School Years Grade 7 #1

                      Memoirs of David Faria

                        The Blood of Jesus

 

                            New School

 

     November 1953: After the death of our mother what was left of our family was in disarray. Gilbert and I would go to a private boarding school in Rhode Island. On month ends, holidays and during the summer, we would live at the Drake, a two story walk-up hotel.

     The big deal was the school. I had bicycled to Somerset, Freetown, across the state line into the neighboring towns and villages but I had never really been away from home. Going to summer camp at the Boy's Club didn't count; but this, this going off to school somewhere beyond the ten mile zone, the great beyond, it escaped my imagination.

     On our parish priest's advice, Dad would send us boys to Mount Saint Charles Academy. Dad, accompanied by the priest, had visited the school. They drove deep into the state of Rhode Island, somewhere past Providence, had traversed the campus and spoken with the director of the school. Dad agreed; Mount Saint Charles: it's a good Catholic school.

     Dad could see a good thing. He could tend his bar, drink as much as he wanted and didn't have to deal with us boys for the duration of the school year.

     I tried to get information of what was going on. Gilbert had a direct line to Dad. I queried Gilbert, my brother.

     "What's a private school?"

     "You have to pay money to go there," Gilbert told me.

     "Where's Woonsocket?"

     "It's in Rhode Island."

     "Where in Rhode Island?"

     "In Rhode Island."

     "Is it further than Tiverton?"

     "It's not that way."

     "Which way is it?"

     "It's past Somerset."

     "Rhode Island's not that way."

     "Yes it is."

     "No it's not."

     "Yes it is. Remember when we went to New York with Mom and Dad?"

     "Yes . . .”

     "Well, we drove through Rhode Island."

     "Then how far past Somerset is it?

     "Far."

     "Is it past Ocean Grove?"

     "Ocean Grove's in Massachusetts. The school's in Rhode Island!"

     "I know that."

     I waited a moment.

     "How far past Ocean Grove is it?"

     "Far past."

     "How far is that?"

     "Far, far. You have to go to Seakonk first, then you go to Providence, then you're in Rhode Island. The school's past Providence."

     "Well, how are we going to get to school if it's way over there?"

     "We're going to live there. Now leave me alone."

     "We're going to move to Rhode Island!"

     "No."

     "If we're not going to move to Rhode Island how are we going to get to the school?"

     "We're going to live at the school. Now go away and leave me alone."

     It didn't seem right. No one I knew of lived at a school. Schools opened in the morning and closed in the afternoon.

     Gilbert ended our conversation with haunting words Mom had once cried, "Go away and leave me alone."

         

     It's Sunday and this is the day we are to travel to our new school. The Olds--a two tone, two door 49' or 50'--is parked in front of the Drake Bar and Grill. We have our suitcases packed and stashed in the car's trunk. Gilbert and I are sitting in the back seat waiting.  Dad and his friend Abe are inside the Drake bar having a last quick one--don't know how long that will take.

     It's almost noon. Shortly, the front barroom door opens, Dad and his friend come out laughing and talking. Abe sides up to the passenger door, leans in and says, "Are you boys ready to go for a ride?"

     Gilbert winks at Abe.

     Abe looks blank for a moment. Oh! He remembers: David doesn't know where Providence is. (David sure is dumb.) It could have been some talk between Dad, Gilbert junior and Abe--David doesn't know where he's going or something to that effect. Abe, in his half-awake half alcohol state decides to make a little joke on me.

     "Gil, I'll drive." He says.

     Dad does a double take, "Are you going to drive the whole route?"

     "Sure," says Abe.

     Dad was going to drive from Fall River to Providence. They would switch. Abe would drive the rest of the way to Woonsocket while Dad would give directions.

     "Okay," says Dad. And he comes around the Olds, gets in the passenger seat, turns and says to Gilbert and me, "It's a long drive. You boy's had better take off your jackets and get comfortable."

     Abe slowly drives the Olds out onto main street and heads toward Tiverton.

     I'm thinking, maybe Gilbert is wrong. Maybe the school is past Tiverton.

     We creep along, passing the Faria Funeral Home where just days before our mother had lain at rest--she in white gown, prayer beads entwined about her cold dead hands, no smile upon her bloodless powdered face had lay in a dark polished mahogany coffin. Dead. Eyes closed. Not seeing the indirect lighting or the many flowers for her. The people quietly passing by, murmuring, padding upon thickly carpeted floor.

     "Do you know where you're going!?" Dad shouts at Abe.

     Dad had found Mom lying dead in the parlor of our home. She had committed suicide.

     Abe doesn't answer.

     And wasn't it Abe who interfered; telling his wife not to make plans with Rose Faria. To stop those silly notions and plans of you two women moving out of your households and into an apartment. Living as independent women. (Mom was going to get a job working at Made Right Potato Chip plant, the same place where Abe's wife worked.)

     Abe continues driving slowly for a half a block then springs to life. "I know where I'm going! I'm taking you to Providence."

     He's taking us to Providence. He's going to show me the way to Providence. Me, David. I am to be enlightened--Abe, my mentor.

     Abruptly he makes a right turn and adds, "When we get to Providence, you can tell me where to go."

     "I'll tell you where you can go," Dad mumbles half apologetically.

     Abe then makes a series of maneuvers with the Olds: speeding up, racing to one intersection, stopping, making a turn, racing to the next corner, making another turn. It is one quick automobile maneuver after another. Abe wheels the Olds around as if it were a toy.

     "We've got all afternoon to get there," Dad says.

     Abe makes a few more maneuvers and a minute later asks, "Do you know where you are?"

     "I haven't been on this street before," says Dad.

     It seems to appease Abe and he settles down to more sensible driving. So the school is not past Tiverton--Abe driving toward Tiverton was to con me. (David sure is dumb. He doesn't know where Providence is.)

