Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes - Jan David Blais - Страница 12

WHEN I PICK JONATHAN UP AT THE AIRPORT the sun has just set. In the car he says barely a word. Now facing each other across our work table, his face is grim. “I don’t believe those people. They want to take the project away from me.”

“You can’t be serious! Why would they do that?”

“They said Paul’s death makes it such a big story they want somebody with more experience to handle it. You’ve heard of Seymour Hersh?”

“Of course.” Pulitzer Prize winner, the man who broke My Lai.

“They want to give it to him, the whole thing. I’d write up my notes, cash their check and hand everything over to the big shot. Probably has a book contract already.”

“And you’ve done all this work.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So how did you leave it?”

“For once I held my ground. It was my idea, after all, I brought it to them. Long story short, they’re going to split it up. I keep the bio. Somebody else’ll do the death, the investigation – Hersh, I suppose. We’re still at three parts but I can live with that.” He slumped in his chair. “It’s been a day and a half. Got anything stronger than Chardonnay?”

“Jack Daniels Black?”

“Perfect.”

I start to get up. “No, let me,” he says.

“I’ll have the usual.”

After what seems like an hour he returns. “Sorry,” he says, handing me my drink. “I’m quietly going crazy. You know I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“Of course. Right now this is the most important thing in my life.”

“That makes two of us.” We touch glasses. He rolls his in his hands, rattling the cubes, then downs it in one gulp. “Not to be maudlin, but the last few years things haven’t gone so well. This assignment is really important – it could get me going again.”

“I had a suspicion,” I say. I think of leaving it at that, but the hell with it, I think. “You’re not as good a liar as you pretend to be, Jonathan.”

He flushes. “What do you mean, liar?”

“For an old guy I’m pretty good on the Internet and I checked you out yesterday. Only thing came back the last five years was that Playboy article and a couple of things for Ladies Home Journal.”

He lowered his eyes. “Did it say I got fired from the New York Post?”

“I didn’t see that.”

“Thank God for small favors. Yeah, I had a run-in with them. A story about corrupt judges. They said their attorneys wouldn’t let them run it which I did not believe, not for a minute. I had them dead to rights and sources willing to go on the record.” He is silent, still avoiding my eyes. Finally he looks at me. “If you want to call it quits I could understand. Sorry. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

“Jonathan,” I put my hand on his, “I like your passion, but let’s not have it get in the way. If this story is half as big as we think, your ambition will take care of itself.”

“I appreciate that,” he says, looking directly at me, “very much.”

He goes inside and returns with a refill. We sit in silence. “By the way,” I say, “I enjoyed your Playboy article. And I’m not much of a basketball fan.”

He smiles, the first today. “That makes me feel better. You read it online?”

“While I was at it I looked through the rest of the magazine, too. I figured, why not? Got me to thinking, maybe I’m not as over the hill as I thought.”

“Gus, you’re younger than I am.”

I laugh. “Now that makes me feel better!”

“Did you do any work today?”

“The New York trip, some other stuff. The father had good instincts. That trip was just the right thing.”

“And our man is showing signs of life.”

“Oh, Paul was no ice cube. Thing is, he learned early how to say no, even to himself. Very unusual for a young person, that amount of self-control. Even for a Catholic.”

* * * * * * *

THE STRANGENESS WAS OVERWHELMING. If I belonged anywhere in the world, this, my first high school classroom, was not it. A kid sauntered in as if he’d been here his whole life. When another brushed past, I took a deep breath and stepped in. Taking a seat in the rear, I looked around. A few familiar faces from camp. Everybody looked confident and intelligent. At the front a Brother sat at his desk on a heavy wooden platform, towering above us, reading. Occasionally he looked up and stared out at us. I wondered how tall he was. When the clock hit eight-thirty, he stood. He wasn’t that tall.

“Mister,” he said, pointing to a kid near the door, “will you shut the door.”

