The Long Run (12 page)

“Water at Sugar Loaf will be sweet today.”

I smile and work my dry throat. “Sure will,” I say, hoping he stays a pace ahead so I don't have to waste energy speaking. I'm getting used to having a parched throat when I run. For that reason alone, I know Brookes is right. The water will be sweet. The day of the marathon, Blackie says, there will be bottles of water stashed along the route for Shorty Richardson and Ryan.

There's the sound of rustling breath behind me. I think of swirling autumn leaves as Father Cross, who always lags behind, pulls up. His face looks more pimply today. He jogs along without speaking. Like me, he hates to talk while running. His face is flushed and he's panting.

“Check out the crow,” Brookes says, pointing to a tree top.

As if hearing us, the crow caws.

“I hate crows,” Brookes says. “They're ugly.”

“I love them,” Cross says. “Look how black their feathers are. And they're smart.”

“Let's see,” Brookes says, picking up a stone and firing it. The crow doesn't move.

“Dumb bird.”

“He knew you'd miss,” I say.

We run without speaking until the turnoff to Sugar Loaf. Pulling ahead, Brookes says, “See you at the water hole.” But he advances only a few strides. This run is a hard one. We are all lazy. It's one of those days when you run like you're half asleep. Today, our pack will not catch the others, coming or going. We are tired and sluggish, like we're having a bad sleep.

At Sugar Loaf Pond, the others cluster around, waiting for us to drink. A creamy mist hovers high above the water. Brookes and Cross take off their baseball caps, and the steam rises from their wet hair. Cross dunks his head in the water twice, while Brookes slurps greedily. I lay down, exhausted, with a severe pain in my head. I close my eyes and put my face in the water, hoping the pain will go away.

“Pick it up,” Blackie hollers, as the sun comes out from behind a cloud bank. “We're losin' time. And the Logy Bay fog's rollin' in.”

Halfway home, as it starts to drizzle, my throat is parched again. A hot flash races through my body, and I can hear my heart beating heavily. I consider asking Cross to jump my temperature when we get back so I can spend a day in the infirmary. But I know that thought too, like so many others, will pass. As we near Logy Bay Store, the sun pales, barely burning through the gray sky. A crow shakes its black feathers. I think how right Cross is. Crows are beautiful. And I think of Nicky and the other pigeons and wish they were as strong as crows. Then I think of that poor little mouse in the crow's beak, and I'm glad Nicky's just the way he is.

Surprisingly, we close the gap on Blackie's pack. I peek over my shoulder. Murphy has stopped to wipe his foggy glasses. The drizzle turns to cold rain and falls through the black boughs onto the swirling leaves as we pass Bally Haley Golf Course, where any day now we'll come during free time to slide for hours on the snowy hills. As we pass Fort Pepperrell and head up through the bog, we watch Shorty Richardson race toward a tiny piece of the sun peeking over the edge of the soccer field.

6

WHENEVER BROTHER WALSH
has something very important to say, he stands in front of the class and stares at the floor for several minutes, tapping his foot. He's a short, stocky man, with a face that looks like it's been chipped out of stone. He has two nicknames—Jawbreaker because of his huge square jaw and Killer because of the way he straps.

“Some of the boys, not all, mind you, some . . . quite a few,
too many
boys . . . are using too many squares.”

Silence. I look over at Ryan, who shrugs and looks at Kavanagh, who looks oddly at Murphy, who also shrugs and stretches his big, sneakered feet.

“Too many. Too many squares. And it must stop. It is an unnecessary, an ungodly expense. Too many, too many squares. Four per sitting is plenty. Six at most.”

It is Jawbreaker's manner to lecture a group of boys in a sort of code. He lectures away, warning and threatening dire consequences for those boys who don't pull up their socks. Those are two of his favorite expressions: dire consequences and pull up your socks.

“Too many squares, far too many. We have to pull up our socks. It has to stop.” He walks through the speckles of light lying across the floor. “There is just too, too much waste. You are living, boys, in an orphanage. This is not Buckingham Palace, boys. Money does not grow on trees. There is no money tree at Mount Kildare. If we had a money tree, boys, there would be no need of the bakery, no need of the raffle. Each and every boy will have to pull up his socks. If every boy does his little bit, the problem will be licked. Dire consequences will be avoided.”

Connelly raises his hand. “What squares, Bruh? What do you mean by squares?”

