The Long Run (14 page)

Pretty soon I'm thinking about how awful Oberstein's spells are, and I don't feel so bad. And by and by Spencer starts talking in his sleep about his brother Jimmy's hockey cards, or O'Connor starts rocking, or someone gives out a mournful sigh, and I'm reminded of how cold it is and pull the blanket over my head again and start blowing hot air everywhere. And when I am good and warm, my mind becomes clear, and I'm exactly where I was hours before, with nothing but my loneliness. Then I bury my head in the pillow and hope that sleep hauls me under.

It all started last week. Outta the blue. I was listening to Brookes talk about when his mother told him and his two brothers they would have to go into the orphanage for a while. Brookes said he almost went insane. He threatened to run away, and would have if his mother hadn't cried so much and gotten sick. It was really tough listening to him talk about it.

It made me remember the worst day of my life. My trip to hell. The day I had to choose between my mother and father. I was five at the time, but I remember it as clear as day. Mom was upstairs in her room packing. When I walked in, she told me to go to my room and start packing my things, we were leaving. I started to cry and said I didn't want to leave. She was only a mouse of a woman, but she grabbed my hand and squeezed it so hard it hurt. She turned me around and aimed me toward my bedroom and marched me there. Then she took both my hands in hers and dragged me to my suitcase, an old brown cardboard one with long straps that went all around and looped into big brass buckles. I wonder what happened to that old suitcase. I had it when I came here. I must ask Rags about it. He'll help me find it. That suitcase must be stored somewhere. I'd really like to see it again. Anyway, we were almost finished packing when Dad came and stood in the doorway. He was so tall he had to stoop. He was wearing his blue bus uniform. I'll never forget his expression. He was smiling, and his face was the color of raw meat. He lit a cigarette and laughed and said, “I hope I'm invited on this wee trip.” He used the word
wee
a lot when he was drinking. There was a long silence. I felt a real sinking feeling come over me. It was terrible. I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I'm sure it's the feeling you get if you go to hell. Only the feeling lasts forever in hell.

“I don't want to go away,” I said, and ran to my father, crying.

He patted my head and said, “You don't have to. You can stay right here with me if you want to. Isn't that right, Maisie?”

There was that sinking feeling again and another long silence, during which my mother stared right through me.

“Yes, that's right. Your father's right. You may stay. It's your choice.” She turned to my father. “But if he stays, I want you to know that he will never see me again.”

I ran to her and cried harder than I had with Dad. She buckled my suitcase and took me by the hand. As we passed through the doorway, my father patted me on the head. “Be a good boy,” he said, “a good wee boy.”

I could smell the whiskey on his breath. I didn't know what the smell was then. I thought it was a smell like the one Mom wore every Sunday when she dressed for church, only a bit stronger. I looked up at his red, smiling face and said goodbye. My mother tugged my arm and raced downstairs and outside to an ugly brown taxi that was waiting with Clare in the backseat.

I only saw my father once after that. We moved into a small apartment on Prescott Street in St. John's. My mother got a job downtown at the Arcade Stores, and I started kindergarten at Mercy Convent School, and Clare was placed in grade six. One day Dad appeared in the kitchen. Mom was making supper, and
boom
, there he was, in his bus uniform, tall and thin and leaning on the refrigerator. They got into an argument really fast. And Mom threw herself into a chair and started to cry. All at once, my father's face turned sad, and his mouth took on an odd shape, and tears appeared in his eyes. Then he knelt down beside her and kissed her and stroked her long brown hair and put his head in her lap and started crying too. Then I started crying, and they both stopped. He said he wanted her to go for a ride in the bus so they could talk privately. Mom said okay and asked the neighbors to keep an eye on me and Clare. I remember looking out the window down into the street at the two of them. They were holding hands and laughing as they got into Dad's old condemned-looking big blue bus.