He had a long, bony face with furrows each side of his mouth and deeply recessed eyes. My impression was a hound dog needing a shave, a weary hound at that, which I thought odd, this being only the first day. He wore a priest’s cassock, at the neck a starched white bib split in two. “I am Brother A. Robert,” he began in a deep, husky voice, “and, gentlemen, as of today, you are La Salle boys. Three hundred forty-eight of you, the Class of 1959. God willing, that same number will be here four years from now.” He put a hand to his chin, then asked nobody in particular, “What is a La Salle boy?”

No response. It didn’t sound like a question, anyway.

A slight smile. “Come, gentlemen, that’s an easy one, but all right, let’s think about it. Consider our motto, that of the French Christian Brothers of Jean Baptiste de La Salle. Religio, Mores, Cultura. Religion, Morals, Culture. That’s it, in a nutshell.” He leaned forward. “We expect your time here will strengthen your love of Our Lord and Saviour, and mold you into educated young men, but let me warn you, we have very high standards...”

Suddenly the door opened. A tall boy with a shock of red hair above a pink face tiptoed toward an empty seat near me. Brother Robert called out, “What’s the matter, mister? Lost? Or just late?” He nodded at the clock.

“Sorry,” the boy mumbled.

“Perhaps you would favor us by introducing yourself.” He looked down his nose at the miserable creature. “In other words, mister, what is your name?”

“Michael Grady.” The boy was very thin.

“We’ll let it go this time, Mr. Grady, but be aware, tardiness is noted on your record and reported to the Principal.” Brother Robert peered down at us. “Mister Grady happens to be the first one to mess up, no doubt there’ll be others. Take a seat, Mister Grady.”

The boy sat down next to me and let out a long breath.

Brother Robert closed his eyes. “As I was saying, La Salle has the highest standards of any school in this city, and if that is not to your liking, I invite you to leave right now. Don’t waste our time and your parents’ money.” He pointed at the door. “You think I’m joking? Go! Cross the street to Mt. Pleasant or Central, because, gentlemen,” he banged his fist in his hand, “here we teach the qualities – that – make – you – different! That distinguish you from the boys in those schools. Oh, they’ll gain skills, but those young men will miss the opportunity to deepen their faith, to form themselves into young Catholic gentlemen. So get it into your thick skulls, you are fortunate indeed to be here. We expect you to work hard and follow the rules, because if you don’t,” he smiled, “if you don’t, we have ways of encouraging you.”

Jim.

Now the Brother was standing. “I am your home room teacher and your teacher of English. Class begins promptly at eight-thirty,” he said, glaring at Michael Grady and reaching for a thick, gray-covered book. “This is your textbook. Loring, Survey of English Literature. You may find a used copy in the bookstore, but they go fast. Cover your Loring because you will use it a great deal. By tomorrow I will expect you to have read these pages...” he walked to the blackboard and wrote, Loring, pgs 12 - 24. “Tonight’s assignment is a commentary and several excerpts from Beowulf.” Brother Robert looked around the room. “How many of you have read Beowulf?”

No hands went up, certainly not mine. “How many of you have heard of Beowulf?”

One hand, tentatively, at the front of the room. “Yes!” Brother Robert motioned a pudgy, dark-haired boy to his feet. “We stand for recitations, mister.”

“It’s this story about a wolf,” the boy said in a reedy voice, “at least I’m pretty sure...”

Brother Robert closed his eyes. “What an interesting answer! It certainly sounds like a story about a wolf.” His voice was soothing, encouraging. “Now, mister, what is your name?”

“Andrew McCaffrey.”

The boy stood basking in his success, unaware everyone was sizing him up, the first volunteer. Brother Robert ran his finger down a list of names. “McCaffrey... McCaffrey... Andrew... Ah, here you are! Well, Mr. McCaffrey, your answer is ingenious, though I must say it’s not correct. In fact, you haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about!”

The boy’s face darkened. He began to collapse into his seat.

