A Troublesome Boy (14 page)

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes, Father?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Refresh my memory, Mr. Clemson. You have read
Oliver Twist
, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Well, in that case, you'll have no trouble telling us all about some of the major characters. Jack Dawkins, for example.”

“Yes. Yes, Father.”

“Very well, the classroom is yours. Please step up to the front of the room and share the benefits of your wisdom.”

I went to the front. Sullivan had gone to the back. He was leaning against the wall. Smirking.

“Jack was one of Fagin's little criminals.”

“Which one?”

“Kind of the head little criminal.”

“His nickname?”

“The Artful Dodger. It was the Dodger who recruited Oliver into the gang, who brought him to Fagin's place.”

“How would you describe Fagin?” said Sullivan.

“He was kind of like a father to all the boys, Father.”

“A father?”

“Yes,” I said. “Father.”

“How would you describe a father?”

“Well,” I said, “fathers are supposed to take care of their kids, make sure they get food and clothing, make sure they're okay, spend time with them, have fun with them.”

“And would you say that Fagin fulfills all these responsibilities of fatherhood?”

“Better than my old man,” I said. There were snickers and snorts up and down the room.

“That'll be enough!” Sullivan glared at the room. Silence.

I started heading for my desk.

“Not you,” said Sullivan. “Back to Fagin. Exactly what does he do for the boys?”

“He gives them a place to stay. Feeds them. They have fun together. They're kind of like a big family.”

“And what does he train them to do?”

“Pick pockets.”

“Do you think he's an admirable person?”

“He's about the only one who's ever cared for any of those kids.”

“He cares so much that he turns them into criminals?”

“Yes.”

“Father.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And would you say that's a good thing?”

“He taught them how to make a living. They've got to do something to earn money. At least they're having fun. Better than being in an orphanage. Nobody in any of those places ever gave two sh . . . ever cared what happened to them.”

“Do you think that's true of all institutions, Mr. Clemson?”

“Probably.”

“This institution?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?” I could tell he was getting pissed.

“I wouldn't describe some of the stuff that happens here as caring for someone.”

Sullivan pushed himself away from the wall, headed up the aisle toward me.

“And just what do you mean to insinuate by that remark, Mr. Clemson?”

“The way some of the priests treat the kids.”

“Would you care to offer an example?”

He was standing about three inches away from me. His breath smelled of mints.

“Sure.” I was staring right at him. “When a priest locks a kid in the time-out room and leaves him there so long the kid goes crazy. Or when a priest tells a kid to stand and face the wall and then comes up behind him and slams his face into — ”

Sullivan slapped me so hard across the face that I went reeling, hit my head against his desk, wound up on the floor. Then he had me by the ear and was marching me out the door. He shoved me into the time-out room. I hit the chair, hit the floor, hit the wall. He slammed the door.

“This is exactly what I was talking about, you crazy old bastard.”

The door opened. Sullivan filled up the doorway. He came into The Dungeon, stood right over me, then leaned down and punched me square in the face.

My head bounced off the wall. Lights out.

It was after nine that night when the light went on. It was Prince, looking a little stunned. He had one look at me and said, “My God.” He helped me to my feet, and then lifted me up and started carrying me.

I was a mess. All shit, snot, blood and urine.

“It's all right,” said Prince. “It's all right.” Never heard that tone of voice before — kind and worried.

He carried me down the hall and up the stairs to the infirmary. Helped me out of my clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, helped me into the shower. I got out of the shower, dried off, wrapped a towel around myself.

“Sit here on the edge of the bed. I'll take care of your clothes and get you some pajamas.”

A few minutes later he was back, steadied me as I got into my pajamas and into bed.

“I'll have someone come and look in on you.” He started walking toward the door, but turned when he was about halfway there. Looked like he was about to say something. But then he changed his mind.

I was half asleep when he came back with Father Stewart. They hovered over my bed.

“I've called a doctor,” said Stewart. “He should be here shortly.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I'm not sure what you did to provoke him,” said Stewart, “but what Father Sullivan did was not acceptable and I want you to know I'm taking care of it.”

I looked up at him. He didn't say anything more, just gave a little shake of his head, and then he and Prince left. I could hear them talking out in the hall. Prince wasn't raising his voice, but I could feel his anger right through the door.

Next thing I knew this skinny old guy, bald with a frizz of white hair, was sitting on the edge of my bed.

“I'm Dr. Harrison. What happened to you?”

I told him everything I could remember from the classroom until the lights went out in the time-out room.

“I just want to check you over.” He started with my face, went to touch my nose and I jerked my head back.

“It's all right,” he said. “I'll be gentle.”

Gentle or not, I just about passed out when he touched my nose.

“Sorry,” he said. “Where else does it hurt?”

“Just about everywhere. My head, especially, and my shoulder. I hit my head on his desk when he knocked me down. Here.” I touched the right side of my head behind my ear.

He got a little flashlight out of his doctor's bag, gave my head the once-over.

“Let's have a look at that shoulder.” I sat up and took off my pajama top. He felt around a little bit until he hit the spot. I winced. “Right there?”

“Yeah.”

He had me move my arm up and down.

“Rotate your shoulder for me.” I tried, but it brought tears to my eyes. He looked me up and down.

“A lot of bruising,” he said. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”

“That's it, mainly.”

He helped me get my arms into my pajama top.

“Your nose is broken. But I guess you already knew that.” He smiled. “I'm going to put a splint on your nose, tape it up so it will start to heal. You've got some cuts and abrasions on your head but you won't need any stitches. That shoulder may be dislocated, but it could also just be bruising. Let's see how it feels in the morning.”