That's the last picture I have . . . I never saw them again. A while later a gigantic policeman with a lightbulb nose and a bald head came to the neighbors and told us that the big blue bus went over a cliff in Outer Cove and that my mother and father were dead and I would have to come with him to a place called Mount Kildare and that Clare would have to go to a place called St. Martha's. “Them's places what looks after children what got no parents,” he said. I remember the exact words. And I remember crying and crying and crying. And listening to Clare crying and crying and crying.

I only get the spells once in a while. And I never get them as bad as most of the boys. I feel real sad sometimes and a bit blue, but I never feel as terrible as Ryan and Blackie and Murphy do. And never, ever like Oberstein, who gets them worse than anyone.

Anstey never gets the spells because his father comes to see him a lot. Mr. Anstey is huge, like the Friendly Giant on TV, only he has a much bigger head and a moonbeam smile. Anstey is gonna be just as big. And he's so kind. He's the kinda father, if you only saw him once a year, it'd be enough. He gives all of us great big bear hugs when he comes here. And he always bursts out laughing when he asks us if we're true Newfoundlanders. If we say we are, he says we have to prove it by standing stiff as a poker with our arms straight as arrows while he lifts us off the ground. Oberstein's the only one who buckles when he's lifted, but we think that's deliberate. Oberstein's so proud he's an American. So you can imagine what Anstey feels like when his father's around. He's lotsa fun. I'd never get the spells if I had a father like Mr. Anstey.

Lately I've been praying to the Blessed Virgin to help me shake them. I even made a deal. I promised her I would help O'Grady with his homework during study hall every night till Christmas if she helps me get over the spells. It seems to be working a bit. Whenever I'm helping O'Grady, I don't think about my moment in hell. Of course, O'Grady's so stunned you have to give all your time and energy just to teach him that seven divided by seven is one. He's slow as cold molasses. He can't remember much, and he's a terrible stutterer. When I'm working with O'Grady, there's no time for the spells.

So I shouldn't really complain. Study hall is the only time lately that I don't have the spells. I'm grateful to O'Grady and the Blessed Virgin for their help. I think working each night with O'Grady is helping me break out of it. So I may not have to talk to anyone after all. Or run away to St. Martha's so I can be with Clare for a while. Time will tell.

7

THERE ARE TWO
homemade flashlights, which Father Cross pieced together with batteries, bits of copper, bulbs, and electric tape that Rags uses for the hockey sticks. They work beautifully. Blackie uses one, leading the first pack, which consists of Shorty Richardson, Murphy, and Kavanagh. I lead the second pack, which consists of Ryan, Brookes, and Father Cross. Bug was dropped from Blackie's group because he passed out during our first run. The only reason Blackie gave him a tryout is he feels sorry for him. Bug complained so much about being dropped that Blackie made him chief timer and promised him some money.

Oberstein coordinates the backup, as Blackie calls it. Blackie loves a backup plan. Oberstein calls it the contingency plan. That's the plan we're to use in the event that we're caught night running. We call it the Runners' Watch. We're usually gone about ninety minutes, depending on the weather. If it's really bad out, we return in less than twenty minutes. Oberstein starts the watch, and half an hour later he wakes Bug, who mans the watch for thirty minutes and then wakes Spencer or another designated Klub member. Only a few boys Blackie trusts get a turn in the rotation.

If Spook, the night watchman, or one of the brothers finds out we're missing, the backup kicks in. Whoever is on Runners' Watch at the time of the discovery will tell Spook or the brother in charge that Shorty Richardson is a sleepwalker and that he went missing. The watchkeeper is to say that he got up to use the toilet and discovered Richardson's bunk empty on the way to the bathroom and immediately woke Blackie and a bunch of the boys, who are outside looking for Richardson. The watchkeeper is to say that he'd been looking for Spook since we left. The brothers all know that Spook frequently falls asleep while on duty.

Depending on the time of the discovery, the watchkeeper, who always has my Mickey, will say how long we've been gone. If we're scheduled to be back in fifty minutes, the watchkeeper will say we left a few minutes ago. And Farrell, who is a really good sprinter and is always on red alert, will head out to warn the pack. If we're to be back in ten or fifteen minutes, the watchkeeper will say that we said we'd be back in ten minutes. It is a great plan, and sometimes Blackie runs rehearsals in case we have to use it. Everyone has his part down pat, just like when Rags gives us roles in
Julius Caesar
.

