The Long Run (44 page)

“Do you need us to bring anything else?” I ask. “More comics . . .”

“Bottle of wine. And Tokyo Rose,
naked
.”

Blackie howls. More silence. Bug stares blankly at the clock again.

“I mean it. You can have anything you want, Bug. Just name it.”

“I wanna be king of the Mental,” Bug says and stares blankly at the clock again. Then we listen to him reciting lines from
Julius Caesar
.

“The Doyle sisters been asking about you, Bug,” I lie.

“Didja get your skin yet?” Bug asks. “Didja jump Ruthie Peckford?”

I can feel the blood running to my head.

“Didn't think so,” Bug laughs. “They'll be coming with my medicine soon,” he says. “You guys better vamoose.”

Before we leave, Blackie tells him about the marathon training. “Over thirty miles now, Bug. Only two weeks to the big race. Everyone's gonna be ready.”

“
Shuttlecocks
, Richardson won't win it,” he groans. “And don't waste your money on Ryan. He's too scrawny. Nick the pigeon would beat him in a race. Besides, scarecrows don't win marathons. He's too skinny.”

“He's got a little muscle now,” I say. “He's not as skinny, and he's still light. And he runs faster.”

“Would that he were fatter,” Bug says.

“Gonna win it,” Blackie says. “And Ryan's gonna get the silver.”

“And pigs fly.” Bug pushes his nose up so he looks like a pig.

“Are you really coming back to the Mount on Monday?” I ask.

“So Mr. Peanut says,” he moans. “But I'm doin' my best to stay right here in paradise with Wendy. Faintin' as much as I can.” Each time he says paradise I think of what Rags said to Oberstein about making a heaven of a hell. And in his own way, with all his lying and cheating and bragging and stealing, I know that's what Bug is trying to do. What Rags once said about all of us. He's looking from behind bars, trying to see stars.

“Be seein' ya Monday, Bug,” Blackie says.

“Beware the ides of August,” Bug shrieks. “Neither one of those jokers will win. Betcha fifty bucks.”

The public address system clicks on, and a voice asks Dr. Peterson to report to the front desk.

“Peterson the pest,” Bug says. “Better vamoose, amigos. And don't forget what the Cheshire cat told Alice.” He pops himself with the comic.

“What's that, Bug?”

“‘We're all mad in here.'” He yelps and laughs, and is quickly out of breath.

“See ya Monday,” I repeat.

But he's not listening. He's back in bed, propped up on his pillow, a sucker in one hand, his comic in the other.

All the way home we argue about whether Bug will be back on Monday. As we sign the Doomsday Book we're still placing bets. Blackie and Oberstein are sure he'll be back. Murphy and I are convinced he won't be. I hope they're right. Things are sure a lot more lively with Bug around.

Bug's got a wheelchair. Bug's got a wheelchair.
Wheelchair. Wheelchair.

Bug's got a wheelchair. He's supposed to spend all his time in it. He's only supposed to walk once in a while—going to the bathroom at night or walking from his bed to his locker. The rest of the time, he has strict orders from the doctor not to do any exercise and to stay in his wheelchair. It's a really neat wheelchair. It's got a black leather seat and big chrome wheels. The Americans at Fort Pepperrell donated it. Two handsome servicemen dressed in white uniforms showed up with it one day. They both had crewcuts and black moustaches. They were really nice soldiers. They sent for Oberstein and Blackie, and asked if there were any other American orphans. They gave them each a brand new baseball glove. I thought that was pretty nice of them. Americans are like that. They've got really big hearts. The soldiers beamed like little kids when Bug sat in the chair.

“There, you'll be fine from now on,” the tall one said.

“No, I won't, Colonel,” Bug squeaked. “I got a bad heart. This stupid thing'll kill me. I'll strain myself every time I wheel around in it. It's useless 'less you put a motor on it.”

The soldiers smiled and said they'd see what they could do. And they took the wheelchair away and rigged it up with a motor that worked off a battery beneath the seat. They brought it back a few days later and gave Bug instructions on how to use it. They beamed again when he sat in it, saluted them, and roared off.

From that moment on, Bug Bradbury became the scourge of the Mount. Dennis the Menace has nothing on Bug Bradbury. He flies through the halls like he's at the Indianapolis 500. Father Cross makes him a rubber horn that squawks like two crows fighting over a scrap of bread. He races madly through the halls as fast as the machine will go, always intent upon wiping someone out. He's wiped himself out a few times, and he almost killed himself playing chicken in the gym one day when he turned too fast and flew out of the chair and into a cement wall. He had an ugly bluish yellow bump on his forehead for a week.

When we hear Bug's horn squawking, or the mad whirring of the motor, we all bolt for cover. It doesn't matter if we're sitting around playing jacks or cards or marbles, when we hear him coming we clear the decks. Everyone, that is, except Kavanagh, who's already been hit twice. Kavanagh gets really excited and always stands in the middle of the hallway, daring Bug to hit him, jumping away from the speeding wheelchair at the last possible second, just like in the movies. Bug got the idea from a Jimmy Dean movie. Blackie teases him that he'll be able to win the marathon now that he has a wheelchair.

