The Long Run (36 page)

“I was wondering,” she asked, “if you would like to come to the sock hop at McPherson Junior High. Last Saturday of the month.”

“
Believe
.” Blackie's voice haunts me.

“Sure,” I say, just like that, not thinking about what I'm saying.

“Great! I'll see you at the front door of McPherson around eight o'clock.”

“Sure thing,” I say and hang up the phone. I'm breathing like crazy, like McCann does when he goes nuts. I'm excited about what has just happened, and I'm scared I might be caught using the phone. We aren't even allowed in the monastery. You can get killed if you're caught in the monastery. I look at Rowsell, who's seated at the phone desk, picking his nose.

“Thanks, Rowsell,” I say, and wonder how in God's name I'm gonna get to McPherson Junior High at eight o'clock the last Saturday of the month.

I don't mention to anyone that I have my first date. I have no idea what I'm gonna do. I think maybe I'll just pretend the phone call never happened. But that would be standing her up, and only a rat would do that. Then I start thinking of how soft her lips are, and I really want to see her again. Before study hall, I tell Blackie about the phone call.

“You
believed
,” he says, his eyes popping, devouring mine.

“Yeah, I believed,” I say.

“And now you're in a fix,” he chuckles.

“No kiddin',” I say. “I really wanna meet Ruthie Peckford at that dance, Blackie. I wish Nicky was ready to fly messages.”

Blackie tells me I can do one of two things. Tell the truth to one of the brothers, Rags, maybe, and try to get permission to go to the sock hop. Or I can lie. Blackie recommends that I do a bit of both. The wisdom of Solomon, as Oberstein says.

“Say you're invited to a friend's birthday party during Saturday free time, and you need extra time to stay out. You won't be able to sign the Doomsday Book by six. The party's at six and it's a few hours. Say your friend's father's gonna drive you home at nine. That way you'll have a half-hour at the sock hop, a half-hour to run home. That run's a snap for you. You're doin' a ten-minute mile now. You can do it in less than fifteen. Have a dance or two, then tell her you're sick and gotta go home. You're on medication. Say you're a diabetic. Tell her you'll see her Sunday at the park. She'll be excited 'bout all that. Girls love everythin' to be serious.”

It's Wednesday before I get up the nerve to go see Rags.

“It's spring and a young man's fancy
. . .
” he chuckles. “Do you need money?” He looks over the top of his glasses the way he does when he's checking our ears before bed.

I'm so stunned by his question that I don't know what to say.

“No,” I stammer.

“You'll need some money. For a birthday gift. Is your friend a boy or a girl?” Rags winks.

“Ahh . . . girl . . . boy . . .” I say, meaning to lie but getting all tangled up in my thoughts.

“Well . . . Which is it? Is it a boy or a girl?” he asks.

I don't say anything for fear my nervous voice will betray me.

Rags reaches under his soutane into his pants pocket and withdraws his wallet. He removes a crisp one-dollar bill.

“If your friend's a boy, cigarettes. If it's a girl, chocolates. Girls love it when boys bring them chocolates.” He looks at me and smiles as if he knows everything that is in my head. I can't believe my good luck. I'm so happy I think I will die.

“Thanks,” I say and turn away quickly so he won't see my tears.

Letters in the post office. Letters in the post office. Blackie's got mail. Murphy's got mail. Carmichael's got mail. Letters in the post office.

O'Connor sticks his nose inside the TV room, and we know we have mail. I have a letter from Sister Mary Leonard. She's the Mother Superior at St. Martha's. The last time I saw Clare, she told me she had applied to become a nun, a Sister of Mary. Part of the process is a trip to the General Hospital for a complete physical. She told me they found something wrong with her, but the doctors didn't know exactly what it was. Sister Mary Leonard's letter explained it. She has a cyst on her ovary. It scares me to read it. Here is some of what Sister Mary Leonard wrote:

Dear Mr. Carmichael:

I have good news and bad.

The good: Your sister, by the grace of God, has been accepted as a postulant into the Order of the Sisters of Mary. Pray that she may be worthy of her vocation to serve our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. As of today, your sister is no longer an orphan. She is now a member of the Sisters of Mary. During all correspondence with her from now on, you must refer to her as Sister Clare or Sister. From this time forth, you must never refer to her by her first name only. Next year she will take her religious name, at which time, of course, you will refer to her by her chosen name. That name will be either Philomena or Henrietta.

The bad: Your sister had a cyst on her ovary that needed surgery. Had she not, by the grace of God, been at the hospital for her physical examination, it might well have developed into something tragic. Mercifully, and by God's grace, she was successfully treated. Your sister has been recovering at the General Hospital for the past two weeks. She returns to St. Martha's tomorrow. If you receive permission from the Brother Superior, you may sit with her here at St. Martha's on Friday after school or during visiting hours on the weekend. Please have the Brother Superior contact me if this is permissible.

Everyone at St. Martha's is praying for your sister. Mass and communion are offered daily here for her. I shall be contacting Monsignor Flynn about having a special Mass offered at Mount Kildare. Be certain to urge your classmates to make a novena to the Virgin on your sister's behalf, and keep her in your daily prayers. We must never ever underestimate the power of prayer. Pray to the saints and the archangels to intercede to Jesus' Mother on Sister Clare's behalf.