Jawbreaker frowns. “Why the squares of toilet paper, Mr. Connolly. What other squares are there? Some of you boys are using twenty, fifty, over a hundred squares of toilet paper per sitting. It's outrageous. I once found a whole roll of unused paper in a toilet bowl. An entire roll! Shameful.
Four squares
, boys, four squares is sufficient. Five at most per sitting is plenty. The brothers use only four squares per sitting, and we are adults. Some boys are going through almost half a roll of toilet paper per sitting. Do you think we are rich? Do you think toilet paper grows on trees? Do you
. . .
”

Rowsell interrupts. “Brother Walsh, doesn't paper come from trees?”

Jawbreaker thinks he's being a wiseass, reaches across the aisle to Rowsell's desk and whacks him on the side of the head with the back of his hand.

“Not ordinary paper, boy,
toilet
paper. Don't be a smarty-pants, Mr. Rowsell.”

We find this hilarious because Rowsell couldn't be smart if you paid him.

“And don't forget that there is an angel standing by each toilet keeping a record of the number of squares you use. Each time you use the toilet, boys, each time you tear off a square, it's recorded by your guardian angel. If you use more than six squares, it is an item for the confessional, to be revealed on the day of judgment. Unless, of course, you are absolved from the sin by the seal of the confessional.”

Silence. Steam rushes from the classroom radiator like a snake hissing at the seriousness of it all. The room is getting unbearably hot. The classrooms are always too hot, and the dorms are always too cold.

“How many squares do you use, Mr. Murphy?”

“Four, Bruh, never more than four.” Murphy licks his cracked lips and pushes back his shock of hair.

“Kelly?”

“Usually three, Bruh, sometimes four.”

“O'Neill?”

“Three or four, Burr.”

“Littlejohn?”

“Three or four, Bruh.”

“Mr. Bradbury?”

“Four. Sometimes five.”

“That's at least one too many, Mr. Bradbury, especially for someone your size. Someone your size should get by with one or two. Cut back. Pull up your socks.”

“How many squares, Brookes?”

“Three, Brother.”

“Good. Very good. It appears that, with one exception, you are not the boys who have to pull up your socks.” Silence. He stares at the floor for a full minute. “Now, there are times, those rare occasions, when a boy may use more than four squares. If a boy is ill, for example. If a boy has the stomach flu or diarrhea, he may use twice the number of squares permitted per sitting. He may use eight squares, maybe even ten. Depending.”

“Is that the only time, Bruh?” Bug asks, sucking up.

“Yes, that is the one and only exception.
Illness
. Then, and only then, may a boy double up. Only during illness may a boy use twice the number of allotted squares.”

“Are there any other times you can double up, Brother?” Bug asks. “And when you do, is it a matter for the confessional?”

“No. It is not. And there are no other exceptions.” Brother Walsh moves to the board and writes in very large capital letters: FOUR SQUARES. He turns and looks at the floor briefly and says, “But . . . But, boys, before you use even one square, before tearing off one simple square from the roll, you should simply sit. That is correct, boys. After you finish your business, you should sit for at least five or ten minutes. You will find, boys, that five or more minutes of sitting will help immensely.”

Brookes raises his hand. “Brother, if I'm finished using the bathroom, why should I sit there for five or ten minutes?”

Silence. The radiator hisses softly again, a tiny steam leak.

Jawbreaker walks slowly to Brookes's desk and hovers over him. Brookes looks up sheepishly.

“To dry, Mr. Brookes. To dry.
Dry
.” He turns to the class. “How many times have you been told, if you sit and dry for five minutes or more, boys, you will find, all of you will find, that you will not need to use even four squares. You would get by quite nicely with two, maybe even one. Remember boys, this is not Buckingham Palace. And toilet paper,
toilet paper
, Mr. Rowsell, does not grow on trees.”

The buzzer jolts us. In the next class, McCann hunches his shoulders, tilts his head and stares at the ceiling. He's breathing so heavily we can hear the air whistling in and out of his nostrils. Monologues and Dialogues today deals with mortal and venial sin. This class, McCann has only one prop, a baseball. He rolls it back and forth between his palms. He has just read from the Baltimore Catechism that a mortal sin is deadly, entailing spiritual death, whereas a venial sin is not mortal. It is pardonable, not deadly like a mortal sin. He uses the game of baseball to explain. I close my eyes and fast-forward to the moment he drills the ball at some boy's head. I open my eyes and pray it does not happen. I stare at the ball and will it not to happen.