     Twenty minutes later we're past Swansea.

     "Is Providence the next town?" I ask.

     "Providence is a city!" Dad barks.

     "How far is it?" I ask. Either for Dad or Abe to answer.

     "It's right down the road," Abe says and plans his next maneuver. (David still doesn't know where Providence is.)

     "I don't see it," I tell Abe.

     "You'll know when we get there," Dad pitches in.

     In the distance are some road signs--too far away to read. I'm intent upon these upcoming signs.

     Abe puts on the right turn signal.

     "No! Stay on this road!" Dad tells him.

     "I know a shortcut," says Abe.

     "I don't know the roads around here," Dad tells him.

     "Leave it to me," and Abe takes the next right which leads to a back country road.

     Dad sags into his seat. He's defeated by his half-baked buddy.

     Abe's shortcut takes us farther and farther away from the highway. The houses become fewer; Abe drives faster. The narrow country road weaves and winds, going deeper into the woods where there is thick brush and tangle-wood on both sides of the road. It has little turnaround space. Abe negotiates a long curve and the tires squeal.

     "There's a left around here somewhere," he says.

     "We better go back to the main road," Dad tells him.

     Abe finds a turn around, doubles back and in doing so, he manages to skirt around the road signs the last few hundred yards.

     Five minutes more we travel.

     "There it is!" Abe says seeing a sign printed Providence and an arrow pointing to the right.

     "That's a back way. Stay on this road. This is the main road," says Dad.

     "This is the shortcut! I remember it now!" Abe turns the Olds right and the mystery ride to Providence is on once again--over a bridge and into a highly populated area. There are more road signs. And traffic. We come to a halt at a stop light.

     "Are we in Providence now?" I ask.

     "We've been in Providence for the past ten minutes," Dad barks at me once again.

     That's bullshit. We just crossed the bridge a few minutes ago. I'm not dumb! I know where Providence is! Abe has shown me the way to Providence. And I want to make the point. At twelve years old I want to show these adults I've seen their game.

     "I didn't see the sign," I say innocently.

     "You were looking the wrong way," Abe tells me.

     "No I wasn't," I tell him flatly. He's trying to bullshit me, the twelve year old.

     "Didn't we pass the sign?" Abe asks his drinking buddy Dad.

     I quickly turn and look at Dad.

     "I think we missed it coming in the back way," he says quietly.

     There you have it straight from your drinking buddy! Now I take a look around, wide eyed, as if I'm seeing for the first time. Holy Shit! This is Providence! Holy Goddamn Shit! Now I know where Providence is. I'm smart. I'm as smart as Gilbert. And to make my point, I look out every window awestruck. Oh, so this is Providence! I know where Providence is! I look past Gilbert who has caused all this delay. He's sitting crouched in the seat, face flushed. He's a jerk. A trouble making jerk. We wasted twenty minutes with Abe taking us for rides on the back streets of Fall River, back country roads, back road of East Providence, back alleys, driving around signs. Gilbert is trouble to me, always has been, always will be. (But I didn't know it at that time. It will take me many years to figure that out. Gilbert is trouble to me.)

     We leave Providence and get on a new divided highway. Forty minutes later we enter the outskirts of Woonsocket Rhode Island.

     "Make a right at the next intersection," Dad tells Abe.

     "Is the school going to be open today?" I ask meekly.

     "There'll be someone there," Dad says gruffly.

     "Where's Camille going to go to school?" I ask.

     "She's going to stay with your Aunt Mary. We'll visit her when you boys come home at the end of the month." He turns in his seat and looks at me.

     I have a worried look upon my face.

     Dad smiles and turns toward the front again.

     "It's the next street," he says to Abe.

     "This one?"

     "Yes, take a right."

     The road goes up a slight incline then crests.

     "It's near here!" Dad says, "There's the water tank."

     Abe slows the car almost to a crawl. To the left is a foot path, a retaining wall and then a drop off to a field some seven feet below. It's a playing field. At the far end of the playing field is a brick building. At first glance it looks like a textile mill.

     "There it is," Dad says proudly.

     That place is the school? It looks so bleak. I glance over at Gilbert. Gilbert looks worried.

     "How do we get over there?" Abe asks.

     "Go a little farther. There should be a private road."

     Abe sees the private drive and enters. On the right are some religious statues. One of them is the Blessed Virgin. Before the statue of the Virgin are smaller statues of boys kneeling. It is possibly a rendition of Lourdes, Fatima or some other apparition.

     Dad senses our uneasiness.

     "We're coming in the back way. In front they have a nice lawn," he explains.

     "They have some nice flowers too," Abe adds.

     "Maybe they'll let you boys do some gardening," Dad quips. He is directing this last remark to me.

     "They probably have some grown‑ups to do that," I shoot right back.

     This is not the time to get snotty. We're too close to the building, so I'm half way safe in wise-mouthing, otherwise I could have caught a backhand.

     "Pull over to where those boys are standing," Dad tells Abe.

     From a group of boys loitering near the building, one goes inside and returns with a black robed religious man. He approaches our car with some of the boys following him.

     As they approach, Abe rolls the window down, sticks his head out and says, "Hi."

     The religious cleric smiles and says, "I'm Brother Blaise. Are you the Faria party we're expecting?"

     "They are. I'm the driver," says Abe. And nods towards Gilbert and me.

     The cleric then talks past Abe speaking to Dad. "And these are the new students?"

     "Yes, Gilbert and David. That's Gilbert; and his name is David."

     "David and Gilbert . . . they're brothers aren't they?"

     Dad's miffed at me for getting smart with him just moments ago. Plus, he seems not at ease with this religious cleric. It seems to trip him up in the introductions.

