Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
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.
10. Saturday’s Hero
I HAD BZ ON WHILE I WAS SHAVING,” I say. Jonathan and I are just settling into the study. Another rainy morning, too wet for the deck. “Some General’s telling Congress to bug off, let the Army handle the investigation.”
“No surprise there. Incidentally,” he laughs, “I notice you’ve stopped complaining about seeing the Times on