The Long Run (41 page)

Silence.

Bug Bradbury's hands are propellers.

“Yes, Mr. Bradburys?”

“What if you're practicing the rhythm method with your wife, Brother, and you think it's the rhythm time, and you get inside your wife and you're about to, you know, procreate. And you realize you messed up on the calendar date. What would you do?”

McCann looks like he has been hit on the head with a hammer. He stares off into space for a minute and says, “You would do what a good soldier does when he is under heavy attack, Mr. Bradburys. You would pull back.”

Oberstein turns white. Blackie is in shock.

“Wouldn't pulling back be like masturbation? And wouldn't that then be a sin? It's all pulling,” Bug insists.

McCann looks like he's been hit with the hammer a second time.

Silence. McCann mumbles to himself. He sounds like someone talking in his sleep.

“I do not think that would be a sin,” he says, finally.

“But isn't that the same as onionism, Brother?” Bug whines.

“
Onanism
,” McCann corrects. “‘And Onan spilled his seed upon the ground.' It would not be a sin because you did not waste your seed for pleasure. Like Onan.”

“Was Onan a norph?” Rowsell asks.

“You did not pull back
for pleasure
. Not like masturbation.” He ignores Rowsell.

“But you
were
having pleasure,” Bug insists. “At least, until you pulled back.”

“But not
after
,” McCann hastily adds, spraying spit. “There is no pleasure
after
.” McCann is angry, but he's letting Bug get away with murder for some reason. It's very strange.

“Perhaps it's a venial sin, then,” Bug squeaks.

“Possibly, yes. That would be a possibility,” McCann agrees.

“Unless you touched it. You know, to pull back. Like in masturbation. Then it would be a mortal sin, wouldn't it, Brother?”

“Definitely, Mr. Bradburys. Then it would
definitely
be a mortal sin,” McCann says. He sways to one side and stares into space again. He looks like a boxer who's on the ropes. He tells us to study our catechism and sleepwalks back to his desk.

During recess, we wander out by the incinerator for a smoke, and Murphy says, “I can understand why it's a mortal sin to have sex with a girl when she's on her period, but why would it be a sin to wear a condor?”

“
Condom
. The word is condom,” Oberstein says. “A condor is an ugly bird with a great big head.”

“Condom, as in a rubber?” Ryan says.

“Haven't you ever used a rubber?” Bug puffs out his chest.

“I don't get it. Why would you need an eraser to have sex with a girl?” Murphy says.

Bug laughs so hard he falls down. We're all in stitches.

“Murphy ever gets his tail, he's gonna have an ugly bird with a great big head on the top,” Blackie says. We almost die laughing.

“I'll tell you one thing,” Murphy says, after we settle down, passing some hardtack around. “When I get inside a girl, you'll never see me doing what a good soldier does when he's under attack. I'll never be pulling back, mortal sin or no mortal sin.”

“I'm with you, Murph,” Bug squeaks. “I won't be doing the good soldier thing either. And you can take that to the bank.”

“Yeah, the sperm bank,” Blackie says, chewing his biscuit.

And we all howl with laughter again, louder and longer than before.

Back in religion class, we're sure Bug is a goner again. He's really pushing his luck. McCann picks up where he left off last class, the difference between a venial and a mortal sin. Everyone is asking idiotic questions like, Is picking your nose a venial sin or a mortal sin? Or, Is it a venial sin or a mortal sin to think about a naked woman? Ryan wants to know if it's a mortal sin to hurt an animal, like blowing up a frog with a straw. McCann says it's a venial sin, but Oberstein argues that it is a mortal sin because an animal is alive just like a human. Life is life, Oberstein says. But McCann says we're not like animals, that animals are lower life forms, and have no souls, and God created them to be killed and eaten. That settles things until Bug asks if it is a mortal sin to steal from a church. We all turn white, praying Bug won't mention the wine. But McCann just shrugs and says place doesn't matter, it is the nature of the sin that counts. Then he turns and writes the word “masturbation” on the blackboard. He draws a long horizontal arrow opposite it and scrawls in large capital letters: DEADLY SIN.

Bug raises his hand and squeaks, “It's not, Brother McCann. It's not a mortal sin. I don't think it's even a sin.”

“Oh, but it is. What's a mortal sin, class?”

“A mortal sin is a grievous offense against the law of God.”

