Authors: Paul Vasey
A Troublesome Boy (10 page)
“Move your hands. Move them!” Cruickshank left his hands where they were. Stewart leaned down and gave him a whack right on the hands.
Jeezus.
Cruickshank was howling and crying and pleading with Stewart to stop. Stewart gave him another whack on the hands and when Cruickshank pulled his hands away, gave him another one, harder than the others. Cruickshank's ass was raw and bleeding.
“Oh, my God, Father. Please.”
“Don't you dare utter the name of the Lord. I won't have that name issuing from the same mouth that spewed such filth. Get up! Get up!”
Cruickshank got to his knees, and then to his feet. He was a mess of snot and tears.
“Pull up your trousers.”
Cruickshank pulled up his shorts, then his trousers. It took him a minute to fiddle with the buttons and the fly and the buckle, his hands were so messed up.
“Go and get your toothbrush.”
There was a big gang of us gathered in the hallway. Normally Stewart would yell at us to take off, go wherever we were supposed to go. But he just looked at us and didn't say anything. So we all just stood there waiting for Zits to come back with his toothbrush.
“Now, go down to the janitor's closet, fill his bucket with soap and water and come back here.” Zits did as he was told, pushing the bucket with the mop that was in it.
“You won't be needing the mop, Mr. Cruickshank. Get down on your hands and knees.” Zits got down. “Now, dip your toothbrush into the bucket and start scrubbing. You will scrub this entire hall with your toothbrush, Mr. Cruickshank.”
Zits started scrubbing.
“And after you're done scrubbing the hall, you will scrub out your mouth with that toothbrush.”
Stewart turned to look at the rest of us.
“Take this as a warning. We will not tolerate filthy language in this institution. Ever. You are to model yourself on Christ's example. Always. Now, get to study hall!” Stewart's voice bounced off the floor and the walls.
We got out of there in a hurry.
As soon as we got around the corner, Klemski looked at me and shook his head.
“Christ's example? Fuck. He's a madman.”
All I could think of in study hall was poor Cruickshank and his sorry bleeding ass. For the first half hour, my hands were still shaking. I could see Father Stewart, all wild and out of control.
What kind of a fucking place was this, anyway?
â
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL
day for October, not that Zits would ever find out. The sun was out, there were only a couple of clouds in that blue, blue sky. Bright and chilly but when you weren't walking into the wind you could actually feel the warmth of the sun. Cooper and I had our jackets and toques on but by the time we reached the street, we'd unzipped our jackets and shoved the toques into our pockets.
We crossed the road and headed to the side street where Rozey was always waiting for me.
“Who's the guy who picks you up on Saturdays in that old pickup?”
“Rozey? He's the janitor.”
“The retard?”
“He's not a retard,” I said. “He's a nice guy.” I told him about the boiler room and about all the times I'd gone down there to have a smoke.
“And all this time we thought you were in the john jerking off,” Cooper laughed.
We rounded the corner and there was Rozey's truck. He had his elbow out the window and was tapping his fingers against the windowsill. We could hear the music way back at the corner. Buddy Holly. He had the radio cranked right up.
That'll be the day-ay-ay that
 . . . drifting out of the window.
“Would it be all right if I hung around with you guys?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“You wanna ask him?”
“He won't mind.”
Rozey was watching us in the rear-view mirror. Just when we pulled even with the back of the truck he reached over and opened the passenger side door. The music was still blaring. He turned down the volume.
“Hi, guys.”
“Rozey, this is my friend, Cooper.”
Rozey smiled one of his big smiles and extended his hand.
“Hey, Cooper.” Cooper reached in and shook Rozey's hand. “Jump in.” Cooper got in and slid over beside Rozey and I got in beside him and slammed the door.
“Mind if Cooper hangs around with us today?”
“Yeah,” said Rozey. “I mind like crazy. Kick that shit out of the way and make some room for yourself, Cooper.” He threw the truck in gear and we idled off down the street. Cooper cleared some room for his feet. He looked at Rozey and then at me. He looked like a kid who just got on the roller coaster at the carnival. Big shit-eating grin.
We turned onto Rozey's side road, gravel chattering in the wheel wells, then turned into his drive and jounced up the hill. Rozey stopped in front of the barn, shut the engine.
Rozey gave Cooper the grand tour. We went through the barn and into Rozey's Furniture and Appliances and outside to the building where his boat was stored.
