From Autumn 1960: Chapter 5

Sunday is always the longest day. Mass followed by a breakfast of cream of wheat and one very hardboiled egg. Followed by study hall. Followed by lunch-raw Diefenbaker sandwiches and bog juice. Followed by free time. Followed by supper, which is always the same every Sunday: a scoop of mustard potatoes, a slice of fried Diefenbaker meat, a canned tomato and a date crumble. Followed by study hall, then TV time before bed. It's the loneliest day of the week. If you're gonna get a bout of the spells, Sunday's usually the time they'll start. If it wasn't for the running, a lot of us would have a lot more spells.

Before we head out Brookes crouches and rubs his bruised shin, which he hurt playing frozen tag. We run on and on in silence, staring at the scattered fir trees along Logy Bay Road, which give us a bit of shade off and on until the sun gleams at us for a long stretch. Our feet grow hot as we pound the pavement, sweat running through our hair under our baseball caps. Far ahead, Murphy doesn't look as big and gangly. Nearby, Brookes, running with pain, is first to pick up the pace. Before the run he told me he would rather die than lag behind, even though his shin was sore as a boil. I watch him struggle with every stride, the strain fixed on his face like it has been painted there. He seems to sweat more than any of us. And yet his breathing is lighter than Cross's or mine. Compared to him, Cross and I pant like dogs. I watch his chest heave as he makes an effort to speak. He kicks hard and moves slightly ahead of me, turns and backpedals as he speaks, his cap throwing a dark shadow over his light blue eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open, like Roswell's in class when McCann asks him a question.

"Water at Sugar Loaf will be sweet today."

I smile and work at my dry throat. "Sure will," I say, hoping he stays a pace ahead so I don't have to waste energy speaking. I'm getting used to having a parched throat when I run. For that reason alone, I know Brookes is right. The water will be sweet. The day of the marathon, Blackie says, there will be bottles of water stashed along the route for Shorty Richardson and Ryan.

There's the sound of rustling breath behind me. I think of swirling autumn leaves as Father Cross, who always lags behind, pulls up. His face looks more pimply today. He jogs along without speaking. Like me, he hates to talk while running. His face is flushed and he's panting.

"Check out the crow," Brookes says, pointing to a tree top.

As if hearing us, the crow caws.

"I hate crows," Brookes says, "They're ugly."

"I love them," Cross says. "Look how black their feathers are. And they're smart."

"Let's see," Brookes says, picking up a stone and firing it. The crow doesn't move.

"Dumb bird."

"He knew you'd miss," I say.

We run without speaking until the turnoff to Sugar Loaf. Pulling ahead, Brookes says, "See you at the water hole." But he advances only a few strides. The run is a hard one. We are all lazy. It's one of those days when you run like you're half asleep. Today, our pack will not catch the others, coming or going. We are tired and sluggish, like we're having a bad sleep.

At Sugar Loaf Pond, the others cluster around, waiting for us to drink. A creamy mist hovers high above the water. Brookes and Cross take off their baseball caps, and the steam rises from their wet hair. Cross dunks his head in the water twice, while Brookes slurps greedily. I lay down, exhausted, with a severe pain in my head. I close my eyes and put my face in the water, hoping the pain will go away.

"Pick it up," Blackie hollers, as the sun comes out from behind a cloud bank. "We're losin' time. And the Logy Bay fog's rollin' in."

Halfway home, as it starts to drizzle, my throat is parched again. A hot flash races through my body, and I can hear my heart beating heavily. I consider asking Cross to jump my temperature when we get back so I can spend a day in the infirmary. But I know that thought too, like so many others, will pass. As we near Logy Bay Store, the sun pales, barely burning through the gray sky. A crow shakes its black feathers. I think how right Cross is. Crows are beautiful. And I think of Nicky and the other pigeons and wish they were as strong as crows. Then I think of that poor little mouse in the crow's beak, and I'm glad Nicky's just the way he is.

Surprisingly, we close the gap on Blackie's pack. I peek over my shoulder. Murphy has stopped to wipe his foggy glasses. The drizzle turns to cold rain and falls through the black boughs onto the swirling leaves as we pass Bally Haley Golf Course, where any day now we'll come during free time to slide for hours on the snowy hills. As we pass Fort Pepperrell and head up through the bog, we watch Shorty Richardson race toward a tiny piece of the sun peeking over the edge of the soccer field.