“Take this baseball,” he says. “Just an ordinary object, a sphere, a simple geometric shape. Or is it? You have all watched professional baseball, boys. You all know who Whitey Ford is. Whitey Ford throws strikes and balls every time he stands on the mound at Yankee Stadium. Think of a strike, boys, as a mortal sin and a ball as a venial sin. If Whitey Ford decides to deliberately hit a player . . . If in full conscience he decides to bean a batter because, say, that player hit a home run the last time up, or simply because he doesn't like him, and Whitey Ford beans that player and knocks him down. Out cold.
Kaput
. Maybe even out of baseball forever. Then Whitey Ford, class, has committed a terrible sin, a deadly sin, a
mortal
sin.”

“What about if he just nicks him, Brother, and the batter only gets a slight headache?” Bug Bradbury shows his teeth he's so proud of his question.

“Ahh, good question. Mr. Bradburys is asking about
intent
. But the
intent
is to harm. Whitey Ford tried to seriously injure the batter. There is intent, Mr. Bradburys. Therefore it is a mortal sin. Clearly a mortal sin. The intent, you see, is everything, boys. The intent supersedes the act. Ergo, Whitey Ford would have committed a grave sin, a mortal sin.”

“What would be an example of a venial sin, Brother McCann?” Bug asks, sucking up. “How could Whitey Ford commit a venial sin? And could you give us another baseball example, Brother?”

McCann smiles, tilts his head and stares at the ceiling. He taps his lips with his index finger. Tiny greenish white saliva spots dribble from the corners of his mouth.

“Well . . . if . . . say . . . yes! If, say, Whitey Ford wanted to bean a batter, and just before he released the ball he changed his mind . . . But it is too late. He is finished his windup. The ball is released. But Whitey Ford had clearly changed his mind. Then the intent is not to harm, even though he may have done so, may have harmed. Even killed the batter. The intent, which is all, at the last split second, is
not
to harm. Ergo, no mortal sin. One might even argue, boys, that Whitey Ford had committed no sin at all.”

“No sin at all?” Oberstein says.

“Perhaps, Mr. Oberstein.”

“Like a deathbed conversion, Brother,” Bug shouts.

“Yes, Mr. Bradburys. Precisely!” The whites of McCann's eyes are visible as he rolls his head back and stares at the ceiling.

“But what if Whitey Ford just wanted to nick the batter, to just hurt him a little bit. But he hit him in the temple and he died. Would that be a mortal or a venial sin?” Kavanagh asks.

“What is the
intent
, Kavanaghs?” McCann growls. “Is the intent to kill? Or is the intent to wound? Killing is murder. Murder is a deadly sin. Ipso facto, it is a mortal sin. And if Whitey Ford died that day, he would go straight to hell.”

“Unless he confessed on the way to the hospital or had a deathbed conversion,” Bug cries out.

“What if you felt you
had
to kill someone, but you didn't want to,” Ryan says. “That wouldn't be a sin, would it?”

“What kind of question is that? Killing is murder, Mr. Ryans. Plain and simple.”

Silence. Another hiss from the radiator. Oberstein looks at Blackie, who stares at Ryan.

“Now where was I? Mr. Bradburys, of course. Deathbed conversion,” McCann says. “Confession always obliterates the stain of mortal sin. Are there any more dialogues, class?”

Littlejohn says that last class we were told that it's a sin to eat anything before Mass. He asks if it's a venial or mortal sin.

McCann asks Oberstein, who says it's a venial sin.

“Correct!” McCann says.

“So if I don't eat before Mass,” Bug says, “and I take communion and after Mass I get hit by a truck, I'll be so holy I'll go straight to heaven. Right?”

“Straight to heaven! That's correct. That is, if you have no mortal sin staining your soul, you are in a state of sanctifying grace.”

Several hands go up, including Oberstein's. But McCann ignores Oberstein. He rarely calls on him because Oberstein's questions are too difficult. Oberstein could give a rabbi a hard time about the Talmud. If he does call upon Oberstein, McCann usually goes on and on, making no sense. He concludes by asking Oberstein what he thinks the answer is to his own question. McCann always agrees with Oberstein's answer, adding a few meaningless comments to make it sound like his own solution.