Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
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?”