The Wine of Youth (6 page)

In a way, I think Saint Joseph played me kind of dirty, after all the letters I sent to him. We write to him every year on his feast day. I mean all the guys and girls have to write down on a little note what they want most, and they also write how many prayers they will say to get it, and then Sister Agnes gets all the notes together in a bunch and she burns them, with the stove-lid off, so Saint Joseph will read them in the smoke. Anyhow, that is what Sister says, but I do not think much of it any more, or maybe Saint Joseph never read my notes, or if he did, he does not like me very much.

His feast day comes once every year, and on that day for three straight times I asked for a bicycle. I asked for one of those swell Ranger bikes, brown frame, nickel-plated spokes, and vacuum-cup tires. I never did get what I wanted.

After I did not get my bike the first two times, I went to Sister Agnes and asked her how come. She said, well, seeing as how a saint only knows what is good for us, maybe he felt like a bike would do me hurt. I might get run over and get killed. And that is the reason he did not send any. She also said maybe I asked for too much, but a saint is a saint, and a bike is not too much for him to get for me, and, besides, I would not get run over, because I can ride a bike better than anybody. After he reads your note, Saint Joseph goes to God and tells Him what is what, and God cannot refuse very well, because Saint Joseph was the foster father of the Infant Jesus when He was down here.

The other guys did not ask for as much as I did, I guess, but still most of them got what they wanted. Reinhardt asked for
a new football and, sure enough, next day his father brought him home a keen Spalding. I think I know how that came off, though. I think Sister Agnes read his note to Saint Joseph, and then she telephoned to Reinhardt's dad, who got the football right in his store, because he owns a clothing store and sells Spalding stuff right in it.

Right after this last time I wrote to Saint Joseph, I went to Sister Agnes and said: “Sister, this makes the third time I'm asking Saint Joseph for a bike.”

I told her this because I kind of had a hunch she would telephone my old man, and then I would maybe get the bike. All the time, I also kept saying over and over in my head to Saint Joseph, I mean I was praying, like this: “O Saint Joseph, dear, sweet Saint Joseph, if you do not send the bike I will not pray to you again.” When I prayed like that, I thought the bike would come for sure, because if Saint Joseph found out I would quit praying to him if he did not send the bike, then he would send it. He would not want me to quit him.

I wrote to him that I wanted this bike to be on our front porch when I woke up next morning. I thought it would be keen to wake up and find it there. I also thought if Sister telephoned the old man, he would have time to get the bike on the porch by next morning.

I went to bed real early that night, about eight or half after, and I prayed to Saint Joseph until I went to sleep. I also said my night prayers. I wanted to make sure I said enough prayers.

The next morning I piled out and ran to the porch. There was a bike there, all right. But it was not what I wanted. It was the second-hand one that used to be in Benson's window all the time. It was full of fly specks. The paint was chipped off. It had crazy, old-fashioned handlebars. I fixed it up, anyway, and put on new paint, but I was awfully disappointed, because I wanted a new Ranger.

My mother cried when I told her how bad I felt. But she cries about everything about God. She said the bike got ruined on the way down from Heaven. She must think I am dumb as heck.

A
LONG TIME AGO
, when I was a little second-grader, they were building the new school. At noon hour we used to go to where they were putting up the new building and swipe tar. We chewed it.

It was on account of the tar that Sister Agnes did not like me when I was a little second-grader. But it was not my fault if she got messed up. The desks were so little in the second grade that when she sat down beside me she took up all the room, and I did not know the tar was on the seat.

We were supposed to recite, but I was chewing tar. Sister Agnes saw me. She came down to my desk. When I saw her coming, I got scared. I took out the tar and dropped it. I thought it hit the floor. But it fell on the seat. Heck! I didn't know that. I didn't know she would sit down at the little desk with me. But she did.

She shook her finger and said: “How many times must I tell you not to chew that stuff?” She was mad. I did not answer, and she got up. I mean she almost got up. I mean she tried to get up. I mean the tar hung on.

Her dress pulled. I tried to help. The dress started to tear. She got very mad. She told me to take my hands away. She slapped me. It was a hard sock. Then she told a girl to get the scissors. She cut a little hole in her dress.

She said: “You are a dirty boy, and I have a notion to beat you to death.”

I had to stay after school and clean up. Sister Agnes was there too. I had to scrape with a knife. Not all the tar came off. I was awfully sorry, but I did not tell her. I do not like to tell people
I am sorry. I was not scared, though. Who ever heard of me being scared of Sisters?

I got the black piece of cloth scraped off, and I tossed it into the waste-basket. Sister Agnes was still mad. She did not even look at me. She knew I was there, but she did not look at me. It was funny to say good-night to her, but you have to say it.

So I said: “Good-night, Sister.”

She said: “Go to the basket and get that piece of cloth.”

The cloth was tarry and sticky. I felt cheap, giving it to her. I felt sorry for her. I thought she was going to sew up the hole with the tarry piece. Tar stuck to her fingers. I got scared. I felt goofy.

