Читать книгу Hail Mary Corner - Brian Payton - Страница 9

Having our loins girded, therefore, with faith and the performance of good works, let us walk in His paths by the guidance of the Gospel, that we may deserve to see Him who has called us to His kingdom.

—The Rule of Saint Benedict

We descended the hill packed tightly into the back of the Volkswagen van. You could cram fifteen seminarians in there with no problem. At the Seminary of Saint John the Divine everyone was compelled to perform a good work on the first and third Sunday of every month. Bingo at the old folks home seemed an easy way to go.

Saint Theresa of Jesus Nursing Home was a converted elementary school on the outskirts of Ennis. The water fountains were low to the ground and the washrooms were still labelled BOYS and GIRLS. The residents needed as much supervision as children, so I thought that was appropriate. They slept in the old classrooms and spent most of their time in the cafeteria, whose walls were covered with pumpkins and witches cut out of orange and black construction paper—courtesy of the grade-three class of the plush new parish school. Halloween was still a month off, but there they were, just the same. At least there weren’t any construction-paper tombstones emblazoned with RIP.

“B-6, B-6.” Emcee Eric pulled the plastic balls out of the little chute and announced the game. There weren’t many luxuries at Saint Teresa’s, but somehow the place managed a deluxe air-driven bingo-ball machine.

Most of the residents were in wheelchairs. Some were hunched over, drooling. One old girl was seated with a blanket neatly tucked across her lap. She sat with her back erect as if she were a dancer ready to spring into a pirouette. Perfect posture. The men had five-day beards or hit-and-miss shaves. The place was clean enough, but it had the sweet smell of decay.

We were sprinkled among the general population, helping slide the little red windows over numbers that had been called out, offering conversation. We were there to brighten their lives with our fresh-faced smiles and spice things up with some gambling. God’s work. The prize was a bunch of candy, which was a bit of a joke. They always got as much candy as they wanted, anyway. Anything to keep them from acting up.

Mr. Thorpe wasn’t a Catholic, but his wife and kids were. He was a railway man who had decided to get a philosophy degree after his wife died and his kids grew up and promptly moved away. Although he was in a wheelchair, you could tell he must have been huge, probably six foot three or better. And he was always clean and well groomed. There was no hair growing out of his ears or on the bridge of his nose. He said he was a freethinker.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Are you a fool?”

“No.”

“It isn’t Chinese, boy. Freethinker. Someone who unchains his mind. Someone who uses what nature put between his ears. Freethinkers think freely—about everything.”

“Then I’m a freethinker, too.”

“No, you’re not. But there’s still hope.”

“N-33.” Eric took a sip of ginger ale. We got free pop and as many brownies and Rice Krispies squares as we could eat. The nurses were grateful for a break. “N-33.”

I always sat next to Mr. Thorpe. No one ever came to visit him, and I thought I could do him some good. Plus he didn’t fart or say crazy things like “You stole my feet! You stole my feet!” I’d heard that and worse. Much worse.

Some of the old women swore. And I’m not talking about shit and damn. They said dirty words in combinations you never thought possible. Prim, proper old ladies—like the one sitting up straight. Usually it came out when someone else called, “Bingo!” The previous year one old lady leaned over and whispered in my ear that she wanted me to screw her. Hard. “With your pecker,” she added, in case I didn’t know. She must have kept this stuff bottled up her whole life. Sitting next to her wasn’t doing any good.

Mr. Thorpe didn’t cling to me when I showed up and didn’t cry when I left. He acted like a normal but generally pissed-off person. I sat with him three times in a row before he indicated he cared one way or another. I think he liked me. Today he seemed spry. “I’ll bet you a buck I can tell you who’ll win,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“You’ll have to pay to find out. Unless you think you know something I don’t.”

I looked around. The odds were in my favour. “Okay. I’ll bet you a buck you can’t name the person who’ll win the next round. I don’t have to choose the right one. I’m just betting you can’t.”

“Lawyer in the making. Deal.”

He wrote down “Mrs. O’Malley” on a slip of paper and handed it to me. She was new. I’d never heard of her before.

“She runs ten cards at once and she cheats,” he said.

“How do you cheat at bingo?”

“She’ll call ‘Bingo,’ then pitch a fit when they try to question her. They’ll give in to make her pipe down.”

“We’ll see.”

The hum of the bingo-ball machine and Eric’s steady monotone were putting a few inmates to sleep. A little later Mr. Thorpe quietly asked to be removed.

“The game isn’t over yet,” I said. “I still want my buck.”

“Now. Please. Just roll me out now.”

I had my own card going and I was halfway through a brownie. I was determined to win the game myself. Sighing, I slowly stood.

“C’mon, boy. Please.”

I rolled him past the other fogies and toward the door.

“Faster!”

“Calm down.”

As soon as the words left my lips, I heard something dripping from the wheelchair and onto the white tile floor. He covered his face. I stopped, glanced down, and saw the puddle of piss trailing behind us. I had walked right through it.

“Mr. Thorpe, I...”

He wouldn’t look up. I rolled him toward the nursing station where a black nurse peered at me, then at Mr. Thorpe. She nodded and waved me off. I tried again to apologize. “Mr. Thorpe, I...” He turned and punched my thigh with his tightly clenched fist.