The Long Run (37 page)

Carmichael's goin' to the hospital. Carmichael's goin' to the hospital.

It's Sunday morning after Mass. I've been in JD's garden with Bug, planting Japanese cherry trees for McCann.

“His Japanese brother says their branches will weep pink blossoms,” I told Bug.

“Not before they shit brown buds,” Bug said.

Rags must've asked the criers to find me. I have permission to see Clare again, this time at the General Hospital, where she's recovering from the infection.

The criers find me in the dorm, changing into my play clothes. They tell me Rags says I must wear my Sunday clothes before I leave for the hospital. That means a white shirt and school tie, my gray flannels and my blue blazer with the crest of St. Raphael on the upper pocket. Visiting hours are between two and four o'clock. Without me even asking, Blackie tells Kelly, who's on telephone duty, to get a message to Ruthie Peckford to meet me at three o'clock at the hospital canteen.

“You see an opportunity with a gal, you gotta grab it,” Blackie nods. “You only get so many chances. Grab every one.”

At breakfast, I can't eat. I'm worried about Clare and anxious about meeting Ruthie Peckford. I keep drinking cup after cup of bog juice. I hate bog juice, but it's all there is to wash down the fried Diefenbaker meat. And this morning I drink more than my usual cup because my mouth is so dry. Oberstein looks more nervous than I am. He leans with his elbows on the table, his chin on his hands, staring at his empty plate.

“What's the matter, Oberstein?” I say. “Why are you so nervous? I'm the one with the date.”

“It's not that,” Oberstein says, looking around to find the brother on duty. “We may have to cancel the marathon. Bug's threatening to blow the whistle on us about everything . . . the Bat Cave, the bakery, the wine, the marathon . . .”

“Holy shit!” Murphy says, his eyes growing rounder as he stares at Bug, who has a face like a boiled boot.

“Blackie poked him last night for saying Americans are a bunch of braggarts. He hardly laid a finger on him, but Bug's really touchy lately about everything. And he's been driving Blackie nuts all week. Driving everyone nuts.”

I look over at Bug's table. He's as cross as the cats. Sitting hunched and sulking, like someone peed in his porridge, tapping his spoon against his cup.

“He's acting really strange lately. Have you heard about his fire antics? He stole Rowsell's Zippo twice and lit paper fires. I think he's cracking up. He wants an apology from Blackie and financial compensation.”

“What's that?” Murphy asks.

“Money,” Oberstein says, “or he'll squeal.”

We eat the rest of breakfast in silence. Oberstein doesn't eat or drink. After breakfast, we approach Blackie and ask him to apologize. He says he shouldn't, he hardly laid a finger on him. Oberstein says the stakes are awfully high, and Blackie asks us to tell Bug to come to the TV room. When we're all assembled, Blackie slams his fist against the wall and says, “Sorry, Bug, but you insult America, you take a big chance . . .”

“You shouldn't of
punched
me.” Bug's voice twangs with injury, and he begins to cry. “You're twice as strong as I am. And I got a fucken hole in my heart.” The tears start really rolling.

“I hardly touched you. It was just a gentle poke . . .”

“I want financial compensation or I'm tellin' McCann about everythin' right fucken now,” he shouts, his whole upper body shaking with the emphasis of his words.

“It was just a love tap,” Blackie yells. “For Chrissakes, Bug . . .”

“Five dollars. And your canteen card. The clock's ticking.”

“Okay. Okay,” Blackie says. “Jesus, you're touchy lately.” Bug's lower lip curls as he bolts from the room like a singed cat.

“He'll be fine,” Blackie says. “He ain't gonna squeal now.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Oberstein says.

“I know Bug. I'll talk to him. He'll be fine.”

“Talk to him
soon
,” Oberstein says, as we race after Bug. His face is ghostly. He's worried. We find Bug where he always goes to sulk, the last stall in the washroom, which, as always, has a faint pissy smell. He's sniffling and sobbing and saying fuck a lot and kicking the stall door.