Cooper climbed the ladder and sat in the cockpit. Big smile. Then he went down the gangway and into the cabin.
“Wow.”
“I'm rebuilding it.”
“How long's it going to take?”
“Another six months, maybe.”
Six months? From what I could see he hadn't fixed a plank since the first time I saw it.
Rozey led us back to the barn and into his workroom where he had all his stuff lying around on the floor and leaning up against the walls: tools and ladders, old lawnmowers and a couple of old bikes and chairs, wood-frame windows, a few doors.
“You've got a shitload of stuff,” said Cooper.
“You can never have too much stuff,” said Rozey. He edged his way through all the stuff to the far side of the room. There were half a dozen fishing rods supported on nails driven into the walls, four fishing nets and, on the floor, a whole bunch of tackle boxes.
“You boys feel like doing a little fishing?”
“Yeah,” said Cooper. “I love fishing.”
He had a kind of faraway look in his eyes. I was thinking about him on the front porch with his fishing gear. Waiting for his father who never bothered to show up.
Rozey brought down a couple of fishing rods.
“Pick yourselves a tackle box, boys.” We headed down the hill to the meadow that bordered the river at the back of Rozey's property.
“Man, this is beautiful,” said Cooper.
“Oh, boy,” said Rozey. “It's my favorite place in all the world. You oughta see it first thing in the morning. You can see the stars and the moon. You can hear the fish jumping. Lots of times there are deer right here in the meadow just staring at you, hoping you don't have a gun.” He laughed. “One time I come down here in hunting season. Big clutch of cows just over there.” He pointed to some trees by the riverbank. “And right in the middle of all the cows was two deers pretending to be cows. Safest place in two counties.”
Rozey led us down a path through the meadow to a clearing by the river where there were a couple of old kitchen chairs and a table and, just beyond them, a short wooden dock covered with old carpet. Tied to the dock was a rowboat â white on the outside, varnished on the inside.
“Hop in, boys.”
He undid the ropes, tossed them, then stepped into the boat and sat down, pushed us away from the dock with one oar, then put the oars in the oarlocks and rowed us out into the river. Cooper was sitting in the bow and I was in the stern.
Rozey rowed and rowed. Cooper and I just sat there watching the ends of our rods, looking at the river, at the hills that rose up on either side of the valley. The only sounds were the creaking of the oars and the little splash as Rozey dipped them in the water and drew them back.
None of us said a word. None of us had to.
We were out on the river maybe half an hour before Cooper said, “I love this boat, Rozey.”
“My dad built it,” said Rozey.
“How long's he been dead?” said Cooper.
“Six years.”
“You miss him?”
“Oh, boy,” he said, “I do miss him. Yes, I do.”
I couldn't look at Cooper. I just turned and looked out at the river behind us, watched the end of my fishing rod, waiting.
But it was Cooper who got the first hit. The tip of his rod almost hit the water.
“Whoa!”
It
was
a whoa. Rozey shipped the oars and reached for the net. He had lots of time to get ready. Cooper must've worked the fish for ten minutes before it broke water.
“It's a big sonofabitch,” said Cooper. He worked it for another five minutes before he got it in close enough for Rozey to net it.
The pike must've weighed about ten pounds. It thrashed around in the net in the bottom of the boat for a couple of minutes before Rozey could get a grip and break its neck.
“Looks like you just caught us our supper, Cooper.”
Cooper kept looking down at that fish and smiling like a madman. It was the happiest I'd ever seen him.
Fifteen minutes later Rozey had the boat tied up and the fish on the dock.
He pulled out his knife and said, “Here, you caught it, you clean it,” and showed Cooper how to do it. Ten minutes after that, we were up in Rozey's kitchen with the fish in the frying pan, Cooper in charge.
“Keep flippin' them till they're done,” said Rozey.
“Whoa,” said Cooper, when he had his first bite. “I've never tasted fish like this.”
“There's nothing like fish out of the river and into the pan.”
“You can say that again,” said Cooper.
“There's nothing like fish out of the river and into the pan.” He laughed, and we laughed, too. When we were done, Cooper got up from the kitchen table and started to clean up the kitchen.
“Leave that,” said Rozey. “It'll give me something to do tonight. And I better be gettin' you boys back.”
