Читать книгу Hail Mary Corner - Brian Payton - Страница 8

I held the shaft in my hand and considered its girth and weight. It was long and sharp and perfectly balanced. It made me feel like a savage. I began to run, then, as if the javelin were eager to fly, it left my hand and sailed through the smoke-grey sky. It punctured the ground fifty yards away, pricking the earth like a giant silver needle.

Jon stood with his hands in his pockets, his javelin stuck in the ground before him. “Brother Ambrose said he’d cook up anything we bring back, as long as we clean it.”

“That’s because he doesn’t think we can catch anything,” I said.

I stood back to give him room. Jon plucked his weapon out of the grass, took a few skipping steps, and hurled it into the air. It skewered the field ten feet farther than mine.

Brother Ambrose had hairy fingers and dishpan hands. He was a swarthy little man who always smelled like flour and BO. He wore his cook’s white apron and paper chef’s hat more than he wore his habit. He ordered the supplies, planned the meals, directed the preparation and cooking of every meal for forty-one monks, 109 seminarians, and anywhere up to two dozen guests. He always kept a supply of cookies hidden in a box by the knives.

Out of the corner of his eye he’d catch the glint of metal doors swinging open and grab a big knife or a meat cleaver in one hand and continue punching dough or cleaning lettuce with the other. When we asked for a cookie, he’d always say we didn’t deserve it, but gave us one, anyway. Just one. If we begged for more, or made a move for the cookie box, he’d tap the knife on the counter and say, “C’mon, little man, give it your best shot. I’ll cut off your hand and feed it to you.”

The cookie was usually excellent—except for those Christmas things he made with the little squares of coloured formaldehyde fruit. Sometimes the cookies he handed over had the flavour of whatever he was working on—gravy-infused chocolate chip or stewed-tomato peanut butter cookies. We’d eat them just the same.

Brother Ambrose had no time for the Student Nutrition Advocacy Coalition. That was made plain from the start. It took him six months to calm down and forgive us SNAC boys for suggesting something was wrong with the food. But he seemed to be over it with the new school year. Plus we had changed our tactics. Now we went over his head directly to the rector. Despite all that, I liked him and wanted to show him I wasn’t all bad. I wanted to waltz into his kitchen and present him with a freshly killed grouse or pheasant.

Jon pulled his javelin out of the field and cleaned the mud off the tip with his fingers. “They think we’re hunting with slingshots. They’d freak if they knew we’d taken these.”

After passing the lower field, we found it difficult to weave through the densely packed trunks with nine-foot aluminum spears. The Douglas firs and hemlocks were thick on Mount Saint John. They held up a dark green canopy some hundred feet above. The forest floor was dim and moist with the sweet mushroom smell of rotting needles and leaves. Only ferns and Oregon grape seemed able to flourish here.

The pheasants were usually up in a field on the east side of the slope. It was occasionally used as a cow pasture but had sat untouched all summer, the tall golden grass reaching wheatlike proportions. When we emerged from the woods at the edge of the clearing, I heard the beating of wings but couldn’t see what it was. I hurled my spear into the grass for practice.

We walked around the field a few times and found only a couple of crows. Then, just when we decided to walk across the middle of the field, we saw a big male pheasant. He strutted with his red head cocked and long tail trailing regally behind him, taking careful steps as we readied our spears.

“At the same time,” I whispered. Jon nodded, and we crept a few paces closer, within thirty feet. I extended my left arm and drew the weapon back with my right, then whispered, “Ready, set, go!”

Both shots went wide and one clanged loudly against a rock. The bird jumped awkwardly, then ran into the grass. Jon grabbed his spear, reloaded, and fired. Another miss, but much closer this time. When I grabbed my spear, I noticed the tip was split. Brother Fulbert, our coach, would kill me. Jon got off a few more shots, but by that time the bird had made it to the trees and had disappeared into the shadows. I showed the javelin tip to Jon. “Why does this shit always happen to me?”

“Happens to everybody. You just make a bigger deal about it.”

“Oh, really? What am I supposed to do now? This thing’s worth over a hundred bucks.”

“Put it back in the equipment room with the bad tip down and let someone else discover it. Unless you have a hundred bucks, it’s your only option. Or you can get the money from your dad.”

“I’m not getting anything from my dad.”

“Okay.” He planted his javelin in the grass and lay down beside it. “Do what you have to.”

“First of all,” I said, glaring at him, “a hundred bucks is worth something to us because we don’t have money lying all over the place. Second, my dad and I aren’t talking.”

Jon casually crossed his legs at the ankles and propped himself on his elbows. “You know, I’m getting a little sick and tired of your rich guy, poor guy bullshit. I didn’t ask to be rich, which I’m not, and you didn’t ask to be poor, which you’re not. My family does have more money than yours. That’s just the way it goes. I don’t have a problem with you because of what your dad does or doesn’t do, or how much he makes. I don’t have a problem. You have the problem.”

I reached into my pocket for a cigarette and jabbed it between my lips. “I wasn’t getting mad at you because you’re rich. I was just—”

“Why are you so pissed off at your dad, anyway?”

I lit the cigarette, then shoved my javelin into the ground. “Because he’s a creep.”