“No, no, Mr. McCaffrey, stand until you are told to sit!” He leveled his chalk at the boy as he shrank before our eyes. “Mr. McCaffrey, I single you out only because you had the temerity to say what was no doubt running through many of your classmates’ minds.”

Brother Robert sniffed. “The fact is, I would be astonished if you or any of your classmates had even heard of Beowulf, let alone read it. Some schools don’t get to it until junior year and many not at all. Let this be a lesson. Keep up with your assignments and you won’t have to guess. And for goodness sake, if you don’t know an answer, say so! If I’d called on you, Mr. McCaffrey, that would have been different, but why volunteer if you’re just guessing? It’s a waste of everybody’s time.

“One more thing. I will assume that all of you can read and write. Your skills will improve, we will work on the essay, the short story and so on, but I assume you bring the basics to this class. You may be seated, Mr. McCaffrey.”

Brother Robert opened the text. “Most of our readings you’ll be seeing for the first time. Now then, by tomorrow you will understand that Beowolf is the only surviving Old English heroic epic, the greatest poetic achievement of Anglo-Saxon times. Curiously, the poem is set in Denmark and England is not mentioned at all. Who can tell us what other English masterpiece is set in Denmark?”

This time nobody ventured an answer.

The Brother smiled. “This year we will pay a visit to Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Remember the name. Shakespeare, William Shakespeare.” He wrote it on the board. “You’ll be hearing a lot of him. Now, as to epic poetry – first, the definition.”

Nearing nine-twenty, Brother Robert shut the text and came around his desk, leaning against it with his elbows. “As we finish today, gentlemen, a piece of friendly advice. La Salle is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You are responsible for assignments, you may be tested without warning and I expect order and attention at all times. In return, I will treat you as the young Christian gentlemen you are supposed to be. Is that clear?”

We nodded.

“After a short break I will depart, and another teacher will take my place. At nine-thirty Brother Adalbert will begin your instruction in Christian Doctrine. Now, I have for each of you a copy of your daily schedule.” He picked up a stack of papers and fanned them out to be passed back. “Questions?”

A hand went up. “Brother Robert?”

“On your feet, Mister Cos-tan-ti-no.” This boy had spoken earlier. I still hadn’t opened my mouth.

“What’s the deal with lunch?”

Brother Robert coughed. “A useful question, though rather inelegantly put. Mens sana in corpore sano, as it were. Now, lunch period...” he consulted the schedule, “...lunch is twelve-thirty to one-twenty in the cafeteria. Bring your own or buy one there. Don’t believe everything you hear, the food is quite good. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Brother Robert stepped down from his platform and circled the desk, opening a door beside the blackboard. He disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. I looked at Michael Grady. We shrugged. Suddenly the lid blew off, everyone talking, getting up and stretching. A couple of minutes later the door opened and Brother Robert emerged. The class settled momentarily as he gathered an armful of books and papers and rushed from the room, his cassock flapping behind.

The day passed quickly. Brother Francis, a wispy-haired youngish man with horn-rimmed glasses. At ten-thirty, Brother F. George for Latin. He was old and hunched over, which fit, Latin being a dead language. Next, a burly lay teacher, Mr. Mello, who coached hockey and owned that liquor store. Civics – American Government From Colonial Times. Algebra and Biology, also study period which this first day we used for buying books. P.E. twice a week. Never had I walked around with so much money, twenty dollars, but when the bookstore was finished with me there was hardly enough left for a coke.

Under our burden of books we struggled up the hill that seemed much steeper than a few hours before. It had been a pulverizing experience. Even I, the scholar, was pensive and gloomy. Worse comes to worst, I thought, I can always work in my father’s shop.

“First day and I’m already flunking Algebra,” Cosmo grumbled, “I didn’t understand a thing.” Cosmo was in the second Science class which was for kids who weren’t that well-prepared or smart. Naturally I was in the first class, 1D. The ideas were familiar from eighth grade advanced math, though more complex. “You’ll help me, Paul,” Cosmo said, “right?”