     "Yes, Gilbert's a year older. He was born on May the twenty-eighth."

     Dad addresses me. "David, you were born in May too. Weren't you?"

     Oh, it's David now. Just a minute ago it was, he, him in the back seat.

     "Yes, on the second," I answer.

     See. He's very obedient. I've beaten it into him.

     "Our records show they're brothers. Well, we'll get the names and the formalities worked out," says the cleric. He smiles momentarily. "Do you have your luggage with you?"

     Gilbert and I nod in agreement.

     "It's in the trunk," says Dad.

     "I'll have a student show the boys to the dormitory where they can leave their things."

     Gilbert and I follow the student. Toting our luggage, we head toward the building. Inside is a large recreation hall where some twenty or so boys are seriously engaged in games. The main attraction is pool. We are quietly sized up at as we make our way across the hall. Our student guide leads us to a door that opens to a stairway and we head upstairs. The student runs up the first section of stairs to an intermediate landing. He turns and waits.

     We follow.

     "Where's the dormitory?" I shout up the stairs to him.

     "It's on the top floor," he shouts back. Then he turns and bounds up the remaining steps to the first floor landing and waits there for us.

     "What's on this floor?" I ask when reaching the top stair.

     "The study hall . . . and there are some classrooms over there."

     The floors are polished. The glass window panes on the doors are clear. Doorknobs and strike plates are bright brass.

     The student quickly runs up the next flight. "More classrooms are on this level," he tells me and then goes on to the next flight of stairs.

     "How many more floors to the dormitory?" I shout after him.

     "One more. Do you want to stop for a rest?"

     "No, let's go on. I want to put these suitcases away."

     Gilbert, who has been lagging, agrees. "You go on. I'll catch up with you," he says.

     We enter the dormitory. It's as big as the recreation hall and holds about a hundred sleeping cots. They're all lined up in rows. Each bunk has a thin mattress, a fluff pillow and is covered with brown a woolen blanket. A wooden chair is next to each bed.

     I slide my suitcases under an assigned bunk and take a look around for future reference. Everything is the same. One bund bed looks like the next. The room is long and wide. At the far end is a row of white porcelain sinks with mirrors above. Off to one side is a small private room. Its door is half open. I glance in and see a bed and some furnishings. (It is for the Brother Supervisor.)

     Our student guide bolts down the stairs and I run after him. It turns into a game; something like Follow-the-Leader. The student runs, shouts back to me and points, "Classrooms are on this floor." Then he runs down the next flight of stairs.

     I run after him, stopping momentarily at each level to take a quick look about. "I can't remember where everything is." I shout at the student guide.

     "You will," he shouts back. He laughs and runs down the next flight of stairs, jumps onto the landing, skipping the last step.

     I race after him. Jumping steps, holding onto a king post, whirling around landings, using the handrail; my feet pound out a drum rhythm upon the iron capped stairs.

     "That's the study hall," he says and points.

     I've caught up with him. And taking a break, I quietly step into the study. Again there is the duplication; the study hall, the same size as the recreation hall, the recreation hall the same size as the dormitory. It is one over the other. In the study there are over a hundred student desks. In the front of the hall is an overseer's desk. It sits upon a platform with a clear view of the room. A set of French doors lead to a corridor where some of the classrooms are.

     At that moment an old white haired man in a black religious garb emerges from one of the classrooms. He looks at me critically and says in a heavy accent. "No running in the building."

     "I'm sorry. I didn't know." I tell him.

     Slowly he turns and goes back into the classroom.

     My guide had ducked back into the stairway and was not seen; but, I may be in some trouble.

     We walk down the remaining stairs.

     "Who was that priest?" I ask.

     "He's not a priest."

     "He isn't?"

     The student opens the door to the recreation hall and heads toward the yard.

     I point to another black robed religious cleric, "Is he a priest?"

     "No, that's Brother Blaise. They look like priests but they're Brothers."

     "Are there any priests here?"

     "There's one priest. He says Mass. The rest are Brothers."

     My tour over, the guide heads towards the yard outside. He doesn't invite me so I head over to the pool tables.

     Unknown to me, one pool table is for seventh and eighth graders and the other table is for freshmen. In times of low usage freshmen can play pool on the lower grader's table.

     I'm the new boy. At the pool table are about nine student boys where a game of doubles is going on. The talk quiets.

     I approach and take a place as spectator.

     One of the players, an older boy, introduces himself and his partner who is lining up a shot. He shoots and misses.

     "He doesn't know how to play," the older boy explains. He says it in offhanded manner. It is a snub.

     His playing partner is offended and says, "After this game, I'm going outside for a breath of fresh air."

     It is a return snub.

     To be without a partner, the older boy will have to give up the table to the other players who are waiting their turn. He, while nonchalantly walking around the table studying the set of the balls, asks me, "Do you know how to play?"

     "A little," I answer.

     "Do you want to be my partner the next game?" he questions and without aiming or lining up, he takes a quick hard shot. The balls crack, jump and scatter.

     "Okay," I answer. Quickly I realize that I've intruded on some protocol that I know nothing of. It is the waiting players who quietly stare me down. Knowing I have to back track;

     "I'm not a very good player," I say to the older boy, trying to back out of the situation.

     "You don't have to be a good player. We can beat these guys in nothing flat."

     "I really don't feel like playing."

     "Look, you said you'd play."

     "If he doesn't want to play; he doesn't have to play," says one of the waiting students.

     "It doesn't matter who your partner is; we're going to beat you anyway," says another boy who is also waiting a turn at the table.

     The older boy, now without a partner, turns on me. "If you won't be my partner, I'll play you a game of singles. Then I'll give the table up. Is that okay with everybody?"

     A boy leaves our conference and returns with a student from the other table. This other student tells the player, "You can't play singles if there are enough players for doubles. And, if you're going to play anyone singles: it's going to be me. We agreed to a rematch. Remember!"