She said: “You are a bad boy.”

She said: “You are a very bad boy.”

She said: “You are a very, very bad boy.”

I played as if I did not hear. I looked at the door. I played as if I were rolling tar with my fingers. I was thinking I had better tell her I was sorry. But it would be sissified. I did not.

She said: “Are you listening to me?”

I was thinking about sissies.

I said: “What?”

You are not supposed to say “What?” to Sisters. You are supposed to say: “What did you say, Sister?” So I did wrong again. I was in for it again.

I knew it was coming, but I did not duck. I did pretty well for a little second-grader. It did not hurt at all. It would have hurt some other guy, but I was tough.

She said: “That's all. Go home.”

I should have said: “I am sorry,” then. I should have said it, but I didn't.

After that, Sister Agnes did not like me. Once she hollered in front of the whole room that my hands were dirty. I had to go out and wash them. Once I spilled ink, and I did not have a blotter.

Sister Agnes came down the aisle.

“Hurry!” she said. “Blot it up! Hurry!”

You are supposed to have blotters. I did not have any. I borrowed one from a girl.

In front of everybody, Sister Agnes hollered: “After this, bring your own. Good heavens, they only cost a penny!” I felt cheap. The kids thought I was poor.

II

Sister Agnes was not the second-grade teacher when we came back the next year to start the third grade. The second-graders had another teacher. I went to her and asked about Sister Agnes. She said Sister Agnes was in Philadelphia, which is where the great ball players come from.

That year I was only a third-grader, but I was the best ball player in school. I pitched. I struck out forty men. I banged out twenty homers. Sister Agnes should have been here. She should have seen the game I pitched against Whitman. She should have seen me hit home runs when I was a fourth-grader. She should have seen me bust out sixty-nine homers and eighty-seven triples when I was a fifth-grader. She should have been here last year to see me strike them out, one…two…three. And every game, too! I am sure great.

Last September, who do you think was teaching the second-graders again? Sister Agnes! I met her in the hall. Gee! When she came toward me, I felt just like the time she came down the aisle and sat on the tar. She did not talk about the tar, though. She said she had heard all about my great pitching. And that goes to show that when you are great, you are just great, and even when you do something bad, you are still great.

I liked her more and more every day. She helped me whenever I had to stay after school. That goofy Sister Justine, the principal, made me stay in. If the team had me pitching, we would have won the Emerson game. Now the Emerson kids think the Catholics are no good. That shows you. Do you think that goofy Sister Justine cared if the Emerson kids called us “red necks” and “popes”? Heck, no!

She said: “He has to be punished. I am going to show this boy that he can't do as he pleases around here.” Blah, blah, blah.

But Sister Agnes was nice. She came into the room after school
and rooted for me by telling me to work faster. Nearly every day I had to write five hundred times: “I must not laugh during prayers.” It took a long time to write that. The game was half over before I got done with “laugh.”

I would look up, and Sister Agnes would be in front of me, watching me write. Oh, she was keen! Her hair was red, just red as bricks. And you could barely see tiny freckles on her face. Ho! Ho! That was funny. It made me laugh, because Sister Agnes used to say: “Hello, you red-headed, freckled-faced Italian scamp.” Pretty good! What about
her
red hair? What about
her
freckles?

She would lean over and say: “Faster, faster, faster. Think of those homers! Think of those triples!”

I sure did think of them! I sure did! I wrote to beat the band. She counted every word. I thought I never would finish. When I did, I gave the pages to that goofy Sister Justine. Then I ran all the way up to Emerson. But all the guys were gone. I was late. Nobody was on the ball field, and the janitor told me how badly St. Catherine's was beaten. The team always gets the hell beaten out of them when I do not play.

 

Sister Agnes always asked about my house. She always said she was coming to my house to find out if I was mean to my mother. I am glad she did not come. My house is not a very good one. It is not really my house. I mean it belongs to my father. It is not so hot. The front window is busted open. My brother did it with a horseshoe. The hole makes the house look like poor people's. Our front porch used to be white, but when we play ball we keep score on the walls and posts. Now the porch looks crazy. Sister Agnes would think we were awfully poor if she saw it. In the front yard, where we have first base, second base, third base, shortstop, pitcher's box, and home plate, all the grass is worn off. Sister would see how poor we are if she saw it. I am glad she did not come.

My mother got excited when I told her Sister Agnes wanted to come. She told me to find out when she was coming. But I didn't. I lied. I told my mother that Sister Agnes would not come until summertime.

My mother was not polite to want Sister Agnes to come to
our house. Sisters do not eat out. They have a place. That is why they are Sisters. I would feel awfully cheap if Sister Agnes came. Our house is not much. She would think we were awfully poor when we started to eat. My mother would have macaroni. Sister would think that was crazy. We do not have a tablecloth. My mother spreads newspapers. She puts the funny pictures under my brother's plate and the box scores under mine. When I eat, I can see what the boys are doing up in the Big Time. It looks like the A's again this year.