“If I can.”

“Come on, you know more than the teachers!”

“Commercial math’s a pain,” observed Omer, “and how do they expect us to learn all the parts of those plants? Anyway, who cares?” A large book slid out of his stack and landed in the street. “What’d I say?” He held up a brand new Fundamentals of Biology, a corner of its cover crushed. “I’m jinxed.”

That night I searched for clues that my fear of failing might be misplaced. Algebra and Latin put me at ease somewhat, also Christian Doctrine and its question-answer format. Everybody said how tough La Salle would be... might they be wrong? I hadn’t volunteered once nor was I called on. I was thinking maybe I can go the whole four years and not say a word.

After the worrisome start, things improved. My first quizzes were excellent and the white cardboards I scotch-taped stamens and pestles onto earned me A’s. Grasshoppers, crayfish and, it was rumored, a cat, were on our victims list. The volume of work was huge and more complex than anything I’d ever seen but I made it through the first month. As I mentioned, La Salle was a huge sports school, their teams always written up in the paper, but I gave sports a pass. P.E. was the way to go.

“You can’t study all the time,” my mother remarked one night. “Do something with photography, you like cameras so much.”

She was a mind reader. I had already scoped out the camera club, which had a darkroom and an enlarger, but film cost extra. My puny allowance wouldn’t handle it. A camera with a fast shutter and a good lens, even a used one like the Leica I coveted at Ritz Camera downtown, was beyond reach. After a lot of thought I decided to apply for a job at our neighborhood grocery. DiLorenzo’s Market hired kids for after school and Saturdays. Frank Pezzulo, a 1D classmate and nephew of the owners, worked there. My father was all for it, but my mother dissented.

“This year is for getting your feet on the ground and making a good start. A job can wait til summer.”

“Then that’s it for the camera club,” I moped.

“Perhaps we can help,” she said. “Possibly your allowance could be raised, if you helped more around here, that is.” Great. More windows, more raking, who knows what else. But if that was the price, I would pay it and more. How much more I didn’t let on.

And that is how I learned about f-stops, lighting, depth of field, developing, enlarging, cropping, dodging, printing and the rest. Our advisor was the Chemistry teacher, Brother C. George, a short, humorous man with permanently stained fingers. For me, the best part of the darkroom was being able to control the whole process, start to finish, camera to final print – adjusting, fixing mistakes, experimenting. Many club members were also on the school newspaper, the Maroon and White, which would get my film paid for. But I decided to wait until I was sure my good start wasn’t a fluke.

Jim and I didn’t cross paths much. In the corridors he was civil. At home he helped me some to learn the ropes, though not that much since he was on the business track and just squeaking by. He was talking about enrolling in a junior college with a football team – if he did well maybe have a chance for a scholarship to a regular college. Game days, he paced back and forth, smoking right in the house, his enormous energy denied the release the speed and violence of football had afforded. He and Billy Moore were barred from practices, too. After supper, out the door he’d bolt.

I forgot to mention, Jim was going steady. “A good girl and a proper family,” was my mother’s concession to the reality that Sheila Rourke was wearing her first-born’s class ring on a chain around her neck. Sheila was a junior at St. X and a friend of Catherine’s. Miss Cupid herself, she had introduced them. “Boy, do you owe me,” Catherine often reminded Jim. “Be nice or I’ll tell her what you’re really like!” Jim was always at Sheila’s house in Cranston, next town over. Too proud or lazy to take the bus, he talked my father into letting him borrow the Plymouth.

My first football came in early October. I don’t remember the game but the event stands out clearly. The night before, a storm had ended a miserable stretch of heat and humidity that left me drenched on reaching school. On game night Omer and Angelo and I set out on our usual route but blessedly, no books. We left the crowd converging on the City Stadium half-shell, lit up for Mt. Pleasant’s first home game, then down the hill to our game. Our game. Doesn’t take long to become attached.

