The Long Run (38 page)

“Don't forget the sock hop,” she yells. “Next Saturday!”

I race to Clare's room, arriving in a sweat.

“What took you so long? I was beginning to worry about you.” Clare's eyes are strained, and her face flushes as she questions me.

“I got lost in the halls. They're winding. Full of turns, and it's really dark down there,” I say, handing her a Tootsie Roll.

“It's a big hospital. It's easy to get lost.”

“Did I tell you I got asked to the McPherson sock hop next Saturday?”

“You have a girlfriend?” “Not really. She just asked me to the dance.” “Well, that's nice. Behave like a gentleman at all times. Do you have some money to buy her something?”

“Yeah, I have fifty cents,” I lie, “from the last time you gave me money.”

“Well, have a good time. And don't take cigarettes from anyone. It's a very bad habit.” She unwraps her Tootsie Roll and gives me half. “Save yours for later,” she smiles. “I only want a bite.” We sit there, munching away on the sweet candy. When we finish, she smiles and passes me her rosary beads and says, “Close your eyes and say a sorrowful decade for my recovery.”

I close my eyes and pretend to mumble Hail Marys, but all I can think about is Ruthie Peckford's blond bangs and soft lips and how long it will be before we have to get married, now that we're going steady.

Back at the Mount, Brother McMurtry has called a meeting of our dorm. Small and pale, he stands in front of us and wipes his swollen forehead with the palm of his hand. “I have decided to offer a reward,” he says. “A reward for information that will help us find the culprits who stole the wine. Actually, there will be several rewards. A new canteen card for next month, in addition to your regular canteen card. The boy who supplies this information will have two canteen cards for next month. Two canteen cards to use at his leisure.” He holds up a silver key and passes it to McCann. “Brother McCann will open the canteen three additional weeknights for the boy or boys with an extra canteen card. That's one reward. Another reward will be extra free time in town on Saturdays. And the best reward of all: a pass to a Saturday night hockey game at Memorial Stadium to see the St. John's Caps.” Brother McMurtry steps aside, and McCann moves to the center of the classroom.

“Any boy or boys who would like to report information that may be helpful to us may do so at any time simply by slipping a note underneath the monastery door. Or my classroom door, whichever is convenient. If Ryans, for example, or Kavanaghs or Spencers wants to provide information, all you have to do is write a note and slip it under the door. Simple. Very simple. Are there any questions? Raise your hand if you have a question.”

Bug propels his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Bradburys.”

“What about if you want a different kind of prize? What about if you wanted to trade the hockey game prize for a Saturday movie at the Nickel? Would you be allowed to do that?”

McCann looks in Brother McMurtry's direction.

“Of course,” Brother McMurtry nods his head. “A movie is an excellent idea for a reward. A movie downtown, at the Nickel, with popcorn and soda pop.”

“That would be a better prize,” Bug sulks.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradburys. Are there any other questions?”

“What if someone thinks he has information, Brother,” Bug says, sucking up, “but it turns out to be no good. Does anything happen to him?”

“If you mean, will that boy be punished,” McMurtry says, “the answer is no. Absolutely not. In fact, if he is sincere and thinks the information is accurate, that boy will most likely get a treat for trying to help us catch the culprits. Isn't that right, Brother McCann?”

“Yes, Brother,” McCann says.

“Raise your hand if there are any further questions. If there are no hands,” he says, staring sharply at us as if to see what we are secretly thinking, “Brother McCann will review the procedure for reporting information.”

There are no more questions, so McCann reminds us once again where to put the note. “And be sure to sign it,” he says, “so we'll be certain to know who gets the reward.”

“Of course,” Brother McMurtry says, “if you wish to provide information and do not wish to sign your name, you wish to remain anonymous, that will be fine. Your privacy will be protected.”

“I don't like it one bit,” Oberstein says after we're dismissed. “That's a pretty big carrot they're dangling in front of the Klub members.”

“And that's a pretty hard birch stick we got at the cave,” Blackie says. “If someone squeals . . .”

“But what if someone gets jittery and caves in?” Murphy says.

We all look at Blackie, who is tapping his gold tooth. Not a good sign. He is nervous.

“What are we gonna do, Blackie?” Ryan asks.

“Someone's gonna have to write a note,” Blackie says.

“Sure ain't gonna be me, brother,” Bug says.

“A note?” Oberstein says. “Whaddaya mean? What kinda note?”

“Let's think about that,” Blackie says. “Let's think real hard.”

When Oberstein tells me there'll probably be a door charge at Ruthie Peckford's school dance, I'm beside myself until Blackie tells me not to fret, I can take it from the Bank of Newfoundland. “Won't be too much,” he says. “Fifty cents, maybe.”

“I'm really, really nervous,” I say. “I've never been to a dance before. What do I do? What if I can't find her? What if she's late or she doesn't show up? Or I'm late and she's already at the dance?”

“Relax,” Oberstein says. “When you get to the dance, if you can't find her, just follow a bunch of people inside and walk around looking for her. She'll be there somewhere. Or just find a spot to sit down and talk to someone. Or stand around listening to the band. Just do what everyone else is doing. Nobody will notice you. Relax. Just don't squint your eyes a lot. You look kinda dumb when you do that.”

“If you're really lucky, maybe some gal will ask you for a kiss and shove her tongue down your throat,” Bug hollers.

The night of the dance, I'm as ready as can be. Father Cross has given me a really neat haircut and lends me his razor to clean up my peach fuzz. And Fitzy lends me his comb and some Vitalis. Murphy gives me his underarm deodorant. Everyone is really excited for me. Even Bug, who offers his Old Spice. Out of nowhere, Blackie and Oberstein come up with a shoebox that Cross has been painting all week. It's really beautiful. Every color in the rainbow.