     "I can beat you any day of the week!" The older boys tells him.

     "You had a lucky break. You lost more games to me than you won."

     "Not to you I haven't! I'll play him (me) the next game, then I'll play you."

     "What if you lose to him?"

     "I'm not going to lose to him."

     "How do you know?"

     "Because I'm a better player than all of you. You people don't know how to play."

     With this new proclamation he steps back, puts the heel of the pool cue to the floor and stands there, eyeing us with mistrust.

     These players are serious. This game is serious. These boys are serious. They become angered yet they remain restrained. They come to words then back away. The atmosphere is controlled. So I take it all in.

     Brother Blaise, junior section supervisor, is called to settle the dispute. He's of average height, appears a little gaunt, has thick black hair that is turning grey and seems somewhat popular with the boys. After getting information from a few select students, he probes with a few questions, thinks briefly, then gives his decision, rather, proclamation. It is the word, the final to do, the end all, period.

     He says, "Because there are partners waiting, singles cannot be played. Any player who loses his partner must give up the table unless he finds another partner. If the team next to play relinquishes their position, then the new student can play a singles match. After that game, the table would return to partners. Is that agreeable to everybody?"

     It is and it had better be.

     Brother Blaise tells the older player, "You can play the new student some other time."

     The player looks straight at me and says, "We got a game to play."

     I quietly nod in agreement.

     Well, I already made one enemy. With the next game in progress, the talk and the challenges shift to the pool game. I leave and head for the door. In the short walk across the recreation hall I'm thinking, I've been in trouble twice; first running down the stairs, then starting a dispute at the pool table. And the day's not even over. I'm going to have to be more careful in this place.

     Outside in the yard, I loiter aimlessly and look at the building. It's huge. Wait a minute! I haven't seen Gilbert for the past thirty or forty minutes. Where did he disappear to? There's nobody out in the field. And there's maybe fifteen boys on the blacktop near the building. For such a big place, where are all the students? I go back inside.

 

                              Chapel

 

     Near the game equipment locker I look out a side window and see a small grassy area. Across it, jutting out, is a part of the building that looks something like a church. The windows are of a gothic stained glass with a religious motif, but what would a church be doing in a school? It doesn't fit. I turn and walk to the center of the recreation hall and look through the tall windows in front. Outside, in the front part of the complex is a centerpiece: the statue of Jesus. Behind the statue is a growth of pine trees. (More than thirty years later I will have nightmares of it. In my dream I will be looking from the building and see the view above the pine trees. It will morph, turning into a crevice, then widening to a gorge and then to an impasse. It will be a place where I will be able to enter but not leave. I will become a prisoner.) Here is where it starts; within this building, this hall, this school with the church motif and its chapel. It will start with the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. After they take part in a curse against me, they will lead me into the dreamland of imprisonment, nightmares, anger and madness. And from there to mental illness. It will take many years, but the Brothers, these Bastards of Christ, with the priest and all his accomplices, they will accomplish the perverting of my life.

 

     I'm startled by a short whistle blast and I jump. Quickly I turn around to see Brother Blaise putting a chrome whistle beneath his black cassock. He was behind me, and to get my reaction and to introduce me to the rigors and routine of life at school, he made me jump. And he seemed to have taken a perverse pleasure at startling the new student. His sadistic smirk-smile quickly passes from his face and his image slips back to hiding behind his black cloth, the crucifix and white collar. He tends to business at hand.

     When the whistle blew, everybody stopped talking. The games are put away and the students assemble forming into two lines. The taller boys in front, shorter students at the end of the line. Gilbert and I stand to one side.

     "Will the new students find a place in line," says Brother Blaise.

     After Gilbert and I melt into the formation, Brother Blaise nods to the boys at the head of the line. In twin files we walk in silence and go through a set of opened doors into the main corridor. It is dark and there is no talking during this short walk. We pass Brother Director's office, a few steps more and we turn left, going through another set of opened doors and enter the chapel. So there is a church within the school: a small church.

     It is a pretty chapel and has all the accoutrements. A pulpit is to the right of the altar, and there are the standard statues within any catholic church; a statue of Mary on one side and Joseph on the other. The crucifix of Jesus is in altar center. And there is a tabernacle, a small box like structure that holds the Bread of Jesus, the Body of Christ. It is centered on the altar.

     I take a seat in the front row and discreetly take a look around. Across the aisle, the whole right side of the chapel is empty. That's strange? Why would we fill up just one side of the chapel? Obediently, we one hundred or so junior section students quietly wait, sitting upon hard wooden pews. In the darkness of the chapel the candles gently flicker.

     From the back of the chapel the shuffling of feet is heard. Then, the dropping of the wooden knee rests upon the hardwood floor. Older boys fill the pews on the right side of the chapel. They are from the senior section; grades ten, eleven and twelve.  The chapel is full.

     A few minutes pass and a side door within the altar area opens. Attendants and a priest parade to the front of the altar area. The attendants kneel. The priest proceeds up three steps to the altar, opens the small tabernacle door and takes out the Eucharist which he places in a monstrance. The priest turns, says a few words, a prayer, a blessing, and then returns to his attendants. He kneels and leads us in prayer.

     It is the recitation of the Rosary. It's going to be five decades of Hail Mary's, five Our Father's and a few other prayers.

     Ten minutes into the service my feeling is: I am alone, this is a new school, a new church. Religious men in black robes are everywhere, supervising, watching. They are non‑smiling. I don't think I'm going to like it in this place. I take a look at the boy kneeling next to me. He seems undisturbed and gives his prayer responses with nary a sidelong glance.   