Under the floodlights Alumni Field’s turf was a brilliant emerald, and beyond, a sliver of moon floated in the sky. I’d seen a few night games at Braves Field but this was much better. We sat in the rooting section, far from the action due to the track ringing the field in front of the grandstand. Our team was in home uniforms, white shirts with maroon numerals and matching pants. Players waiting to go in warmed up, stretching, throwing the ball around. The subs huddled on the bench in their hooded ponchos.

I can still see the ball lofted into the dark sky then falling back through the lights, though this could have been any number of games, I’m not sure. What I do remember is the girls parading back and forth in front of the grandstand, chatting, moving on, reappearing a few minutes later. These so-called fans showed no interest in the game. Why bother going, I would have said not long ago, but now I knew why they were there and from my safe distance I felt their presence keenly.

Near the end of the half, Angelo yelled he was hungry. He was always hungry. So we threaded our way down the steps to the refreshments beneath the stands. Needing to take a leak I told Omer to get me something to drink. Now, Omer’s parents were as big on coffee as my mother was on tea. Without fail Mrs. Arsenault offered me a cup whenever I was at their house. I always refused, the bitter taste made me gag, so here is wise guy Omer pushing a coffee at me. He said that evened up what he owed me, but at a dime a cup it didn’t even come close. “I didn’t know how you wanted it, so I put milk and sugar in,” he smirked.

I couldn’t hold the cup, it was so hot, then I figured it out, easing up with one hand then the other, like throwing it back and forth, but carefully. The moment the warmth surged through me I became a lifelong coffee addict. At the beginning it was the milk and sugar that did it, though they went by the boards long ago. Angelo was stuffing his second of three hot dogs into his face.

“Eggplant casserole tonight,” he said, surrounding a bite. Enough said.

The three of us began walking, more like swaggering back to our section. We fell in behind a bunch of girls who kept looking into the stands and giggling. I followed their eyes up to several boys on their feet, whistling, one of them shouting something I couldn’t hear over the band that was assembling for the half-time show, fooling around. Coffee in hand, feeling rather sophisticated I started up the steps when... oh my God! Margaret Foley! She was with some tall kid and they were... they were holding hands! And the way she was hanging onto him, it wasn’t just for balance. He had to be a senior, a junior at least. My heart sank.

Just the other day I had been thinking, I wonder how old Margaret’s doing, haven’t seen her since graduation, she’s probably having a hard time of it, being new to St. X. Alas, here was my answer, a six-foot two, seventeen-year-old answer. The distance between us closed. “Hello, Paul,” she said, smiling at me. Jeez, she was wearing lipstick! I mumbled something and kind of hunched my shoulders as we passed. And suddenly I realized, I was ashamed of my friends! Mustard-covered Angelo, triangular jughandled Omer. The second half I spent sneaking glances around but mercifully didn’t spot her again.

As the fall deepened my confidence built. Surprisingly, with all the science, Civics emerged as my favorite subject. I enjoyed seeing how everything fit together, our country and its government, how fortunate Americans are with our boundless resources and God’s special friendship. But with this bounty comes responsibility, I learned, to bring democracy to others, show them also how to become free and prosperous. Like my Catholic Faith, it cried out to be shared. I was humbled when I realized, with the enormous number of people in the world what were the odds of my being born a Catholic and an American, both? Clearly, Someone was looking out for me. Looking back, I see this as an early sign of the dilemma that would come to haunt me – patriotism versus religion. More on that later.

I had many new friends and reveled in the give and take, the competition, the humor. Omer and Angelo and I were still close, but from the camera club I was becoming friendly with Norm McDermott, two years ahead of me. He was also on the school paper and pressing me to join. Later, I told him, next year for sure. Another new friend was Terry Grimes, a Negro kid from East Providence. He had a tough bus ride and long hours, playing jayvee football and running indoor track. Terry was the first Negro I’d ever known. He was quiet, but had this sly sense of humor that takes a while to figure out then it hits you in the face, it’s so hilarious.