“Bug?” Oberstein says.

Silence. I can picture him in there, kicking at the door, outraged, sniffling between each kick.

“Bug, he shouldn't of poked you.”

“
Punched
me.”

“Okay, punched you. I'm an American too, Bug . . .”

“Yeah, and what ever happened to freedom of speech in the land of the fucken free? Blackie's a bully. A big bully. And he's a show-off. He thinks he's King Tuk . . . And he knows I got a fucken hole in my heart.”

“
Tut.
It's King
Tut
, Bug.” There's a strain on Oberstein's face, like he has to go to the bathroom. “Look, I'm sure he didn't mean to—”

“Stop trying to pawn it off,” he interrupts. “Blackie's a prick.”

Oberstein leans his head against the stall. His face twitches as he whispers, “He's sorry, Bug.”

“He's a first-class prick. He's got no right to go around hitting people.”

“You're right, Bug. Hundred percent!” Oberstein says. “He was wrong to
punch
you. Blackie's wrong.”

“Fucken right, he's wrong.” He sniffles and starts singing, but he's half-sobbing and not hitting most of the notes:

Yankee doodle went to town

Riding on a pony.

Stuck a feather up his ass

And called it macaroni.

Oberstein has to put his hand over my mouth to hold back the laughter.

Silence. The sound of Bug peeing and sniffling.

“You okay, Bug? Bug, you okay?”

“You're not snapping the lizard in there, are you, Bug?” I joke, trying to cheer him up.

“Fly the fuck,” he says.

Oberstein's eyes pop. He strains his mouth and knifes his index finger across his throat. Another silence, followed by a loud
kerplunk
. Oberstein puts his hand over my mouth again.

The toilet flushes. Bug sighs and appears, faintly white, except for his eyes, which are red rimmed as if he's been rubbing them.

“What are you looking at, fuck nuts?” He pulls his pants up over his belly button and tugs at his belt. “I want compensation. I got a hole in my heart.” He drops his jaw and cocks his head like a dog. And I almost burst out laughing.

“Blackie's agreed to that,” Oberstein says. “He'll give you compensation.”

I look at the pee stains on Bug's pants as he cocks his head again and pushes past us.

“Fucken well better,” he says.

At lunch, Blackie asks if I'm all set for my big date, and tells Oberstein to give me fifty cents from the Bank of Newfoundland to buy something for my girl. “You don't wanna be a cheapskate. And give Bug five dollars and a pack of cigarettes,” he says. “That'll shut him up.”

After lunch, Oberstein and Kavanagh walk to the General Hospital with me, and we horse around by Quidi Vidi Lake until two o'clock, when it's time to go visit Clare. A sparrow of a nurse leads me to her room on the second floor, where Clare has one hand hooked up to a machine and the other holding her rosary. She looks sad and anxious, as if in a dream, and her thick blond hair is hidden by her new white novice veil.

“I miss seeing your golden hair,” I say.

“It's cut off,” she says. “You have to cut your hair when you take the veil. Thought I might as well get used to it.”

“Big game last night,” I say, examining the machine. “Canadiens clobbered the Leafs five to one.”

“I'd rather talk about the greatest hitter who ever lived,” she says. “About his records, which will
never
be broken.”

“You mean Lou Gehrig?” I say, teasing her.

“Who's he?” she says.

I don't say anything. I'm amazed by the pole she's hooked up to. It looks like a lamp post. It's got a plastic bag attached to it, and there's a tube going from the bag to the back of Clare's hand. She sees me gaping and says, “That's called an intravenous. That's how the antibiotics get into my system to fight the infection.”

“It looks pretty scary,” I say. “And you look kinda weak.”

“I'm not,” Clare says. “And that's just fighting the infection. But you don't have to concern yourself with it. What's new at Mount Kildare?”