“It's not a sin,” Bug insists.

“Oh, but it is. It's a terrible sin, a deadly sin, a mortal sin,” Brother McCann says. “Holy Mother Church—”

“It can't be,” Bug says. “It's too natural to be a sin. It's how God made us.”

McCann grabs the Baltimore Catechism and says, “Page sixteen, question number nine. ‘What is a mortal sin? A mortal sin cuts the sinner off from God's grace.' And masturbation, Mr. Bradburys, is on the list of mortal sins. It's on the list.” There is spit everywhere. “What are the chief sources of sin, class?”

“Pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth. And they are commonly called deadly sins.”

“You see, it's on the list.”

“Whose list, Brother? Who makes the list? Who says it's a deadly sin?” We all look at each other as if to say “Bug's gone bonkers.”

“Holy Mother Church's list.
Lust
,” McCann growls. “Lust . . . Lust is a deadly sin.”

“But I masturbate, Brother. All the time. I can't help it. Every time I think of Marilyn Monroe and Jane Mansfield. I think it's only normal. Everyone does it some time or other, including brothers. Only animals don't do it. Do you want us to be like animals? I think even priests do it.”

“Priests! You should be saying what you're saying to a priest. Not to me! To a priest. And in the seal of the confessional box. Not to me. And certainly not to your classmates.” McCann's voice becomes soft. It takes on a strange tone, almost defeated, as if he's becoming embarrassed.

“Brother McCann, if God is a loving God, why would he be mad at me for masturbating when I can't help it? It's natural. That's the way He made me.”

McCann's eyes seem to be wondering what Bug means. “Masturbation is on the list of sins deemed by Holy Mother Church to be mortal. And a mortal sin deprives you of . . . of what, class?”

“God's grace, Brother.”

“Precisely. And no sacrament, no amount of holy communion, will help you. You'll not receive God's grace. You'll go straight to hell. Now do you understand the danger to your soul caused by masturbation, boys?”

“Yes, Brother.”

“That's why it's a deadly sin, boys. Why it's on the list. One of the seven deemed by Holy Mother Church—”

“The Church is wrong!” Bug shouts. He's saucier than we've ever seen him. We're all amazed. Ryan shudders at the punishment to come. Blackie looks at me and goggles his eyes. We're sure McCann will knock Bug's head off any minute. He's strapped us for a lot less.

“The Church is right,” McCann says.

“Wrong,” Bug says. “It's stupid. The Church is wrong about masturbation. Or we're all going to hell, every last one of us. You included.”

There is a long silence. We know Bug's a dead duck.

McCann turns to the blackboard, picks up an eraser and begins erasing the words “DEADLY SIN.”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps, Mr. Bradburys, you are right. Perhaps God . . . Perhaps God meant for us . . .”

He finishes erasing the board and tells us to study questions twenty to twenty-five on the sacraments. Then he sits down behind his desk and stares off into the distance, like a boxer who has been stunned by a blow. Nothing happens the rest of the class. He doesn't say anything to Bug. He doesn't strap him or punch him. He just sits there in a daze until the buzzer sounds. Then he leaves the room, and Brother Walsh comes in to teach Latin.

After supper, we ask Bug if he's lost his marbles. Blackie and Murphy say he's lucky he never got his head handed to him. Bug grins and calls us a bunch of chickens, and says he knew McCann wouldn't do anything to him. When we ask why, he says because the night before he caught McCann in the act.

“Whaddaya mean? What act?” Ryan asks.

“Caught him down in the laundry room. Snappin' the lizard. By the big dryers. I was talkin' to
him
during class. Not anyone else. And he knew it. He's happy I said he ain't goin' to hell. I was tellin' him it isn't a sin. I
knew
he wouldn't hit me. I knew, because I was tellin' him that I
saw
him, caught him red-handed in the act.”

“You got more balls than I have,” Murphy says.

“Like Oberstein says. It's common sense. Oberstein's right about that. Common sense is more important than Church rules. I know it. And McCann knows it. I knew deep down he'd be glad to hear me say what I said. That the Church is wrong, that it's not a sin to snap the lizard. And he needed to hear it more than anyone. He needed to hear that it's normal. It
is
. You're not goin' to hell for that. Nobody's goin' to hell for that. Not even McCann.”