III

One day my mother wrote to Sister Agnes. I went down to the creek and read the note. It was not a good note. It was blotted. My mother wrote it with that old pen. She made a mistake, too. She put her name down like this: “Maria Toscana.” Which is wrong. When other mothers write notes to Sisters, they do it this way: “Mrs.——-,” and then they write their last names. They do not use the first name. My mother should have put her name down this way: “Mrs. Toscana.” When she puts it this way, “Maria Toscana,” people know we are poor.

My mother wrote:

I was in a heck of a fix. The note said my mother was sorry indeed, and Sister would think that was funny, because I did not ask her to come, so she could not say no, so why was my mother sorry?

I did not know what to do. I played hooky. I played hooky
all morning. I sat on the bench at the depot and watched the trains. The Athletics travel on big trains like those.

There is a guy they call Jumbo, and he came to the bench. He wanted to know if I was playing hooky. He is not a kid or anything. He is a man. He wanted to know why I was playing hooky. I showed him the note and told him.

“Oh,” he said, “this is easy.”

He tore the note into pieces. He said I should go to Sister Agnes and ask her, face to face, if she wanted some of my mother's macaroni. It was a very fine idea.

I went to school, and I told Sister Justine that the reason I was absent in the morning was that my mother had the pain in her side again, and I had to go to the drug-store for medicine. And do you know what? That dumb Sister Justine acted as if she did not believe me! Blah on her! Just because she is principal she thinks she can believe anything she wants. I fooled her, all right.

After school I went to Sister Agnes's room. Jumbo's idea was sure a swell one. I do not mind if I ask people face to face to eat my mother's macaroni, but I do mind if I have to give them notes. It is a lot different.

Sister Agnes was playing the organ. She was alone. The room, and the organ, and Sister Agnes, and everything made me think of the time when I was a kid. I looked around, and do you know what I was looking for? I was looking for the little desk with the tar stuck on the seat. And sure enough, there it was, in the back of the room. I sat at it. Gee, it was sad. There I was, the greatest pitcher this school ever had, and sitting at the same little desk I used when Sister Agnes was my teacher.

The organ stopped, and I heard her say: “Well, what on earth are you doing back there?”

I said: “Oh, nothing.”

She said: “Come up here, and we will talk.”

I started to get out of the little desk.

But she said: “Wait. I want to show you something.” She walked down the aisle.

It was just like the time she came down the aisle and sat on the tar. I thought she did not remember the tar, but that was
what she wanted to show me. Gee, I got so red. I got freezy as ice when she found me at the same little desk.

But it was not so awful. She pulled my hair, and she told me about convicts who come back to the place they commit sin. I laughed and then she laughed and then we both laughed. Gee, she was pretty. I wish I could have said: “I am sorry” a long, long time ago. I should have said it just then, but I still do not like to say this to people.

Instead I said: “My mother wants you to eat some of her macaroni.”

She said: “Sure! Thank your mother and tell her I'll be glad to eat a whole bucket of it.”

I was sure surprised! I did not think Sisters ate macaroni. But I guess they do. Sister did not mean a real bucketful, though. She just meant a whole lot. But I guess my mother thought she really meant a whole bucketful.

Ye Gods! Next day I had to lug a bucket of macaroni to school. I hollered, but it did not help any. My father was home. I went up alleys so none of the boys could see me. I sneaked in the back door and gave it to Sister Cook and told her to give it to Sister Agnes.

Sister Agnes said it was the best macaroni she ever tasted. I bet she was fooling, though. I know about those things. I know that once my mother gave some macaroni to the Dows. They said it was good too. But Archer Dow said it tasted dirty, and I saw whole gobs of it in the chicken yard. I felt so cheap I beat up Archer. So I know people. I know what they do.

After I brought the macaroni, Sister Agnes liked me all the more. I used to ditch ball practice to talk to her. A swell player like me doesn't have to practice, anyhow. For a little while, Sister Agnes would talk to me about being a priest. Then she would figure my batting average. She knew how. She figured that I was hitting .599, which is a lot better than Rogers Hornsby. On the ball field I used to bust out homers just to see what Sister Agnes would say. I busted out eight homers, five triples, and three doubles in the Thoreau game. I pitched too. So that shows you. Sister Agnes did not believe I did so much in one game. I made the second-graders tell her all about it.

IV

Sister Agnes figured I would be thirty-five year old before I could become a priest.

I said: “Hey, Sister, how old are you?”

She said: “You must never ask a nun her age.”

Then she lifted the blotter from her desk and showed me a picture. It was her mother and father and Sister Agnes when she was a girl. Sister Agnes wore a high hat with a feather in it. I looked at it for a long time.

She took it away from me and put it under the blotter.

“Now,” she said, “how old do you think I am?”

I said: “I bet I can guess.”

“Guess,” she said.

“Twenty-five,” I said. I was guessing any old number.