The Long Run (45 page)

“Thank God they didn't offer a carton of cigarettes as a reward,” I say.

“Yeah, would of been tough for Bug.” We pass the smoke back and forth for a while. “McCann shouldn't of threatened to take his chair away,” he says.

“Little Matthews got a pretty bad knock,” I say. “I saw the bruise on his neck. It's pretty ugly. Oberstein says Bug was really flying.”

“Bug's not playing with a full deck. Besides, that little kid always stands in the middle of the hallway and dares Bug. You don't dare Bug. Nobody dares Bug.”

“But McCann didn't know that. Bug should of told him. If Bug hadda told him, he wouldn't of threatened to take his chair. And Bug . . .”

“McCann should have more sense. Bug's pretty weak. He's got a fucken hole in his heart. They should protect him, not strap him. And that chair means the world to Bug. McCann's gonna burn in hell.”

I can see Cross is really upset. I want to bring up our lastminute plans for the marathon, but I decide against it. He is really red, a lot redder than usual. He looks at the incident the same as if someone squealed on Bug about smoking. I know he's getting angrier by the second. He's dragging on the cigarette really hard. I've never seen him so angry. I'm getting uncomfortable, and I want to get away from the dorm. I'm afraid of getting caught, so I take a few more puffs and pretend that Blackie and Murphy are waiting for me in the gym for a game of frozen tag.

“Thanks for the smoke. I gotta go.”

“See you later,” Cross says. “Say a few for Bug, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

I don't hear about the strapping till later that evening, after supper. Ryan tells me. He acts like he is sorry for Cross, but he is beside himself telling me about it. That's always the way it is when someone tells you a boy's been strapped. Deep down, the teller wants to feel sorry for the guy, but his voice is so excited it betrays the truth about how he really feels. How happy he is that it's not him. And how excited he is to be reporting the news. And when Ryan's the messenger, he's a nervous Nellie, and it sounds like he's telling you the prime minister was shot and he's getting a million bucks for breaking the news.

He says he walked into the dorm just as Father Cross was putting out his cigarette on the bottom of his sneaker. That's how it's done. If you have a smoke in a forbidden place, you put the butt out on the bottom of your sneaker and then store it inside until you have a chance to dump it down the toilet later. Ryan watched Brother Walsh watch Cross putting out the cigarette butt. He knew right away Cross was a goner. When a boy is caught smoking, the brother always asks if any other boy is involved. If there is, and you squeal, it means you get half the whacks. Plea bargaining, as Oberstein calls it. It's very rare that anyone squeals about anything. A new boy who doesn't know the unwritten rules and the consequences of breaking them might squeal. But that's about the only time. Cross told Brother Walsh he was the only one smoking and took his ten whacks.

When Ryan finishes his story, I go straight away to Harris, a senior boy, and borrow a few cigarettes. I offer them to Cross after study hall.

“Keep 'em,” he says.

“I want you to have 'em, Cross,” I say.

“It's okay. It's fine. Keep 'em.”

“But, Cross. You . . .”

“It doesn't matter. Don't worry about it,” he says. “You would of done the same.”

I think about it later that night in bed. I think Cross was right. I don't think I'd squeal. But you never know. Things are never the same, as Blackie says, when you're looking down the barrel of a gun.

18

BUG BRADBURY IS DEAD.
The building is silent. There is no shouting in the halls. Not a crier in sight. No fire through dry grass. Nobody wants to announce Bug Bradbury is dead.

He died in his bed. It's a date we'll never forget. Wednesday, July 25, 1961. Oberstein found him on the way to Chapel, crumpled in a ball beneath his blanket. The only boy to die in the seventy-three-year history of the Mount. We all have the spells. Even Anstey, who never gets them.

Bug lies in a coffin in the chapel for three days, with his mouth sewed shut. The first time he ever shut up, Ryan says. It is kinda spooky when Old Flynn anoints him with oil. He walks over to Bug in the coffin and presses his oily thumb on Bug's cold forehead and says, “I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, shall never die.” I look over at the sheen on Bug's forehead and shiver. The whole thing gives me the creeps. It reminds me of Vincent Price in
House of Wax
.