“Open it,” Blackie says. “Big surprise for the lady's man. For the big shindig.”

I open the box and stare at a new pair of sneakers. Not the black-and-white canvas kind all the norphs wear. Real runners. Red Converse high-tops. They look magical.

“Give him wings, Lord, that he may fly,” Oberstein chants.

As I take them out of the box, I start to cry.

“Hey, cut that out,” Blackie says. “Predictin' an eight-minute mile tonight. Eight, could be seven if you kiss her long enough.”

When I'm all laced up and ready to go, Father Cross steps back and examines me. “Cat's meow,” he says, and starts splashing my face with aftershave. After he touches up my hair they each take turns teaching me how to dance. Bug shouts, “Chubby Checker got nuttin' on me, brother.” He flaps his arms and puckers his lips and twists like a maniac. Watching Bug dance around, smooching his lips and wiggling his bum, cracks me up so much I can't concentrate. Finally, Father Cross shows me how to twist without being too noticeable. “It's all in how you hold your head,” he says. “That's how Chubby Checker does it. Think of Chubby Checker when you're moving around. And don't worry about the slow dances. The slow dances are easy. But don't take jerky steps. Just get the girl to lay her head on your shoulder and hang on to her hips. Like they do on American Bandstand.”

“Yeah, put your hands on her hips, but don't forget to pull her toward you.” Bug wolf-whistles and makes panting noises.

Everyone laughs and wishes me luck. Before I head out, Blackie asks if I know how to kiss.

“Oh, I know how to kiss,” I say.

“How do you do it?” Blackie says.

“On the lips,” I say. “You just kiss her on the lips.”

“Ain't that simple,” Blackie says. “You gotta be careful when you smooch. You don't wanna look stupid, or worse, be taken for a sissy. And most important of all, you gotta be sure your noses don't knock. You gotta tilt your head at an angle so your noses don't knock.”

He grabs Bug and demonstrates.

“Got it?” he asks. To a chorus of laughter, Bug yells yuck, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah,” I say, “I got it.”

“And don't forget to buy her a cola or something,” Murphy says. “You don't want her to think you're a cheapskate.”

As I leave, Father Cross tells me I've forgotten something. He passes me a wallet, which he has made from old scraps of leather. “The pièce de résistance,” he says. “You won't get very far in life without one of them.” I open it and find a one-dollar bill inside.

Oberstein and Bug walk with me to the gate. The smell of the unthawed earth fills the night. It is stronger than Bug's Old Spice.

“You look real pretty,” Bug says, giggling and wiggling and bellowing like a cow.

“You smell like the whore of Babylon,” Oberstein says.

Halfway across Elizabeth Avenue, I can still hear them laughing and shouting: “Don't forget to let her put her head on your shoulder . . . Just like in the song!” Bug's shrill off-key voice is almost drowned out by Oberstein's boom: “Put your head on my shoulder . . .”

At the entrance to McPherson Junior High, I search frantically for Ruthie Peckford, who's nowhere in sight. My heart's in my throat as I follow the plan and join a group of people entering the building. Inside, one of the parent chaperones, a skeleton with jug ears dressed like an undertaker, welcomes us. He stares at me oddly and says, “And what's your name, sonny?”

“Floyd,” I say in my toughest Cagney. “Floyd . . . Oberstein.”

“Oberstein . . . That's not a St. John's name. What does your father do? Does he work for the government?”

“Visiting,” I whisper hoarsely, “from Toronto . . .” I lower my head and stare at my new sneakers.

“Toronto? Whereabouts in Toronto?”

“Washroom,” I squeak, grabbing my crotch and crossing my legs while straining like I'm gonna piss myself.

“Oh heavens,” he says, “right this way, right this way.” He escorts me to the boys' washroom.

Inside the smoky room, there's a hubbub of activity. Two guys in leather jackets puff hard on their cigarettes, while another guy fans smoke toward an open window. Guys are checking their ducktails in the mirrors above the long row of sinks. A beefy guy with a wart on his forehead is arguing with his buddy about stealing his date. I slouch inside a cubicle, lock the door and sit on the toilet. When the argument ends and the noise dies down, I check my hair in the mirror. The Vitalis is holding up fine. Pretty soon, the band starts up. There's chaos and hurry and girls squealing outside as everyone heads for the dance floor.

Ruthie Peckford's blond bangs are unmistakable. I love the way her hair hangs, mournfully, like it's begging to be touched. I spot her near the entrance, straining to get a view of the newcomers. She looks beautiful in a deep-blue velvet dress with a light-blue collar patterned with snowflakes. And she is anxiously looking for her date. I sneak up behind her, and in my best Humphrey Bogart accent say, “Hey sweetheart, would you like to dance?”

She turns and beams. “I knew you'd come. I just knew it.” She hugs me like I'm a long lost friend. We head to the dance floor and dance for a while, but she's very pretty so everyone keeps cutting in and dancing with her. I keep waiting for a slow waltz to cut back in, but all the songs are fast and I'm really nervous about dancing fast. I stare around the gymnasium. Along the walls are fold-up chairs with girls who aren't very pretty sitting very straight and staring at all the lucky girls who've been asked to dance. I feel so sorry for the girls sitting around that I start to get tears in my eyes thinking how stupid and unfair it all is, so I approach one, a thin girl with Coke-bottle glasses, and ask her to dance. She springs forward like she's just been pinched. We're dancing away to a slow song, and Ruthie Peckford cuts in, which I later learn she's not supposed to do because it isn't proper. The thin girl stops dancing with a jerk, slaps a hand on her hip and huffs, before storming off. We dance for a minute, but I'm afraid someone's gonna cut in, so I walk her to the canteen and buy her a cola and a bag of chips.