We run late at night, well before daybreak. Usually around three o'clock, before the brothers get up for chapel, and when Spook is fast asleep. Blackie devised a system called “stringing” for running in the dark so we can avoid obstacles like potholes. He uncoils a rope, and each boy wraps a strand around his wrist at ten-foot intervals. Blackie always runs ahead of everyone by about five minutes, his head to the ground like a bloodhound, intent upon the beam of light ahead of him. If he sees a rock or a hole or a fallen branch, he doubles back and warns Murphy, who jerks his string, creating a domino effect for the interval runners, so that the others know there is trouble ahead. Shorty Richardson always runs in the middle of the pack for protection.

Sometimes, if the moon is really bright, instead of stringing, we play a game Blackie devised. The first one to the finish line gets eight points, the last one gets one point. Each pack adds up their points to see which team won. Shorty Richardson is always first, so we have to work really hard to win. And half the time we do, thanks to Ryan, who's becoming a really good runner.

Most nights, starting out is bitter cold, but ten minutes on we start to warm up. The sweat stings our eyes, and we wipe it off on our sweater sleeves. We move slowly, the flashlights throwing a jumpy glow on the ground. Past the outdoor swimming pool toward the soccer fields, on to Fort Pepperrell, Virginia Waters, and finally to Robin Hood Bay. When we reach Sugar Loaf, the halfway mark, we stop at the lake and lie on our bellies and drink greedily. On the way back we pass an empty cabin, and we all yearn to creep over and disappear inside, but instead we think of the big day, the Royal Regatta Marathon, and how Shorty Richardson must be prepared better than any other runner in the city, how he must prepare as if for a Comrades, a double marathon, just like in South Africa. Oberstein told us South African runners have a Comrades, a double marathon, every year.

And so we soldier on. Ahead of my group, I'm close on the heels of Blackie's pack, pushing them, Blackie urging his runners to beat yesterday's time, if only by a few seconds. Our lips are dry and cracked. Our heads are spinning. Our feet are bloody and sore. We all want to stop and lie down and rest, if only for a few minutes. But Blackie's voice is always ringing in our heads:
Believe. We're a team. A winning team. Believe. Believe
. Some mornings, when we get back to our dorm, we are so dog-tired we barely have the energy to take off our clothes and wash, which Blackie always insists we do before falling into bed and sleeping the deepest sleep for a brief while. When the brother on morning duty sounds the buzzer, we do not want to get up. We lie there, exhausted, without will, until we hear McCann or Madman call our names, and we jump, fearful of what may happen if we are not dressed in time, to move with the herd toward chapel, where we will snatch a few minutes sleep here and there between the long prayers.

Winter coats in your dormitory. Winter coats in your dormitory. Winter coats. Winter coats.

The weather is turning a bit. It's cold. But I know the criers are wrong. It's still too early for winter coats. Despite the cold, I'm glad we ran last night. I love running. I'm even looking forward to doing it during the winter. The leaves are almost gone now. There aren't as many robins around, and the pigeons seem to be spending more time in the big stone arches. I haven't seen Nicky for days. I really miss him sometimes. One night I woke up in a sweat, thinking he had flown away.

The dormitory is colder than usual in the mornings, and it's still dark out when we walk single file to chapel. The brother on duty turns on the dorm lights until we are washed and dressed. Winter is only a month or so away. When the first snow falls, the brothers will drag out the big cardboard boxes with the mothballed winter coats and stocking caps and thick mittens. It's a time when every piece of clothing, even socks, will be important. In winter, rarely a day goes by when I'm not cold. Even the classrooms turn cold. The building is so huge, and its only heat comes from a few radiators. Only the corridors are warm, and they always smell of the heated air that comes from the radiators, where we love to compete for a spot to warm our rumps during the time between meals and classes. More than a few drops of blood have fallen during a radiator scrum.