     With the Rosary done, the priest starts on another set of prayers. Blessed are the meek, Blessed are the sick, blessed are the poor. Blessed is this and blessed is that. It's over thirty minutes and Mass hasn't even started because the priest hasn't spoken from the pulpit. And Mass can take about one hour. I look about. Nobody seems concerned; only me.

     The Blessed incantations done, the priest now takes the monstrance with the Eucharist and slowly waves it around. With it he makes a sign of the cross; once, twice, three times--blessing us.

     I bow my head and am thinking, maybe this is the way they do Mass here. Maybe Mass is half way done because when they raise the Bread and ring the bells three times, the service is usually half way over depending on how fast the priest is.

     Money! I don't have much money. I'll have to put some of my precious money into the collection basket. (Dad left Gilbert and me with thirty-five cents apiece.) Ten cents here, a nickel there, and it will be all gone.

     Suddenly the priest clears the altar. Takes his attendants. They kneel, genuflect. Peace. Whatever. Signs of the Cross all around and they leave the altar area! I watch them exit through the same back-side door that they had entered. Gone. Zip. Done.

     Throughout the chapel wooden knee rests are being placed back up. Are we to leave? Is that it? Is it over? A boy in the same row as I turns our knee rest up and in due course we file out.

     That wasn't Mass--but hey! I'm not complaining. Mass can take anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour. I walk quickly after the student in front of me and while exiting the chapel I see a Brother watching us from the hallway. I slow down, bow my head and dip my fingers into the Holy Water, which is provided near the entrance. I make a nice Sign of the Cross.

     The Brother smiles.

     That's how to do things around here. Make big Signs of the Cross, bow your head, and keep quiet.

     In double file we walk back the way we had come, but instead of returning to the rec hall, we turn right, enter a stairway and head downstairs to the basement. There we enter a room set for dinner. It is a dual purpose room; a dining room and utility room. It has a cement floor with iron drainage gratings. Overhead are steam pipes, thickly insulated and painted white. The walls are heavily coated with paint and has hairline cracks from which moisture sometimes seeps.

     Students stand silently before their assigned chairs.

     I enter the room and stop.

     One of the Brother's‑in‑Charge points to a table. I go there and stand with the other boys.

     Tureens of food have been set upon the tables. For dinner we are to have meat loaf, boiled potatoes, and a soggy looking mishmash of corn, peas and beans, accompanied by some bread, margarine and milk. There is a square of cake for desert. Six boys to a table. There are about fifteen tables or so.

     Brother Blaise arrives. With a skip and a hop he alights the overseer’s platform, his black robe moving like a dress. The two Brothers have their own private little table. Their food is different, a little more upscale.

     Grace is said; we boys answer.

     The Brothers sit; we boys sit.

     The Brothers eat, not facing each other but overlooking us boys. And, as if by some silent signal that had been given by one of the Brothers--a nod, a faint movement of the hand reaching for a fork or knife--the movement is sighted by some knowledgeable student who starts quietly talking. Then tentatively, like an engine starting, cranking, that misfires then catches--a boy reaches for his glass, his hand moving a serving bowl which bumps a glass which taps the edge of a plate and makes a noise. Another boy moves his drinking glass to a milk bottle, touching it with a cling. Another boy speaks, then stops. And all at once, everybody starts talking. The food is passed around. Supper is underway.

     Seated across from me is a big colored boy. He eyes me carefully, picks up a serving bowl, takes a portion, and then hands it to me.

     "We serve ourselves here," he says.

     "Thank you," I respond, taking the bowl from him and I serve myself. Then I pass the bowl to the student next to me.

     "Thank you," the boy says.

     "You're welcome," I reply.

     "We're not formal here," a boy at the end of the table says. He smiles. I smile back and we talk. They want to know who I am and where I'm from. I want to know what this school is like but my questions are evaded and I become more wary, sensing something is not quite right.

     At the end of the meal one of the Brothers taps his glass with a spoon three times which immediately ends all conversation.

     The Brothers stand; we boys stand.

     One of the Brothers nods his head, and table by table we file out of the dining room and back up the stairs to the recreation hall.

     Students scatter, running to the pool tables and equipment locker. Brother Elexsis will hand out the pool cues and gaming equipment. It's on a first come first serve basis.

     Some boys go outside and loiter about in the yard. It is free time. (Saturdays and Sundays are different from the Monday through Friday school days.) In the yard, the sun slowly passes over the building, shadows elongate, and floodlights are turned on. It gives the building a harsh institutional glare. Students gather and huddle in groups of fours and fives. Some congregate near the building trying to semi-hide in its corners and shadows. They light up and smoke cigarettes. In the darkness one can see a match light and a faint wisp of smoke. Embers from cigarettes glow pink and fade. Like fireflies, the pink tipped embers glow, dim and move in semi-circular fashion, from face to side, side to face. A drag, a puff of smoke and it disappears into the dark, the students smoke.

     Inside, the recreation hall transforms into a well-lit shelter. Its interior lights softly diffuse upon the oak floor giving the hall a warm feel. Boys argue and play, sometimes running a few steps from table to table.

     It is past eight‑thirty and most of the boys have come inside waiting for the final whistle of the day.

     Brother Elexsis paces back and forth. He goes to the equipment locker, looks inside, walks back to the center of the hall and looks about. Hidden in the palm of his hand is his whistle.

     Remembering how Brother Blaise had startled me by blowing his whistle behind my back, I am now cautious. Does this Brother want to make the new student jump too? A dislike grows within me for these crucifix wearing black robed religious Brothers.

     The games stop and talk becomes a murmur.

     Bother Elexsis turns and walks back to the equipment locker.

     I stand off to one side.

     Minutes later he blows the whistle. We assemble and file out of the recreation hall, heading up one flight of stairs. We enter the study where I am assigned a desk and loaned a textbook.