Cooper was pretty quiet the whole way back into town. When Rozey pulled to the curb on the side street near the school, I got out and Cooper just sat there for a minute.
“Thanks, Rozey.” He reached out his hand and Rozey shook it.
“No problem, Cooper. Come along any time.”
Cooper and I headed up the street and back to school.
“I'm sorry what I said about Rozey. About him being a retard. That was an ignorant thing to say. That was the best day I ever had.”
When we climbed the stairs from the front doors and turned to head down the hall, Cruickshank was still down on his knees scrubbing the floor with what was left of his toothbrush.
Cooper and I sat together at the back of the room for mail call. Docherty was the same old comedian, tossing letters around the room in the general direction of the person who was supposed to get them.
“That's it, boys,” he said. Cooper was looking down at his desk as usual.
“Oh, wait,” said Docherty, feeling around in the bottom of the bag. He pulled out a final letter. “It seems Mr. Cooper has a letter. Finally.”
What a prick. He fired the letter over Cooper's head. Cooper scrambled to retrieve it.
Later, Cooper sat on the low wooden bench in front of his locker. He was staring at the letter, like he was afraid to see what might be in it. Finally he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter and read it. He spent a long time reading it. Then he folded it and put it back in the envelope.
“Home?” I said.
“Hm?” He turned to look at me. There were tears in his eyes.
“A letter from home?”
He turned to face the wall.
5
COOPER WAS GETTING
weirder and weirder. Half the time I'd see him coming and he'd turn and head in the other direction. I was still going out to our favorite place every day before classes, freezing my ass off in that Jeezus freezing November wind. No Cooper. I spotted him a couple of times way at the end of the school yard standing by the fence staring up at that hill back of town, the cars and trucks heading out on that highway.
Then all of a sudden, like he'd flipped some kind of brain switch, he'd come up smiling, give me a poke on the shoulder. “What's up, asshole?”
One morning, right before class, a kid named Masterson was kicking a soccer ball. A couple more kicks, Masterson was in shit. The ball went right through the window. Masterson went off to The Dungeon.
A few minutes later, Rozey showed up with a trash can, pair of pliers and work gloves.
“Hey, Rozey.”
“Oh, boy.” Gave us one of his smiles. “Some mess, eh?” And he set to work pulling the shards of glass from the window frame, dropping them in the trash can. One shard at a time. Pull a shard, drop it in the can. Pull a shard . . .
“At this rate he should be done by Christmas.”
Cooper spun on Carruthers. Poked him in the chest. “Fuck off.”
“I'm only saying . . .”
“He's doing his best. Leave him alone.”
A few minutes later Rozey was done pulling the shards.
“I'm going to go down there and clean up,” he said, pointing to the basement room.
“Very good,” said Father Bartlett.
Next thing you know, we're looking at Rozey through the window.
“Oh, boy,” he said. “It's a real mess down here, Father. Glass all over.”
“No shit,” said Carruthers. One swift punch in the gut and Cooper left him bending over at the waist, trying to catch his breath.
“Jeezus,” said Carruthers. “I was only . . .”
“You were only being an asshole.” He gave him a rap in the crotch. “Say one more word, I'll crush your nuts.”
In class, Cooper and I still sat at our same desks across from each other, and we still walked together from class to class, but normally he never had much to say.
“You all right, Cooper?”
“What?”
“You get bad news from home?”
“Home?”
“Your letter.”
“Oh, that.” He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
“You want to talk?”
“Not really.”
He didn't feel much like talking in class, either. When teachers asked him questions, he'd make like he hadn't heard, like he was daydreaming.
“Mr. Cooper, are you with us?”
“Unfortunately,” he'd say. Or, “Sadly, yes.”
“If it wouldn't be too inconvenient, Mr. Cooper, perhaps you'd be good enough to get to your feet and answer the question.”
“What question was that?”
Strap time for Cooper. And he'd head for the front of the room, hold out his right hand, then his left, staring right at whoever was hammering away. Never flinched. Once, when Sullivan had given him five on each hand, Cooper just looked at him and said, “You done?” Five more.
He didn't seem to want to talk to me or to be with me at school, but on Saturdays Cooper was still my shadow. From first thing in the morning, through breakfast and study hall, he stayed as close as he could, and when it came time to head for the doors, he was right there. My own seeing-eye Cooper.