Each day for the three days before he is buried, we have morning Mass and the rosary at noon and Benediction in the evening. During sumo classes, we can be excused to go to the chapel and pray for the repose of his soul, which is great because we can escape a few scheduled matches. Bug's little gift to us, Oberstein says, getting us outta the box for a while. All of us ask to be excused at one time or another, not just to get out of sumo class but to be a little closer to Bug. Blackie asks to be excused from class several times. He's taking it pretty hard. He's really down. The brothers ask us to pick a boy from Bug's group to speak at the funeral Mass. And we all choose Blackie, who says it's hard on him because he wasn't all that close to Bug and isn't sure he can say the right thing during the funeral. Which is crazy. Truth is, Blackie was the closest Bug ever got to having a real brother.

Old Monsignor Flynn's gray wisps of hair seem grayer. He tells us that our lost classmate, our brother, has become a little cherub and is looking down on us from heaven. “What a crock,” Murphy says. Monsignor Flynn coughs his way through the gospel according to John. Chapter 11. The story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. After the gospel he gets the thurible and goes to the coffin and pumps incense all over the place. So much incense we almost choke. Then he gives a brief sermon about how we're all like Lazarus, and how Jesus loves us all so much that he will raise us all from the dead, including Brendan Bradbury. He says Jesus isn't only a great teacher and healer, he is a great magician, a magician who can raise not only others but himself from the dead. He says if Jesus hadn't risen from the dead he would've been just another prophet. He wouldn't have been God. Rising from the dead proves he is God. Clare says the same thing every Good Friday when we go to the Basilica for the stations of the cross. That's why he's God, Clare says. Otherwise it's all a big joke.

After the sermon Oberstein stands up, and out of the blue chants the Kaddish. He tells us it's the Jewish prayer for the dead, for the one who left the community, he says. We all think the brothers will go nuts. But they don't say a thing.

Brother McMurtry puts down his breviary, removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. Then he speaks. He gets on with a lot of old crap about the Last Day and Judgment. He speaks too long and bores everyone to tears. He never mentions poor old Bug once. He just drones on about salvation and redemption and the Judgment Day, with nobody paying him one bit of attention. Only a few of the brothers are listening to him, or pretending to. Madman Malone sleeps the whole time McMurtry speaks. Most of us are staring at the floor and stealing odd looks at the coffin, at Bug's pointed chin jutting out. More than ever it seems. And his black glossy hair cropped across his forehead as if the undertaker used the same bowl Bug had the day he cut Rowsell's hair. And his mouth sewed shut. It all seems so weird as we steal glances at his green-and-white school sweater and the tiny black bowtie Cross made for him. We're all so sad we're beside ourselves. I look at the sad faces and know that from now on we'll all have holes in our hearts.

Once, while McMurtry babbles on, Murphy puts his hand to his mouth and squeaks, “Shuddup, you jerk. You're boring us to death with your bullshit.” I almost start to laugh. “That was Bug,” he whispers. “Look at his face; he's getting ready to say something else.” I look over at Bug—his coal-black hair all slicked like the kid in
The Little Rascals
, his sallow complexion—and I swear Murphy is right. I would've bet my whole canteen card Bug was gonna bark out something saucy.

McMurtry finishes and says that the occasion is such a special one that the boys in Brendan's class—it is the only time he has ever called Bug by his first name—have been asked to choose a classmate to say a few words. He says that the boys have chosen one of Brendan's best friends to speak on their behalf. And he asks if Mr. Neville will step forward and come to the altar rail to speak for a minute or so on behalf of the boys in Brendan's dorm. Blackie stands up and ignores Brother McMurtry. In fact, he ignores all the brothers. He walks straight to the coffin and stares down at Bug. And the tears come before he speaks, and when he speaks. I'm so upset. We all are. And so are the brothers. Even Brother McMurtry's eyes are really red. And Rags . . . poor Rags. The redness around his eyes will last forever. Some of the boys are so moved by Blackie's tears that they cry out loud. As he speaks, Blackie keeps one hand on Bug's shoulder.

“Well, Ladybug, you're gone now . . . Flyin' home. And with no warnin'. Nobody knew you were so sick. Don't wanna talk about the Judgment Day or Jesus and Lazarus. Nor the Holy Ghost. Nothin' like that. Just wanna talk to you, like you're still here, listenin'. 'Cause, in a way, you are. I believe . . .
believe
. . . you are. Let's talk like you're in the cafeteria, washin' cups and shinin' plates. Like you're fightin' with Ryan for the first extra slice. Or saucin' someone between classes. Or askin' Father Cross for help with homework. Or yellin' at us from your wheelchair or that high perch at St. Pete's Bowling Alleys . . .