     My fellow students are engrossed in work; reading, writing, paging through textbooks, searching, and learning. I seem to be the only boy not busy. Time nears nine o'clock. Brother Elexsis hits a gavel upon a block. We boys clear our desks and column by column we file out of the study and head upstairs to the dormitory.

     While climbing the stairs, it suddenly occurs to me; how am I going to change clothes in front of a hundred boys! One hundred strangers.

     I enter the dorm, spy my bunk, and slowly walk there. All the time I'm looking about and trying to figure out how to change clothes in front of these other boys? Out of the corner of my eye I watch an older boy who has a bunk near mine.

     While sitting on his chair; he casually unbuttons his shirt, takes it off, and puts on his pajama top. He then slips off his pants and puts on his pajama bottoms. He stands up; puts on a bathrobe, steps into his slippers, grabs a leatherette case from atop his bunk, and off he goes heading toward the wash basins at the far end of the dorm.

     It's done casually; that's how it's done.

     I sit down on my chair and take a quick look around--all clear. I fumble with the buttons on my shirt! No! I'll take off my pants first and get my pajama bottoms on. With my shirt half unbuttoned, I undo my belt and push my pants down where they bunch up at my ankles. Darn! I forgot to take off my shoes. With my pants half off I bend over on the chair, undo my shoes and kick them off. I continue pushing down on my trousers, turning them inside out. I toss my pants on top of the bunk and quickly grab a pajama section from my suitcase. I've put my left leg through and stop! Something is wrong. My pajamas won't fit! They have to fit; they're my pajamas. They fit me in Fall River. Why won't they fit me here? I'm trying to figure it out, half undressed, sitting on a chair in a dormitory on the fourth floor somewhere in Rhode Island, nine o'clock in the evening, with darkness outside the windows, in a school that I haven't heard of, with one hundred boys I don't know--and I can't get my pajama bottoms on.

     I try again. No it won't go. It will rip.

     I realize I had grabbed the wrong pajama section and was trying to put my leg into the sleeve of my pajama top. Of Course it wouldn't fit; but, if it could, then all I would have had to of done would be to slip my other leg into the other sleeve. My pajama top would be my pajama bottom, just upside down. And the collar would be right over my behind; convenient, because if I needed to go to the bathroom I wouldn't have to take it off. I could have sat right on the toilet seat without taking off my upside down pajama section. As for my pajama bottoms--why that could fit over my torso and my head would poke through the fly opening, of course a little ripping here and there to make my head fit. Then I could casually walk to the wash basins. A casual walk, a stroll, nobody here would notice anything amiss. It's all done oh so casual here in the dormitory, the school, with the Brothers and students behaving oh so proper. Why, if my fly were unzipped or my socks unmatched, nothing would be said, not a word spoken, all giving me time to correct anything out of the ordinary. It's strange. Here I am in a dormitory with a hundred other boys my age. We're in our pajamas, in a dormitory and there is no talking! No talking at all.

     I dress in my nightclothes, slip in bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Fifteen minutes later, all are in bed. Brother Elexsis stands at the entrance to the dorm, next to light switch. He makes the sign of the cross and says;

     "In the name of the Father . . .

     And of the Son . . .

     And of the Holy Ghost . . ."

     " . . . Amen," we reply from our bunks.

     He flips off the light switch. The metallic click of the light switch is the last sound of the day. It is also the first sound to be heard that will open the day. And always accompanied by;

     "In the name of the Father . . .

     And of the Son . . .

     And of the Holy Ghost . . ."

     In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Father and Son, Amen, Amen, Amen.     I have to get used to saying it. I will get used to saying it. I am on my way to becoming an automaton.

     In the darkness, laying there, listening, I can make out an occasional turning in the bunk, a squeak of a bed spring, a rhythmic breathing, someone is asleep, and another, till I too, weary from the day, sleep.

 

                          Monday Morning

 

     I awake thinking I'm at home. For a fleeting moment I think of Fall River and One Ninety-Five Barnaby Street. I think I am upstairs in my room. All I have to do is open my eyes, roll over and look out the window to see the sunlight reaching over the trees, shining into my room--but I head footsteps. How could that be? Harsh thoughts intrude: my mother is dead. I am many miles from home, in a bed in a large sleeping room with Gilbert and a hundred other boys. It's a private school of some sort. The footsteps continue on the hardwood floor, then stop.

     A light switch clicks with a hard metallic click and bright lights flash on. Brother Elexsis claps his hands three times accompanied by his words;

     "In the name of the Father . . .

     And of the Son . . .

     And of the Holy Ghost . . ."

     He waits for the response.

     I will hear it start the day, day in day out for six years.    Click!

     Clap! Clap! Clap!

     "In the name of the Father . . .

     And of the Son . . .

     And of the Holy Ghost . . ."

     Then there will be a moment of silence. It is Brother Elexsis waiting for the response.

     For six fucking years I will hear it. Each footstep is timed. Each clap of his hands is timed. Every word spoken is timed and spoken in a monotone. It is all timed with the same cadence as his footsteps clacking on the wooden floor, his hands clapping, his words; Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. It is all loud. Intrusive. All at just about the same decibel level, monotone as if it were done by some robotic desensitized amen machine. So the day starts timed, smooth and mechanical with Brother Elexsis standing next to his light switch at the dorm exit/entrance waiting for a response.

     Sternly he looks at us students lying in bed. Get up! Get up you lazy little bastards and answer me. Answer the word of God. I have spoken the word of God. I want an answer and I want it now!

     Brother Elexsis has to have an answer or how else can he continue. How else can he proceed with the next step of his day, his next ten bits of well programed information?

     So, amens are mumbled from half asleep boys. Quick risers throw aside bed covers, grab their personal articles and make a beeline to the washbasins at the far end of the room. I want to roll over and go back to sleep, but this is not home. I manage to dress, then I sit on my chair next to my bunk for some rest.