Jerome Barnes lived near Terry and was in Omer’s business class. Jerome had a sort of sour disposition and I heard him complain the only reason people were friends with Terry was because he was an athlete. He’d say things like why am I at La Salle, maybe next year I won’t be back. Another Negro played varsity football but as far as I knew, they were the only three in the school. A number of other students were dark-skinned – Walt Gomes, for one, his parents were from the Cape Verde Islands. In fact, by the end of summer many Italian friends like Angelo were pretty dark, themselves.

At first I didn’t understand why Jerome felt uneasy, but as the year went along I heard kids using the word nigger, kids I wouldn’t have expected it of. Terry never spoke of this but he was writing a term paper on school integration in the south. His family was originally from Mississippi or if you want to be accurate about it, he chided me once, Africa.

Terry had a quick mind but with all his time at practice and on the bus, he was failing Algebra, so he asked me to help. It made me proud to see my friend on the field, a hint of what it would have been with Jim. Terry knew I was Jim Bernard’s brother and the first time it came up, he went out of his way to say what a terrific athlete Jim was, too bad what the school did to him. Actually, everybody had only good things to say about Jim. The cloud I expected to follow me around was simply not there. I was free to make my own tracks. When second quarter results were posted in January, I was in the top three of the freshman class, along with a boy from Immaculate Conception and one from St. Pius, both in the classical class, 1A. We hadn’t met though I knew them by sight.

Athletic pretension a thing of the past, I enjoyed P.E. basketball, and our hockey on the pond at Merino. A couple of times friends and I drove to a lake where you chased a puck forever across the ice, the cold snapping at your face. I wasn’t a great skater, my ankles were weak – good thing I had that stick to lean on – but those were wonderful days. High school hockey was in Rhode Island Auditorium, a ramshackle building on North Main Street near the Anderson Little store where my father bought me my first suit that I outgrew before hardly wearing. I could go on about the swift, slashing play, my headlong insane Canadian ancestors, how fog blanketed the ice on warm spring evenings, the fact that later I would adopt the New York Rangers, my only treasonous act as a Boston sports fan – but that’s not why I mention hockey here. As the season progressed we kept winning and there was talk of the New Englands which pitted the six state champions against each other. When we downed hated rival Burrillville in the state finals, tickets went on sale for the playoffs.

“We better get our tickets,” Omer said, walking to school.

I looked away. “I’m not sure I’m going.”

“Not going! How could you not go!”

“You go ahead. I’ll get one later if I change my mind.”

“If you say so,” he replied, kicking a rock.

Here’s why I wasn’t sure. Margaret Foley was out of the picture but there was this other girl, Joan McGrath, also a St. X freshman. She’d been in my St. Teresa’s class though I didn’t spend much time on her, I’d been so obsessed with Margaret. I asked Catherine about Joan, actually several times. Finally she confronted me. “If you’re so interested talk to her yourself!”

A few days later I again approached Catherine. “Let’s say, a person wanted to take another person out. How would I... I mean, how would a person go about it?” Brilliant.

Catherine had been on a few dates, nobody that impressive but that was her problem. She’d been reading Seventeen since she was twelve. “It’s not that hard, stupid!” she said, helpful as always. “Just call her up and ask her!”

“I’m terrible on the phone. And you’re on it so much I never get a chance.”

“Look. Talk to her after Mass. I think she goes to the Nine with her family. Just tell her you want to see her for a minute.”

Well, I already knew she went to the Nine. That’s why I had switched from the Seven except when I was serving, which I had pretty much retired from. I set my strategy. What I needed was a way to lure Joan away from her family and if the ploy happened to work, something to say. I had no idea if she was interested in hockey. If she wasn’t, that’d be that. I mean, why would anybody go out with a person if it wasn’t to something she wanted to do in the first place? Would a movie be better, I wondered, but I had no idea what kind of movies she liked. No, it had to be the game. The New Englands would be impressive and I could snow her with my vast knowledge of strategy, the players, and so on.