“You took an awful chance,” Oberstein says.

“Don't think so,” Bug grins. “He won't ever bother me again.”

“You're lucky,” Blackie says. “Could of turned on you.”

“Don't think so,” Bug says. “And you wouldn't either if you'd seen his face when I walked in on him down in the laundry room.”

“He's gonna getcha. Tomorrow, maybe next day. You're walkin' on thin ice. You're gonna get it,” Blackie says.

“You didn't see the look on his face,” Bug brags. “He won't be botherin' me anymore.”

“You got balls, Bradbury,” Murphy says.

Bug puffs out his chest.

“‘The sorrow of death compassed me,'” Oberstein says, “‘and the pains of hell got hold of me. I found trouble and sorrow.'”

“You're in deep trouble, Ladybug,” Blackie says. “You better fly away home.”

Summer 1961

17

THE MARATHON
is getting so close. Blackie and Ryan and Richardson ran over thirty miles last Saturday. Our times have never been better. Ryan almost beat Richardson last time out. He's gonna be a great runner one day. Maybe even better than Richardson, Blackie says.

Summer's on the way. We can't wait. Like Christmas, there's no school. Only this time, for two whole months. No study hall, no homework. That alone is enough to put you in seventh heaven. The outdoor swimming pool is open every day, and we have a lot more free time. We spend a lot of time at the Bat Cave, and in the woods building bough huts. We fish and have boil-ups at Virginia Waters. There are picnics at the canyon at Manuels River. The brothers pile us into a big yellow school bus and take us there, or to Power's Court, where we fish and swim and light fires to roast hot dogs. There's always plenty of hot dogs every time we go anywhere. And we get an increase in our weekend allowance this summer. We'll all get fifty cents each Saturday for free time. That means we'll be able to buy the famous Newfoundland Spruce Beer. I've never had it. Murphy says you can get drunk on it, but Oberstein says you can't. It has the same froth as beer, but it stinks to high heaven and tastes like branches from a tree. It costs twenty-five cents a bottle.

The best parts of the summer are the regatta and the camping trip. The regatta is always the first Wednesday in August. It's six weeks away. We're all counting the days. That's when we're allowed the most free time of the whole year. The regatta starts at nine in the morning and goes till nine at night. It ends with an hour of the most amazing fireworks. You can see it from anywhere in the city. The regatta is the only time during the year that the brothers have off. They meet up with brothers from the other schools and spend the day at a cabin on Hogan's Pond. The senior boys are given money to take the little ones to the regatta. The little ones have to be back by six, but we can stay out till nine, after the fireworks. There are boat races all day, and games of chance, and clowns and cotton candy and hot dogs and hamburgers and chips and candy apples. The older boys always buy spin tickets to try to win teddy bears for the little ones. Sometimes they steal one.

The regatta marathon starts at noon. The regatta is cancelled only if there are high winds. The marathon is never cancelled. Oberstein and Blackie have been arguing a lot lately about how many runners should enter. Oberstein wants everyone to run. But Blackie wants just Richardson and Ryan to run. He wants the other runners to ride shotgun, as he calls it. He's set up specialty teams for running supplies, and he's dreamed up schemes for slowing down the really good runners who might get too far ahead. The peashooters have been practicing for weeks. Father Cross made them tiny straight tubes out of copper for spitting their darts. Blackie says he read that in Africa a pygmy can bring down a lion with a peashooter. If the St. John's runners get too much of a lead, Blackie wants to have obstacles in place to slow them down, even knock them out of the race.

Our summer camping trip takes place the last week of August. We go to Ferryland, a small fishing village on the southern shore, and stay at the Holy Cross Cadet Camp for a whole week. It's the best fun you could ever have. We stay in bunkhouses, six to a house. And the food is amazing. Dick the Dutchman cooks all our meals. And just like Christmas, no Diefenbaker meat for a whole week. Breakfast is bacon and eggs every morning. And Dick the Dutchman lets you eat as much as you want. In fact, he gets kinda upset if you don't eat a lot. He makes big vats of black coffee. And you can have all the orange juice you can drink. There's toast and real butter and partridgeberry jam. Murphy and Oberstein eat a loaf of toast every morning. And you can have your eggs fried, boiled, scrambled, or poached. And there's always sugar and honey and salt and pepper and ketchup and mustard on the tables.