“You going to Rozey's?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I tag along?”
“Sure.”
We went fishing one more time in early November, never mind the cold. We sat on the dock all bundled up in our winter jackets and toques and mitts, eating sandwiches and drinking hot chocolate and smoking our cigarettes and watching our bobbers and not really caring one way or the other if we caught anything. Saturdays with Rozey was the only time Cooper seemed like the old Cooper.
Rozey had all kinds of questions for us.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” he said.
“I don't want to grow up,” said Cooper.
“Like Peter Pan?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “What I've seen of grownups hasn't been very encouraging.” Then he looked at Rozey, who was staring at the end of his fishing rod. “Except for you, Rozey. You're about the only normal grownup I've ever met.”
“Thanks. I guess.” Rozey laughed. “But say you do grow up. What do you want to do?”
“I dunno. Maybe take care of animals.”
“Like a vet?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Animals that are hurt or sick. Something like that.”
Later we put all the fishing gear back in the barn, then got into the truck â Cooper in the middle, me by the door.
Rozey started the engine and put the truck in gear.
He was just turning onto the road when Cooper said, “What happened to your dad?”
“Got the cancer and died,” said Rozey.
“How old was he?”
“Seventy-two.”
“You were lucky to have him around a long time,” said Cooper.
“Yeah.”
No more chatter from Cooper. He just sat and stared straight ahead until Rozey pulled the truck to the side of the road half a block from St. Iggy's. I got out and Cooper slid across and got out and looked at Rozey.
“Thanks,” he said. “For everything.”
Cooper didn't say anything more until we were nearing the front door of the school. Then he stopped and faced me and said, “What do you think happens to us when we die?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you think there's a heaven?”
“I hope so,” I said.
“The faith that looks through death.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.”
â
WE SAT AT THE
back of study hall, but no mail for Cooper or me. Then the whole herd of us headed for the stairs that led down to the yard.
As we got to the top of the stairs, O'Hara started to go past us. Cooper didn't say a word. Just reached out, put both hands on his back and gave him a shove. Next thing you knew, O'Hara was rolling down the stairs.
Cooper ran down and stood over him.
“One word, fuckup. One word.” O'Hara wasn't the swiftest kid in the building, but he knew better than to open his mouth. Cooper gave him a kick in the ribs, then stepped over him and pushed open the door. Went out into the yard, back to his old disappearing self.
Klemski looked at me. I looked at Klemski.
“Jeezus,” he said.
Cooper sat with us at supper, but he didn't say two words. Just fiddled with his food, then cleared his tray.
Next time I saw him it was bed time. Next time I saw him after that, he was following Prince out of the darkened dorm toward the stairway.
â
NEXT MORNING, COOPER
was a lump under the covers, as usual. Bartlett on duty. Bartlett making a beeline for Cooper's bed. Slapped him on the ass with his yardstick.
“Up, Cooper. Now.” Cooper didn't move, didn't make a sound. Bartlett grabbed the edge of the blanket and hauled it off the bed. Then the sheet. Cooper was curled on his side with his back to the priest. Bartlett reached down and grabbed Cooper by the shoulder.
“Get your fucking hands off me.”
Holy shit.
“What do . . .”
“I'm sick. Leave me alone.”
“Get up. Now!” Bartlett's voice echoed around the room. Guys were just standing there, stunned.
Bartlett reached down and grabbed Cooper again, by the arm this time, and started hauling him out of the bed. Cooper got about halfway to his feet and then just let go. Puke all over the front of Bartlett's robe, puke on his shoes, the floor.
“Happy now, you dumb shit?” Cooper was death warmed over. His face was all chalky. His eyes were all red. Puke on his chin, puke on his pajamas. He got up and made for the washroom. Made it about halfway there. Then he was down on his hands and knees, letting go again.
Apart from that, no one made a sound. You could hardly breathe. Cooper got up and got himself into one of the stalls, slammed the door. Started throwing up again. Couldn't have been much left to hurl.
We were all just standing there, stunned. Bartlett looked at us.
“Routines,” he said. “Make your beds. Clean up. Make yourselves presentable.”
Sounded like Cooper was giving it one last go, then silence in there as well.
Guys started making their beds, stepped around the puke and went into the john, then headed to the locker room to get dressed.
I went to the door of Cooper's stall.