     An older student comes to where I am sitting and whispers, "The Brothers don't like us to waste our time," and just as quietly he adds, "We have to be in the rec hall in time for chapel."

     "Where's that?" I whisper back.

     "Downstairs. Hurry it up."

     Brother Elexsis standing next to the light switch, looks at me and flips the switch off and on, off and on. The lights flash and the switch chatters. Click, clack. Click, clack. Quickly I throw my belongings in my suitcase, straighten out my bed, and then head downstairs.

     In the rec hall students are already assembled.

     While hurrying to my place, I look through the rec hall windows. It's total darkness. Pitch black. The sun isn't even up and I'm going to church. I've been to church yesterday, scant hours away. Here it is Monday morning, it's dark outside and I'm going back to church. It's unreal; this place is unreal. But I don't have much time to think about it.

     Following the boy in front of me, we file back to chapel; I, to my newly assigned pew right in the front row. Throughout the chapel service I put the time to good use by catching up on my rest. At the end of the service we file out of chapel. Again, I follow the student in front of me.

     I'm about half awake and don't notice Brother Elexsis in the hallway watching us students leave the chapel. I dip my fingers into the Holy Water and wave a Sign of the Cross, barely mumbling Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

     Brother Elexsis scrutinizes me. I try to straighten up, but it's not enough. I don't dare reveal my thoughts; look, the sun is barely up, I'm trying to awake. You want a perfect Sign of the Cross, wait till Sunday. Sundays and you get a good Sign of the Cross, complete with Holy Water, correct wording, no mumbles, everything. It's just that it's too early, I'm too tired, and I'm a slow riser to boot.

     In double file we backtrack through the main corridor then head downstairs to the dining room.

     Formalities are over. I'm hungry and any food remaining on the table I eat; cold toast, oatmeal that has been setting in the bowl and has congealed, food that other students don't want, I eat. Whatever coffee that remains, I drink. In between mouthfuls I manage to say, "I'm going to the seventh grade."

     "That's Brother Claude's class," one of my table mates volunteers.

     Ting! Ting! Ting! Brother signals the end of the meal by striking his fork against his coffee cup.

     We students stop eating, talking and stand. Brother nods his head to one of the lead boys, and out we file from the dining room. Upstairs we go to the recreation hall. The pool tables have covers draped over them. There will be no games till after school.

 

                           Day Students

 

     Two boys from outside have come into the rec hall. They are wearing heavy outer clothing and are carrying books. They laugh and push each other in playful roughness. They are day students, and have come from the nearby residential areas of Woonsocket, Blackstone and Cumberland.

     Some boarding students enviously refer to them as day-hoppers, but if the truth be known, it is a false front us boarders put on, for what one of us wouldn't wish to go downtown? What one of us wouldn't wish to leave this place of crucifixes, black robed Jesuits with their darkened corridors, chapel, and required prayers? What one of us wouldn't wish to take a breath of fresh air and freedom and leisurely walk upon the byways and roads of fair Woonsocket?

     Not knowing much about the school and what is in store for me, I put on a jacket and go outside. There I think of so many days ago and Morton Junior High, geography class and that girl who sat next to me. The brunette who, always neatly dressed, with hair combed to perfection, with dark eyes, she . . .

     There are no girls in the yard! No girls on this campus. Not one. Do no girls come to this school? There are over a hundred boys. Two hundred, maybe three. It's strange. I survey the total outside area trying not to miss a soul. I scan groups of boys; standing on the playing field, on the blacktop drive, near the door, close to the brick building. Could a girl be hiding in some group or off in a corner by herself? No. Not one girl. I understand why a girl can't be a resident student here. Where would she sleep? But where are the girls of this city going to go to school? Some place, some other school is going to have over a hundred surplus girls. Where could that be?

     My thoughts are interrupted by a loudly ringing alarm bell. Students converge on the door leading into the rec hall in one huge log jam of students. Slowly the mob inches inside, squeezing through the doorway then rushing into the recreation hall. Then they again mesh and merge, bunching up at yet another doorway. The doorway to the stairwell which leads upstairs to the classrooms. One hundred and fifty students all trying to make their way through one doorway, into a stairwell and up a staircase and from there into various classrooms. It is one big uncoordinated mass of pushing and shoving. One big movement of young boys ages twelve to fifteen, trudging, moving in one direction to one general area. I join the last of them.

     "Where's Brother Claude's class?" I ask an older boy.

     "That's on the second floor way down the end," and he points up the stairs.

     "Down that end?" and I point up the stairs, but more indiscriminately.

     "Just go up the stairs. It's the first classroom at the end of the hall."

     Other students laugh and point willy-nilly.

     I go up the flight of stairs and delay my entrance. At the end of the hall, I notice the farthest door is slightly ajar. Taking one last look about, one last look at the quickly emptying hallway of students who are disappearing into classrooms, closing doors behind them. One last look at the morning sun illuminating through a window. One last look at the end of the hallway where a beam of sunlight shining into the corridor casts a million tiny dust dots suspended motionless in air. And looking at the contrast between the shadow and the light, I move my hand through the invisible, trying to grasp or catch or just to make a swirl in the air-dust. It is a delay. A trying to reach back. A putting off the inevitable: a new way of life.

     I cannot go back to Fall River. I cannot go back home to Barnaby Street or to the house where I once lived. That is all gone forever.

     I push open the door to the classroom and stick my head in. "Brother Claude's class?" I inquire.

     "Yes, I'm Brother Claude," says a young religious cleric who is sitting at an over-seers desk facing the class. He wears wire rim spectacles and is sort of lean. He has an angular kind of face. Boney, kind of.

     "I'm new in school," I tell him.