“Not much,” I say. “I came fourth in a long-distance race last week. Shorty Richardson came first. Beat us all by ten minutes.”

“He must be fast.”

“Fastest boy in the Mount. Runs like the wind.”

“I am never alone, Lord, your wings widespread and ready for flight,” she says, her eyes becoming heavy lidded, as if fighting sleep.

“Give them wings, Lord,” I whisper.

“What did you say?” she asks.

“Nothing, just something Oberstein always says. Do you really think Ted Williams' record will never be broken?”

She smiles and says nothing.

“Whatcha thinkin'?” I ask.

“My beloved Red Sox . . . If I had been able to go to his games, I would have had tears in my eyes every time he came to the plate.” She looks at me like she's remembering a date she had with him, and I think of Evan. “During his senior year in high school, while pitching and playing outfield, he batted .406. On the mound, he was just as good, a sixteen-and-three record. Once, he struck out twenty-three batters. The Yankees offered him two hundred dollars a month to sign with them, but his mother said no. She wanted him to finish his schooling. So he played semi-pro for three dollars a week. Thank God for mothers. Ted Williams could have been a Yankee.”

She laughs and drops her rosary, reaches inside her habit and withdraws a package of bubblegum baseball cards. I rip open the package and pull out the cards. Two Cincinnati Reds and one Yankee, Elston Howard. I throw my arms around her neck and give her a big kiss.

“Easy,” she says, “you'll unhook the tube.”

I offer her some bubblegum, which she loves, and we both sit there, chewing away and talking about baseball, mostly, and a bit about religion. She wants to know if I say my morning and night prayers. She says my first and last thoughts each day should be of God. I tell her I do, which is a lie, and add that I offer Mass up for her every morning, which is true.

“Thank you,” she says.

Around ten to three I get kind of antsy, and tell her the brothers gave me a quarter to buy her something from the canteen. She says she'd like a hazelnut bar or a Tootsie Roll. We chat until my Mickey says three minutes to three and I bolt. The canteen is on the ground floor. When I get there, the first thing I see is the back of Ruthie Peckford's head, that beautiful blond hair. As usual, she is wearing a plaid skirt and high heels. She asks if I'd like anything from the canteen. There are no hazelnut bars, so I ask for two Tootsie Rolls, which she insists on paying for.

“I don't have much time,” I say. “I'm visiting my sister on the second floor. She had a cyst on her ovary and after the operation got a bad infection.”

“Jeepers, that's pretty bad luck.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And there's more bad luck. We only got about ten minutes. I'll tell my sister I got lost.”

“Come this way,” she says, taking my hand and leading me down an unlit corridor. The feel of her soft hand is beautiful, and I want to jump her in the corridor and kiss her like crazy for ten minutes.

“Have you ever gone steady?” she asks, stopping by a huge green door.

“No,” I say.

“Wouldja like to?” she asks, pushing the door open and pulling me through to the other side.

“Like to what?” I ask.

“Go steady . . . with me,” she says, kissing me hard on the lips. I start to tremble, and my knees get weak. I'm not sure if it's because of the question, her kiss, or the fear of getting caught.

“This is the linen room, where they store the clean sheets and pillow slips. There's no one here. I checked it out.” She kisses me again, and her lips are as soft as marshmallows. “Now that we're going steady,” she whispers, “we can neck.” While we're necking, she shuffle-dances past the door and pins me to the wall, teasing my teeth with her tongue. In no time, I'm hard as a rock. Out of the blue, she starts a giggling fit and puts both hands to her mouth.

“What's so funny?” I ask, sure that she's laughing at my hardness.

Her giggles turn to laughter as she says, “I was just thinking, if you knocked me up, this would be the perfect place to be to have a baby.”

I get the quickest reverse hard-on in the history of the world.

“Gog. Got. Go . . .” I mumble. “My sister's stuck to a pole.” I look at my Mickey. It's three-fifteen. I wiggle away from her.