“Cooper?” Knocked on the door. “Let me help you to the â ”
“Clemson!” Bartlett was standing in the doorway to the bathroom. “Get dressed.”
“He needs help. He needs to â ”
“He needs to clean up the mess he's just made.”
“Are you kidding me? He's just puked his guts out and you expect him to â ”
“Time-out room. Now!”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
â
IT WAS DUNLOP
who let me out of The Dungeon. I was sitting in the corner, starkers. I'd used my pajamas to wipe myself, then cover up the pile of shit. Dunlop kind of reeled back from the smell when he opened the door. Marched me upstairs, watched as I got into new pajamas, then marched me back down to the time-out room and watched as I cleaned up the mess. Marched me back up to the dorm and made me clean up Cooper's mess as well.
“Father Bartlett said if you were so keen to help your friend, this would be the least you could do.” Must've been ten-thirty by the time I was all done. I smelled of puke but who cared? I was thinking about Cooper puking all over the front of Bartlett's robe.
“What are you laughing about?”
Dunlop could go right on waiting for an answer.
A day in The Dungeon. A week's worth of detentions, two hours a shot.
Worth every minute of it.
I pulled the covers over my head. Must've fallen asleep within two minutes of putting my head on the pillow.
â
NEXT MORNING, NO
Cooper. His bed was just the way he left it â sheets and blankets in a mess â when he went off to the infirmary.
I was in no mood to even look at Bartlett, much less hear him snore on about the Pope.
Five minutes into class, I stuck my hand up.
“Yes, Mr. Clemson.”
“Can you explain again about papal infallibility?”
“Papal infallibility means the Pope, as the church's supreme teacher of the faithful, cannot err when he proclaims a doctrine of faith or morals.”
“So he can't make a mistake?”
“Not when it comes to these matters,” said Bartlett.
“How is that possible?”
“How is what possible?”
“How can it be possible that someone can't make a mistake? We all make mistakes. We're human. Isn't the Pope human?”
“Of course.”
“Well, if he's human, he can make mistakes. Right?”
“Not the Holy Father,” said The Pear. “Not in these matters.”
“But in other matters. Let's say he's out driving.”
“The Pope doesn't drive.”
“Well, let's say he does. Let's say he's out for a spin and goes through a red light. Wouldn't that be a mistake?”
“Yes,” said The Pear. “But we're not talking about running red lights. We're talking about matters of doctrine. In these matters, the Pope is infallible.”
“So he can make mistakes, but he's still infallible?”
“Yes.” The Pear was about to move on. But I wasn't.
“Another thing,” I said. “What's with the get-up the Pope always wears? The big hat, the fancy robes.”
“They're a sign of his exalted office.”
“You think Christ would be caught dead in a get-up like that?”
Whistles and cheers.
“Pardon?” The Pear came down the aisle until he was standing right beside me. “What did you say, Mr. Clemson?”
“I said Christ wouldn't be caught dead wearing all that crap the Pope wears â robes and rings and that thing on his head. It's all a lot of papal bull.”
“On your feet. Now!”
At least it was a different dungeon. And it was only for a couple of hours.
I didn't think things could get any weirder. But it's just when you think something like that that things are bound to get weirder than ever.
I got through the rest of my classes, zipped up to check on Cooper, who still looked half dead, went down, had supper, had a smoke, had a shower and fell asleep in about two seconds flat.
Next thing I knew, Prince was tapping me with his yardstick.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
What the fuck? I got up on one elbow and looked at him. All I could see was his outline silhouetted against the red glow of the exit light above the door at the end of the dorm.
“Come with me.” He turned and walked away.
I swung my feet out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, rubbed my eyes and ran my hands through my hair. My heart was pounding.
I turned and looked at Cooper's empty bed. I got up and walked barefoot down the length of the dorm, out the door and down the stairs.
Prince's door was open. There was a weird flickering light. I went in and stood just inside the door. The room was lit by candles. Must have been ten of them here and there on the desk, the bureau, on top of the bookshelves.
“Close the door,” he said. He was sitting on a couch against the window wall. I closed the door.
“Come in,” he said. He patted the couch. “Sit down.”
I crossed the room and sat down, probably right where Cooper usually sat, leaving as much space between us as I could. Prince turned to face me, his back against the far end of the couch, folding one leg under the other. He had his arm on the back of the couch. Mr. Casual.