. Wagner, the speed cop, drove up with his motorcycle. Oh! Oh! The minute I saw him I knew I was in for it. He isn't very important. He doesn't know anybody very important. Oh, no! He only knows my father, that's all. Mr. Wagner and my father both belong to the Elks. After he found out what happened, Mr. Wagner said the cops would send us both to the penitentiary for fifteen years.

He took us out to his motorcycle and made us both get into the sidecar. I was crying a little, but not much. So was Dibber, and a whole lot. You would too. Mr. Wagner stepped on the starter, and the motorcycle started.

Mr. Krasovich hollered: “Well, good-by, boys. And lots of luck to you!” He is one of those wise guys. He thought he was funny.

Mr. Wagner drove us through town to the courthouse. People kept looking at us. I was glad I was on the bottom. Nobody saw me. Dibber was on my lap. The whole town saw him. He must have felt very cheap and freaky.

Mr. Wagner took us downstairs and put us in the jailhouse. We didn't try to escape or anything. It was a very fine jailhouse. Nobody ever did escape from it. Once, though, three crooks did. Mr. Wagner then went upstairs and telephoned our fathers. He told them to come over right away.

While me and Dibber were waiting for what was going to happen next, we took out our knives and cut our names in the
wall. We copied from other names on the wall. If you're ever in that jailhouse, you'll see our names. Look over by the window.

You will see Dibber's cut this way: “Kansas City Lannon.”

I cut mine: “Two-Gun Toscana, the Death Kid.”

Pretty soon Dibber's father came to the courthouse. He was mad as everything. He was yelling when he came down the stairs.

He hollered: “Where is he! Where is he!”—meaning Dibber.

Mr. Wagner opened the jailhouse door, and Mr. Lannon ran in. He made a hard run for Dibber. He bent Dibber over the cot. And right there in front of me and Mr. Wagner he gave Dibber the worst licking I ever heard anybody get, except me. Old Dibber must have felt very cheap. I mean, you know how it is.

Then he quit licking Dibber, and took him home. He pulled him upstairs by the ear. I heard Dibber hollering away up in the corridor, and even when they got out in the yard, and even when they crossed the street. It was tough on Dibber, but he got off easy.

After a while, my father came down the stairs. He was not in the least bit of a hurry. Mr. Wagner opened the jailhouse door, and my father came in real slow.

He said: “So you're a thief, too, are you?”

I said: “No, Papa. I'm not a thief on purpose.”

He said: “Purpose! By God, I'll show you some purpose!”

Oh, but that Dibber got off real easy to what I got. Oh, my father gave it to me with his belt. My father wears a belt because he likes to show off. I mean, what's the use to wear a belt if you're already wearing suspenders? I call that showing off. My father hurt me all the worse, because if you think bricklayer don't hurt, just feel their muscles. My pants hurt and hurt and hurt. What I mean is, they burned like a stove.

After my father got tired of licking me, he pushed me into the corner and put his belt on.

He said: “When you get home, tell your mother what you did, you twisted little snake. And if she doesn't knock the living hell out of you, then, by God, I will.”

“You already did,” I said.

“Then, by God, I'll do it again.”

I went out of the jailhouse and up the stairs and down the corridor and out the door and down the front stairs and across the street. I started to run. I wanted to get home before my father, so my mother could give me my other licking, because if she didn't, my father would give it to me again, this time harder. That would be two straight for him, and I'd rather take a hundred and fifty million lickings from my mother than even half of one licking from my father.

Ho ho! You should see my mother when she gives me a licking. Ho ho! You should see her! Ho ho! She hits me like a little tiny sissified girl, and she thinks I'm dying from it. I make faces and groans, and before two or three hits she feels so sorry she has to stop, and before long
she's
the one who's crying, not me.

I was all out of breath when I got home. My mother was in the back yard, feeding the chickens. I told her what happened. I told her the honest-to-God truth. I told her and told her.

I said: “Mamma, I swiped carbide. I got arrested. I got put in jail. Papa got me out. He gave me a licking. He says for you to give me another one, too.”

But she thought I was kidding. I told her and told her and told her, but she wouldn't believe me.

She said: “You mustn't talk like that.”

I told her to hurry and lick me. I even got a stick. She wouldn't take it. We went into the house. I was scared about my father. He is a very fast walker. I knew he was coming.

But all my mother did was sit there and say: “You mustn't talk like that.”

Then I figured out a swell way to prove it to her. I phoned Mr. Krasovich. I told him to hold the line a minute. But my mother wouldn't talk to him.

She said: “Hang up. I won't talk to him.”

I said: “Honest, Ma.”

I said: “Cross my heart, Ma.”

I said: “Honest to God, Ma.”

I said: “God strike me dead, Ma.”

Then my father came home. I heard his shoes scrape on the front porch. I was out of luck. He came in without taking off his hat.

I said “Papa, Mamma doesn't believe I got pinched, and she won't lick me. You tell her.”

He said: “Sure I will, later. Now you get in there”—meaning me. Also meaning the bedroom.

I went in there. I got it again. I got a hell of an awful licking. The worst I ever got in my whole life, except the time I broke Alloback's window and the time I kicked my brother in the head and the time I stole Mamma's purse. Anyhow, it was a plenty tough licking. It stung and stung and stung. Then my father threw me on the bed and went to talk to my mother.

He told my mother about it. I heard him. He told her and told her. But she would not believe him. She said I was too little to steal and get arrested; that made my father get mad.

He said: “By God, you don't know what a devil that kid is.” And my father is right, because I am plenty tough.

He went out. My mother came into the bedroom. I was still crying from my licking. I had a right to cry, because it was the worst I got in my whole life. My mother got the menthol and pulled down my pants. She didn't believe me yet. The menthol felt like ice, cold ice. While she was rubbing me, she tried to tell me I didn't do it. But I said I did, all right.

She said: “I know you didn't do it.”

I said: “I know I did.”

She said: “Come on, say you didn't do it.”

I said: “But I did, too, do it.”

She said: “Oh, you did not.”

I said: “I did!”

She said: “No you didn't. You can't fool your mother.”

I said: “The heck I can't! If you don't believe me, go down to the jailhouse and see. You go there, and you'll see where me and Dibber cut our names on the wall.”

But she shook her head, meaning she still thought I was fooling her.

She went away, and I could hear her in the kitchen. She was singing. My mother always sings the same old song, and it's not such a hot song, either. I learned it a long time ago, when I was a first-grade punk. It's “The Farmer in the Dell.”

The right way to sing “The Farmer in the Dell” is like this:

Which is plenty bad enough, but this is how my mother was singing it, which makes it a very goofy song:

She meant me, she meant I didn't do it, which is nuts, because I did do it. And if she wants proof she can go down to the jailhouse and see mine and Dibber's names cut in the wall.

Dibber cut his: “Kansas City Lannon.”

I cut mine: “Two-Gun Toscana, the Death Kid.”

I like mine best.