There was rustling in the grass behind us. I crouched down and grabbed a rock. A raven flew out of the grass and landed on a nearby tree. It started squawking, alerting every member of the animal kingdom to our presence. I threw the rock at the bird and hit the tree trunk below the branch it was sitting on. It jumped a bit, then quickly settled back into its nonstop monologue. I bent, grabbed another rock, and hurled it at the bird, striking its breast. It tumbled and flapped as it hit a few branches on the way down, finally landing on the ground in a luminous black heap.

Jon sprang to his feet. “You totally nailed it. Why did you do that?”

We ran to the injured bird and squatted. It shook one wing and dragged the other on the ground. Its frenzy increased as we circled it. The bird stretched its neck repeatedly, then began panting. It was going to die.

“You can’t eat these things,” Jon said. “Put it out of its misery.”

“Maybe we can nurse it back to health and keep it for a pet or something.”

Jon looked at me sourly, then grabbed the flopping mess. It was too far gone to resist. He seized its head, stood, and whipped it around in a circle. The flapping stopped. Then he tossed the limp body into the grass, walked over to his javelin, and sat. “You’re an asshole.”

I found a soft spot in the forest floor, dug a hole with a stick, and gently laid the raven inside. It had a dark beauty like I’d never seen—glossy, almost purple. Like the last seconds of twilight. I filled in the hole, gathered some rocks, and piled them on the mound. Then I sat next to Jon. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know.”

We sat like that for a while, not knowing what to do next.

“Can I tell you something?” I picked a daisy and got up again, pulling the petals off one by one.

“Yeah.”

“My dad doesn’t want me around. I don’t want him around. Me being out here at the Sem is the best thing for both of us. That way I don’t have to deal with him and he knows I’ll keep quiet.”

“About what?”

“About the fact he’s cheating on my mom. He’s screwing some woman in Montreal and my mom has no idea. I’m the only one who knows.”

Jon looked at me thoughtfully. “Isn’t he a deacon or something in your parish?”

“Knight of Columbus. He also runs that newsletter for the archdiocese that slams anything he and his friends don’t agree with. Some people call it the Catholic Inquirer.”

I told Jon about how I was sick one day last summer. My brother and sisters were home and we had two cousins staying with us. Everyone else had gone out with my mom to the water slides. I was in my room with the door closed. He must have forgotten I was there. It was too hot to sleep, so to keep my mind off vomiting, I escaped into The Lord of the Rings.

My dad called her up from the living room. You could hear everything in that house. He told her how much he missed her and how beautiful she was. How he thought about her all the time and how his body ached for her. I was in total shock. I threw my book against the wall, making a dent in the drywall. He heard it and hung up the phone. That was when my mom and everyone came in. I got up and walked out to where they were standing, all sunburned and happy, loading stuff into the refrigerator. I asked my dad, “Are you off the phone yet?” My voice was cracking. “I can’t sleep with you yakking on the phone to your... friend all day.” And then I started crying.

Jon whistled. “Holy...”

“You should have seen his face. My mom wanted to know why I was crying, and I made up some stupid excuse about puking and feeling sick. Then she looked at my dad and asked if he was feeling okay. The creep.”

I turned away from Jon and looked back to where I’d buried the raven. “That night I was on my knees saying rosary after rosary. I wanted God to turn my dad around and I wanted my mom protected from finding out. When my knees gave out, I went to bed and prayed some more. I held my arm straight in the air as long as I could, holding the rosary beads, offering up the pain. Stupid, huh?”

“No.”

“Then I made a promise to God.”

“What kind of promise?”

I took a deep breath to calm myself. “I’ve never told anyone this, except a couple of priests. I...” My heart knocked inside my rib cage. “I sometimes have problems with...” Jon had a blank expression. I started again. “Have you ever had problems with...yourself? You know, when you’re alone?”

“What do you mean? Chokin’ the rope?”

I nodded.

He glanced at the ground and scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Well, I promised God I’d give it up forever if He’d just fix things. Make my dad smarten up, make him love my mom again, protect her. Well...I did it again.” My bottom lip quivered. “Then my grandpa died. I know it’s not my fault he died, but I keep doing it. I can’t stop it. I broke a promise to God.”

“I do it all the time,” Jon said. “During the day, after dinner, in bed. Sometimes I sneak out to the woods. I can’t help myself, either. Who can?”

“It’s a mortal sin.”

“Ah, Bill... Then the whole world’s going to hell. Everyone does it. I’m pretty sure. Don’t forget that Jesus had one, too. Don’t you think He knows how it is? You’re not a bad person, and playing with yourself has nothing to do with your grandfather dying. Think about it. When he was young, I’m sure your grandpa did it, too.” Jon got up and stood in front of me.

“I know it’s stupid, but I had to tell someone and you’re the best friend I’ve got, so you’re the lucky bastard.” I looked away, and then he reached out and hugged me.

My family wasn’t much for hugging. In fact, the only times I could remember my father hugging me were after I broke my hand in grade two and the day my grandfather died. I couldn’t remember the last time I hugged my brother, and I certainly hadn’t hugged a friend before. Jon clasped me tightly. At first it felt strange, as if we weren’t supposed to be doing it. Then I hugged him back and, for a moment, I almost felt free.