“You're the sauciest one ever to come through the Mount, Bug. The sauciest of the saucy. That's why we'll miss you so much. That shrill tongue was always speakin' the truth. That squeaky voice . . . always teasin', always saucy . . . always there. It's gone now. Gone.”

Blackie lifts his curly head up, flashes his gold tooth and chuckles, “We all got moments we had with him. Bug Bradbury moments. The one I remember most, my best Bug moment, hit me yesterday. Like lightnin'. It was a rainy day. We were playin' baseball. We were in the dugout lazin' during a break. Remember that old gray chair in the dugout at St. Pat's Field, the one Bug loved to stand on so much? That day I pulled the pegs outta that chair, and when Bug stood on it . . .
bang
. . . like the walls o' Jericho, he came tumblin' down. I laughed so hard. Bug stared at me with blinkin' eyes. I thought I was in for somethin' real saucy. Thought he'd say somethin' mighty mean. But no, he just sat there with his head cocked and said, ‘Blackie, how come black people don't have no money? Whites have money . . . the English, the French, the Italians, the Russians. The Asians got money. The Chinese, the Japanese, the Koreans. Even poor Newfoundlanders got money. But not black people. How come there's no Bank of Africa, and nobody in Africa ever has any money?' I was stunned. I said, ‘Bug, that's a good question. But I dunno the answer.'”

Blackie looks down at the coffin, then looks up at us and says, “Bug was always squawkin' about the good times.” He looks at Ryan and says, “What 'bout you? What was your best time with Bug?”

Silence.

“Ryan?” Blackie's voice is thin and raspy.

Tears fill Ryan's eyes. “The fires . . . at the Bat . . .” Ryan starts to sob, and rests his head on the pew in front of us.

“Yeah,” Blackie says. “Old Bug loved makin' the splits as much as he loved makin' the fires blaze up. What 'bout you, Oberstein? What was your best with Bug?”

Oberstein's eyes are glassy, and he looks at Blackie dreamily. Then his cheeks flush redder than I've ever seen. Blackie knows he can't speak.

“Your best, Murphy?”

“Once, he asked me if I was lost in the woods for a week, just me and my dog, would I kill him for food? I said yes, and asked Bug what
he'd
do, and he snapped back at me that he never would. He said I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking of hurting an animal, 'cause you can always depend on an animal, especially a dog.”

Blackie shakes his head in agreement. “Your best, Kavanagh?”

Kavanagh laughs as if he's competing for a prize. “The time he lost his socks at Virginia Waters, and we almost drowned trying to get them back,” Kavanagh almost shouts the words. His jaw hangs wide open when he finishes, waiting for Blackie's approval.

“Yeah. We all got our Bug moments . . .”

Without being asked, O'Grady's voice sings out. “I loved watching him take a cigarette out of that little silver case he had. It was always so cute the way he slipped it out with one hand and tapped it on the case. And I loved watching him smoke it right down to the filter. He smoked harder than any of us.”

Blackie looks around the chapel. His thick lips tighten, and he smiles painfully. “Yeah, he smoked them suckers hard,” he says.

There is a rushing of hot steam from a radiator, like a faint cheer. Then Blackie looks at me. I think of telling a lie, but know it will be too hard to make something up, there in the chapel with the coffin so close I could reach out and touch Bug's face. And the memories flood back. I feel really bad, worse than I did at the beginning of the Mass. All I can think about,
my
Bug Bradbury moment, is that time in the gymnasium during the examination of conscience when Oberstein and Murphy and me beat Bug until he could hardly breathe.

“Sumos. Sumos and bowling,” I stutter, and rest my head on the pew in front of me as Ryan had done.

“Gonna miss you, Bug,” Blackie says. “Fly away home, Ladybug. Never gonna be the same.” Then he whispers, “Goodbye . . . Goodbye, saucy boy.”

We all just about die on the spot. I look at Oberstein, then at my Mickey. The seconds that go by are death-row ticks. Three long minutes before old Monsignor Flynn starts coughing and gargling and starts up the Mass again. And then Oberstein starts singing the Laudate and there isn't a dry eye in the chapel.