Sunday next, I took up a position behind a pillar midway up the right aisle, watching Joan and her family walk in the front door and seat themselves in the first row. The whole Mass I was totally distracted. During the recessional hymn, I elbowed my way through my row and to the rear of the church. Quickly down the steps, then a U-turn along the sidewalk and up to the front where the McGraths would exit. I positioned myself a few feet from the door. People were starting to file out. Finally, Mrs. McGrath, a stout woman in a bright blue topcoat emerged, followed by Joan’s little sister and... there she was!

Joan was shorter than me and had brown hair, the kind that hangs straight down, this day under a yellow hat. It was nearly Easter. She had freckles around her nose though not as many as Margaret. I took a giant breath. “Joan.” I cleared my throat and said it again, louder. “Joan!”

She turned around. “Why, Paul, hello.” She was beside her father. “You know Paul Bernard, daddy?”

“Sure thing. You’re at La Salle, aren’t you? How’re the Brothers treating you? I’m class of twenty-nine, myself.” He was tall and heavy-set. I wondered how two large people like them could be the parents of a normal-sized person like Joan.

“Good, sir, very good.” I stared at Joan. “I need to talk to you a minute,” I said rapidly under my breath. Her family began to sidle away. I motioned her away from the crowd. “Joan,” I began, “what I want to know... how would you like to go to a hockey game Friday? With me, that is?”

She smiled. “Sure! That’d be fun!”

She said YES! “I haven’t got around to getting my license yet,” I went on, cleverly avoiding the fact I wasn’t old enough anyway, “so we’d have to take the bus... if you don’t mind, that is.”

“What time?”

Time? Time! I was so sure she’d turn me down, I never thought what time. Rapidly I calculated backward. Faceoff at seven-thirty, an hour for the bus... “How about six-thirty?”

“Okay. You know where I live?”

“Sure.” Actually I didn’t, not exactly, I’d look it up in the phone book. I kicked myself later – why’d I have to say that, look so eager.

“Well, ’bye, then” she said with a big smile, “see you Friday.”

“Friday. Yes. Friday.”

I retraced my steps, turned at the corner and crossed in front of the church, gazing up at the stained glass window above the entrance, at the turquoise tower with the gold cross. “Thank you, God,” I said. “Thank you!”

Heading up Manton Avenue, step assured, bearing suave, I paused in front of Dunning’s Drug Store, staring at my reflection when it dawned on me. Three hours with a girl, five, with the bus... the game would sort of take care of itself, but what about the ride there? And back? How do I fill up all that time? How do I say good-night? By the time I reached home I was a nervous wreck. What had I gotten myself into?

After a week of torment Friday night arrived, cool and rainy. I brushed my teeth and changed into my best shirt and sweater. My parents had been very good about it, Catherine too, considering. Only Jim gave me a hard time. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said, whacking me on the back, “‘course that doesn’t rule out much, but seriously, if you need advice about anything let me know.”

Yeah, sure. You’d be the last one I’d ask.

The McGraths lived on the bottom floor of a two-story tenement. As I said, it never bothered me that Omer or Angelo or my other friends lived in tenements, but standing there in my wet raincoat, I was disappointed someone as pretty as Joan lived in a place like this. I climbed the steps and rang the bell. She appeared at the door and seeing my umbrella, turned around and propped hers inside the door. “No need for two of these,” she laughed.

As we walked to the bus stop, waiting for the bus, we talked about her school, my school, people we knew. She didn’t know the first thing about hockey, which didn’t surprise me, most girls don’t, so I filled her in. What to look for, the rules and so on. The time flew. It wasn’t that awkward at all. During the game I snuck glances across at her and it certainly looked like she was having a good time. We went for coffee and a doughnut and ran into a bunch of her classmates but she didn’t seem at all embarrassed. The game was excellent. La Salle jumped out to a two-goal lead over the Connecticut champ, Hamden, but they roared back and it was tied four-four at the end of regulation. After a couple of narrow escapes, Tom Mainelli, our captain, broke in alone and lofted the puck over the Hamden goalie. The crowd went wild! Could I get away with a hug around the shoulder, I wondered, with everybody celebrating and all, but the moment passed before I could decide.