My stomach growled.

“I'll order you something to eat. Then I'm going to give you something for the pain, and something to help you get to sleep.”

He rummaged around in his doctor's bag, pulled out a couple of pill bottles, opened them, tapped some pills into his palm.

“Here,” he said. “After you've eaten, take both these pills. Next thing you know, you won't know a thing.”

Apparently when the doctor spoke, people jumped. Brother Joseph arrived with a tray of food about fifteen minutes later, pulled up the little bedside table, set the tray down. He was trying not to stare, but he was staring anyway.

“My,” he said.

“Hi, Bro.”

He shook his head. You could tell that just looking at me upset him. He finally looked away, started fiddling with the food.

“I've brought you some chicken soup. I hope it's still hot.”

“If it is, it'll be a first.” I laughed. Winced.

“Yes,” he said. “Well . . . here. Try it.”

He stood there while I finished the soup, then took the bowl and handed me a plate with a sandwich.

“Peanut butter and jam. I hope that's all right.”

I took a bite. “More than all right, Bro.” I finished the half in three bites, took it a little more slowly on the second half. He took the plate and handed me another loaded with cookies. He held out a glass of milk.

“The doctor says to remind you to take your pills.” I swallowed them both at once, then finished off the cookies.

“Thanks a million, Bro. That was great.”

“If you need anything, I'll be sitting just over there.”

“Thanks.”

He crossed the room, shut out the overhead light. He sat in an armchair in the corner, a little halo of light over his head from a reading lamp. He picked up a Bible from the table beside the chair and started reading. He probably hadn't finished two pages before he started snoring.

I went to the washroom, looked at myself in the mirror.

Both my eyes were black and blue, my nose was swollen and crusty with blood. I leaned in for a closer look. Definitely not pretty. I raised my right arm about shoulder height, rotated it. It was stiff, but other than that it worked okay. I raised my pajama top. Bruises and scrapes, but nothing major. I felt the back of my head where it had hit Sullivan's desk. I could feel the welt, crusty with blood.

When I came back out, Cooper was standing by my bed. He took one look at me.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

“Yeah.” I tried a smile. Even that hurt.

“What's with this fucking place, anyway?” said Cooper.

I was about to say something when Brother Joe stirred, looked like he was about to wake up. Then he went back to snoring.

“Gotta go,” said Cooper. “Just wanted to make sure you were alive.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“See you around,” he said. Gave me that Cooper smile and then he was gone.

I pulled the covers up and must have been asleep in two seconds flat. When I woke up Joe was gone. Went to the john, my face looked worse than before if that was possible, came back out and there was Bro holding a tray.

“I didn't know exactly what you like for breakfast, so I just brought some of everything.”

He set the tray down on the table, then shoved a couple of pillows behind my back so that I could sit up leaning against the end of the bed. They had one of those tables on wheels that you could roll right over the bed so you could sit up and eat.

He'd brought a bowl of cereal, a glass of orange juice, a plate of bacon and eggs and toast, a couple of slices of French toast, two pancakes, syrup, the works. Nothing like the crap we got in the cafeteria.

“Just eat what you feel like.” He dragged a chair from across the room and sat down and watched me go at it. I started with the bacon and eggs and toast, finished off the French toast and pancakes. Drank the orange juice and ate the cereal.

The more I ate, the more he smiled.

“Doesn't seem to be anything wrong with your appetite.” He looked at me with a sad little smile. “I can't tell you how sorry I am that this happened. Father Sullivan, he's . . .”

“A bastard,” I said.

“He's a very troubled soul. I'm not making apologies for him. But he's been troubled for a very long time. There won't be any more situations. He's been removed.”

“Removed?”

“Sent away.”

“Where to?”

“I'm not sure. They didn't say. They just told us that the bishop ordered him removed. He left last night. Someone came and took him away in a car. To the city, I think. So you won't be troubled by him again.”

“What about Prince? What are they going to do about him?

Brother Joe looked at me in a weird kind of way, tilted his head a little to the side like he hadn't heard exactly what I'd said.

“You know what he's been doing to Cooper?”

“Father Prince . . . he's very close with . . . it was the bishop who sent him last summer.” He shook his head. “It's not our place to criticize authority. The priests are in charge here and we are forbidden from criticizing their actions. Just as they are forbidden from criticizing their superiors.”

Jeezus, Bro.

—

THREE DAYS IN
the infirmary seemed like three weeks. Just me and the clock on the wall ticking the minutes away. I couldn't believe how good it felt to get out of there and actually go back to classes.

“Jeezus,” said Klemski when he got his first look at me. “You look like shit.”

The other guys didn't say much, but they all had to get a look at me. My eyes were more purple than black, but my nose was still taped up. I looked like I'd been in a car wreck.

The teachers looked, then looked away.

“Wish I had a fucking camera,” said Cooper. We were out in the alcove. I'd just lit up, tossed my match.

“I talked to Brother Joe,” I said.

“About what?”

“About Prince.”

“You did like fuck.”

“I did. When he came to see me in the infirmary. After he told me Sullivan was sent away, I asked him what they're going to do about Prince. After what he's been doing to you.”

Cooper dropped his smoke. Ground it out with his shoe.

“You fucking prick. Why don't you mind your own fucking business?”

He stalked off, left me standing there.

8

COOPER WAS DOING
his disappearing act, giving me a wide berth. Breakfast, he grabbed some toast, then headed out the door. Who knew where?

“What's up with Cooper?” Klemski asked. “He's even weirder than usual these days.”

“Lot of stuff on his mind,” I said.

I grabbed my tray, made for the counter, then the door.