Bug has created bumper pads, as he calls them, by tying Eaton's catalogs to the sides and the upturned footrest. He refers to the wheelchair as the tank. He wants everyone to call him General Bradbury. Father Cross made him a green beret like the US army wears. Bug gave it back and told him to put five stars across the front. He wants to be a five-star general.

“Bumper pads are for the sooky-babies, afraid to take a little knock,” he teases.

With the exception of Kavanagh, the sound of Bug's horn strikes terror in every boy, including Blackie. It scatters us in every direction, the older boys pulling the tiny ones to safety. Boys run everywhere, through open doorways and up the nearest flight of stairs. They jump up on window ledges and climb on top of hot radiators. They'd hang from the light fixtures if they could reach them.

After Bug wiped out Kavanagh for the second time, spraining his leg, Rags told him he would lose his wheelchair if he got caught speeding in the halls. So Bug hired a few scouts, offering nickels and dimes from his next month's canteen card, to make sure the coast is always clear of the brothers before he goes on a tear. As each scout reports back to him, he races off through the hallway, squawking his horn and screaming as loud as he can, “Arrr! Norphs, ahoy! Clear the decks, me hardies! Arrr! Clear the decks!” This is an expression he got from a pirate movie we saw about a month ago.

“That's a suicide mission,” Oberstein says.

“Suicide squeeze,” Blackie says. “Got no choice. Marathon's too close. Only weeks away. Can't chance them findin' out now.”

Blackie's just informed us that he's gonna confess to stealing the wine. He says someone has to take the fall. He wants the investigation to end. The questioning is getting too close for comfort. They're beginning to interrogate some of the weaker members of the Klub, and Blackie's sure that one of them will crack and say something about the Bat Cave or the Klub. Or worse, he's afraid that if it continues much longer the brothers will find out about the marathon, which is only a week away. “Gettin' too close. Not gonna take much for someone to squeal now. Pack of cigarettes might do it.”

“They'll crucify you,” Ryan says.

“‘Gonna rise on the third day . . .'”

“Fun-nee,” Oberstein says. “I'll write a note saying I confess to stealing the wine. I'll say I didn't want them to punish the wrong person. I'll take the whacks. I'll write the note, so they'll go easier on me. I'll tell 'em little Jack's sick, and—”

“Forget it.” Blackie taps his gold tooth.

“I'll go,” Father Cross says. “I don't mind the strap or being shunned.”

Blackie is stone-faced. He wipes his glasses on his shirt.

Ryan volunteers. Then Brookes. Then everyone wants to take the fall.

Blackie raises his hand, as if stopping traffic.

“‘A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.' Captain's always last off the sinkin' ship. The leader makes sure everyone's safe.”

There's a long pause. He looks at me and tells me to get my pen and paper.

“Rabbi, we'll need help writin' that note. Gotta be mighty careful with the words.”

We're all in shock. We know Blackie will be severely punished. We stare at him, amazed, thinking the same thing. Blackie's our leader. But we don't deserve him.

The next day the bottom falls out.

“Bug iced it for them,” Oberstein says. “He knocked down one of the little ones, and McCann threatened to take away his chair. He could of killed someone. I saw the whole thing. I was there when he squawked.”

“He squealed?” Murphy says. “Jesus.”

“He
plea bargained
,” Oberstein says. “There's a difference. Blackie's taking the rap. He gave the confession note to McMurtry. He doesn't want anyone else involved. He says there'll be hell to pay if anyone else claims to be in on it. The marathon's the most important thing now. Nothing else. We're counting the days. That's why he confessed.”

“‘Cowards die many times before their deaths,'” Murphy recites from
Julius Caesar
.

“
Damn
you, Bug,” Ryan says. “
Damn
.”

I'm with Father Cross in the dorm, only minutes before he's caught. We are gabbing about what might've happened to Bug if he hadn't squealed.

“He almost got strapped for nicking Kavanagh a few days ago,” I say. “Knocking down one of the little ones was the last straw.”

Cross rolls back the mattress on his bed and snatches up a package of Viceroy cigarettes he has hidden there. “Shouldn't of strapped him,” he says. “Bug's not playing with all his marbles lately.”

“You're not spoze to smoke in the dorm, Cross,” I say as he lights up. “It's five whacks on each hand if you're caught.”

He ignores me, turns to the open window and watches the curtains stirring in the breeze. I push them back and look into the yard. A few older boys are playing become the batter as the sun sets through JD's pine trees. There are pigeon feathers on the windowsill, and I wonder if they are Nicky's.

“I'm not worried about the ten big ones,” he says. “If we're caught, you say that you just got here. I'll back you up. Don't worry, I'll take the rap.”

“McCann smells your breath,” I interrupt.

“McCann's giving special sumo lessons to O'Connor and McBride.” He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. I watch his acned face get redder with each puff. He passes the cigarette to me.