Getting off the bus at the foot of her street it was really pouring. I raised my umbrella and reached it across, over her head. She nestled close to me and took my arm which fairly drove me wild though I knew it was because she didn’t want to get wet. How would I bring the evening to a close? Standing on her porch, I saw lights behind the curtains.

“Thanks a lot,” she said, “I had a really nice time.”

“Me too.”

“I’ve never been to a hockey game before. It was really fun.”

Then there was this long silence. “Well, thanks again,” she said with a kind of funny smile, opening the door and disappearing inside.

Beneath the shelter of my umbrella, I turned toward home, filled with thoughts and emotions. In a way the evening was less than I had hoped, but exhaling deeply, I pronounced it a success. It could have been a lot worse.

We made it all the way to the finals before falling to St. Dominic’s, the Maine champ. I went to the rest of the games with Omer. I thought of calling Joanie, but it bothered me that Omer had avoided me when we ran into each other in the boys’ room the game I took her to. Maybe I’d ask her to a movie, anything but Westerns, she said, which would open up new possibilities like holding hands. But for now I decided to back off. No need to rush things.

FORGET FIRST APPEARANCES. 1D was not the sedate collection of scholars that so intimidated me that first day. And Brother Robert was not an ogre but a kind, gentle man with a severe case of nerves. In fact, why he missed the last two years, he needed time off – from students, that is. As the year deepened and our true colors appeared he became short-tempered but was never mean. Even from my seat halfway back in the room, I could see his hands tremble. He often clasped them together to disguise his shakes.

Teachers had a faculty lounge for smoking and there was a room in the basement for sophomores on up. I mention this because Brother Robert was the worst smoke fiend I had ever met. His breath about knocked you down, the fingers on his left hand – he was left-handed – were yellow-brown, and you could smell smoke on papers he handed back. As the year went on, his trips to the closet behind his desk became more frequent. One day after class a kid poked his head in there. He backed out, coughing violently, and everybody crowded forward for a look. There was this huge ashtray with a couple dozen butts and not even a chair, just a light bulb on a cord. It made me sad Brother Robert had to smoke standing up. From then I looked for the cloud of smoke as he opened his door and emerged, sedated and ready to take us on.

During this first year, I developed a very important skill, how important I didn’t realize at the time. Eight to eight-thirty was quiet time for review, completing assignments. Though I was a good class citizen, I found it impossible to be silent. My work was always finished ahead so I’d get up and wander around, talk with my friends. First few times, no problem, then I got nailed.

“Mr. Bernard,” Brother Robert said, calling me to his desk, “this has gone on long enough. Give me a hundred words on the Wife of Bath’s Tale. You have fifteen minutes.” We’d read Chaucer the previous week. At least he picked one of the best parts. I pulled out a pad and began scribbling furiously. As the buzzer sounded I rushed through my conclusion and handed it in. “Thank you very much, Mr. Bernard.” Next day, same thing. “A hundred words on the Presidency under Eisenhower.” Next day, “last night’s basketball game, I assume you were there, a hundred-fifty words will do.” Fifteen minutes later I filed my report on our rout of a good Hope High team.

If I was caught early I’d have to whip off two hundred, but late in the period a hundred would suffice. A couple of times he called for a poem. The day after we studied haiku, those seventeen syllables were the only assignment I couldn’t finish. Sometimes my work came back with notes, but not always. He trusted me to do a workmanlike job. It became a game, one Brother Robert enjoyed, too. Though I didn’t know it at the time, learning to meet these deadlines was the best thing that ever happened to me.