I don't know what to do. I hope I don't get the spells. I want to put on my sneakers and race to the hospital and throw my arms around Clare and hold on to her forever. But I know I won't be able to see her until Friday. She was upset the last time we talked. She was nervous and said she had a sharp pain in her side, but that it wasn't too painful, just uncomfortable at times. I don't know what to do. I have to talk to someone. Blackie or Oberstein. Or maybe Rags. I miss her so much.

Rags tells me he'll drive me to see Clare on Friday after school. “I'll take you in the school van,” he says. Waiting to see her seems like forever. When Friday finally comes, we drive to St. Martha's through the rain, drizzle, and fog.

Visiting hours at St. Martha's are always the same: Friday after school or Saturday and Sunday afternoons between two and four o'clock. Whenever you visit, you always have to go to the cafeteria, and the first thing you notice is a big sign on the wall that says
NO TOUCHING
.

The nuns have back-to-back chairs arranged throughout the room. Postulant and guest sit back to back, whispering, while Sister Mary Leonard, a shovel-faced nun dressed like a penguin, walks around the room praying the rosary. All of the postulants sit with their rosaries during visiting hours. There is a steady clicking throughout the room.

I sit with my back to Clare, talking about baseball. I tell her I'm thinking about becoming a Red Sox fan, betraying my beloved Yankees, which is a big lie but I think it might cheer her up.

“It's all because of Ted Williams,” I say. “I've come to the conclusion he's the greatest hitter of all time.”

“Nobody will ever touch him,” she whispers. “I had a dream about him last night. Two nuns were fighting over his ball cap. Sister Kevin wanted to bury it in the cemetery behind St. Martha's. Sister Bonaventure wanted to put it in the freezer. Dreams can be so strange.”

I tell her about Rabbi Oberstein's dream interpretations. “He's like Joseph of the coat of many colors,” I say. She laughs, and says she can't wait to hear what the chubby cherub says about her dream. Then she tells me she has to go back to the hospital tomorrow because of an infection. For some reason, I think she might die, and I start to cry. I can't say a word. All I can do is let the tears fall. Finally, I ask her if she's in pain.

“Just a bit of sharpness in my side,” she says. “Nothing to really worry about.”

She asks me how play practice is going. I tell her that Rags likes everyone to be perfectly quiet in the wings, sitting still, waiting for their cues. But most of us horse around a lot. We're usually trying to prevent an actor from making an entrance by pinning him to the floor and sitting on him. We try to outdo each other at making loud farts by pumping our arms under our armpits. We deliberately give people the wrong cues, sending them on stage too early or too late. We fling spitballs the size of your fist at each other. We trip Father Cross every time he makes an entrance. We tape Kick Me signs on actors' backs. We can't help it. It's such great fun. Clare asks if I horse around. I lie, telling her I'm always quiet, sitting in the wings reading and listening for my cue to go on. I tell her that I'm the unofficial stage prompter, which is a terrible lie because I'm always stealing Oberstein's prompt book.

“Well, that's good to hear,” she says. “Rags has his hands full with directing. He doesn't need any shenanigans.” She says she's really looking forward to the performance. All the nuns are. Rags is putting on a special matinee for all the nuns in St. John's. She gives me a little lecture about how important the roll of Cassius is and why I should take it seriously. She tells me how important theater is for building confidence and how it teaches cooperation. All I can think of is how much we cooperate when we're stabbing Oberstein in the wings. “Maybe you'll be a famous actor someday,” she says. “Maybe you'll be the next Spencer Tracey.”

“Or Mickey Rooney,” I say, referring to my height, which Clare knows bothers me to no end. I want so much to be tall like Murphy and so many other boys at the Mount.

“Oh, you'll shoot up,” she says. “There's plenty of time for you to shoot up.”

She clicks her rosary beads for a while and sighs that Ted Williams is God's gift to baseball.

“Greater than Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb,” I say. “His record will never be broken.”

She gives a weak little laugh and tells me I'm finally coming to my senses. We chat about pitchers and catchers, Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra, the only Yankee Clare really likes. Out of the blue I start to cry again. This time, she hears me.

“Why are you crying?” she snaps.

“I dunno.”

“There's always a reason.”

“I've been crying a lot lately. Over everything. Oberstein lost his canteen card the other day, and when he told me I burst into tears.”

She doesn't say anything. We just sit there in silence, except for the clicking of her rosary beads now and then. I know she's upset and afraid. I can feel the fear.

“Do you have your rosary?” she whispers. She's always telling me to pray the rosary whenever things aren't going well.

“Yes,” I lie.

“Say one of the joyful mysteries whenever you feel sad. A decade of the rosary changes everything.”

“Clare, this is crazy,” I blurt out. “You could be dying of some weird infection, and we're sitting here back to back, whispering and counting beads.”

“There are rules,” she says.

“I hate the stupid rules,” I cry. “Why is there a rule that says visitors can't touch each other? I'm your brother. I'm not some stranger.” There's a silence, and I know I've upset her, and I start to cry again.

After a while she asks if I'm finished, meaning if I'm finished praying a decade of the rosary. When I say yes, she reaches her hand over her shoulder and strokes mine. I can feel how sweaty it is.

“All through your life, there will be rules. Most of them you won't like. Some you will hate. But you will always have to obey them. That's how life is. If you don't agree with a rule, offer it up for the poor souls in purgatory. You'll never learn anything in life unless you learn to say no to yourself.”

I don't agree with her, but all I can think about is her sweaty hand and the sharpness she's feeling in her side. So I stick my tongue in the corner of my mouth and bite down hard, the way Murphy does when he's really angry, and just sit there crying silently, waiting for Rags to come and drive me home.