     "Your name?"

     "David Faria."

     "Well then . . ." the young Brother talks slowly, timing his words, ". . . don't stand there in the doorway . . . come in. And take a seat . . . right over there." And he points to a vacant desk, waiting until I am seated, then he continues, "Tell the class your name so all can hear."

     "My name is David Faria," I say it quickly and loudly as I can muster.

     "Very well, we're having a review of the weekend homework. Just follow along as best you can till we get you some work books."

     I nod in agreement and move my lips. No sound comes out. Thus starts my entrance into the world of Catholic institutional learning. How perfect, I nod in agreement and move my lips as if to speak, and there is silence. No words uttered. Nothing. It's perfect.

     It will be some weeks before I get school books.

     Dad doesn't understand domestic issues; Mom always had done that. Dad, not knowing about the intraday dealings of school life and its necessities, delays on the matter of school books. Mount Saint Charles doesn't get money for school books, so Gilbert and I don't get the school books necessary for everyday use.

     It will be the first in a long list of expenses that Dad will have to deal with. Food. Clothing. Tuition. Books. Whatever comes along[dmf1] .

     And I didn't understand the workings of a private school. Thinking that school books would be given to me, I ask, "When am I going to get my school books?"

     "There seems to be a hold up," Brother Claude explains.

     "What kind of a hold up?" I question the Brother.

     "The check seems to be lost in the mail."

     "What's lost in the mail?" I'm taken aback--money?

     "The payment."

     "The books aren't paid for? Doesn't the school have enough money for my books?"

     "Not exactly."

     "Well how come I can't have my books."

     "The school doesn't pay for your books."

     "It doesn't?"

     And some students laugh at my ignorance. It is a joke on me and I redden.

     "We'll work something out," Brother Claude says trying to ease the moment. "In the meantime, you can use my books.

 

                     The Back Perimeter Road

 

     In the first week of school, I'm outside talking to a day student. Two of his friends are waiting. The three of them are to leave campus, and go home.

     "Come on, let’s go." Says one of the day students to the boy I am talking to.

     "I've got to go," he tells me.

     "I'll go with you," I say.

     "Sure. Come along," says one of his friends sarcastically.      "Yeah, why not?" says the other friend.

     "I'm going home," the day student I've been talking to tells me.

     "I'll walk you home," I say.

     His two friends laugh.

     "It's a long walk," he says.

     "I'll only walk part way."

     "Okay. Just to the road over there." And he indicates to the private drive which is some fifty feet away. To a boarder it is sort of a perimeter, a dividing line.

     "Okay," I agree with false intent and we set off, they with their school books and papers and me tagging along. At the drive they turn left marching three abreast.

     "See you tomorrow," says the day student to me.

     "Bye," say his friends, meaning good riddance.

     "Bye," I say and without breaking step I turn left just as they had and continue on, heading down the drive with them.

     They laugh. I laugh.

     "You better tell him," says one of day student's friends.

     "You tell him! You said he could come with us," the day student tells his friend.

     "No, you tell him! He's with you."

     "Tell me what?" I ask.

     ”You can’t go downtown.” One of the day student's friends says to me.

     "I can't? Why not?"

     "You're a boarder."

     "Is that true?" I ask the day student I had been talking to.

     "Yes."

     "See for yourself," the friend says. "You're the only boarder on the drive. All the others are up there." And he indicates back to the yard.

     I look to see if what he says is true. It is.

     A few yards down the drive is a walkway to the main building. I stop there.

     "See you tomorrow," says the day student again.

     "Bye," I say to him.

     "Bye." The friends of the day student say to me. They mimic the words sing‑song and then they laugh.

     I stand there watch and watch them walk away. They walk ten or twenty yards, then one of the day student's friends glances over his shoulder and sees me still watching them leave. He says something to the day student I had been talking to and they get into a pushing match. The other friend joins in and all three of them push and shove each other. Laughing, pushing and shoving. The two gang up on the day student and the play gets rougher. The day student, wanting no more, takes a swing at one of his friends with the books he carries. He uses the leather belt, binding the books together, as a sling, and he swings wildly, going full circle, turning as he swings. One of his friends hits the books and they become undone and fall to the pavement. Papers fly in the wind. His two friends laugh louder. The day student, more angered now, starts to shout but catches himself and looks toward the front of the building to see if any of the Brothers of Jesus has heard their commotion.

     Settled down and quiet, he picks up his books and chases down his papers. His friends help. With everything gathered and their friendship restored, they walk on.

     I am still standing there watching them. As they walk out of sight, I turn and walk along the pathway to a side door of the main building and enter.

     For a moment I don't recognize where I am. It's a dual purpose room; the dining room and utility room. Tables and chairs are folded and stacked in a corner, it is being used at a utility room.

     Brother Blaise, who is the center of attention, is talking to a group of boys. I walk to where they are gathered and Brother greets me with, "How's the new student getting along?"

     Not forgetting it was he, who just four days ago, had positioned himself behind my back and blew the whistle for assembly, startling me and I had jumped. But then he smirked at me. Before that I had been in that pool table dispute which he settled. Now he wants to know how I am getting along. Fine, if I can go downtown.

     "Are we allowed to go downtown?" I ask him flat out.

     There is stunned silence. The students surrounding him, as a clutch of chicks about a hen stir. Brother Blaise is taken aback. Not only have I not acknowledged Brother Blaise's greeting, but it seems I have breached a taboo subject: leaving campus. Frere Blaise quickly regains his composure and answers my question with a question.

     "Why would anyone want to go downtown?"

     It is almost as if he is astonished that anyone would ask such a question. But I persist. "Just to go downtown," I say.

     "There's no need to go downtown. We have everything right here."

     He says it so plainly, so definitely. There is no need. Not to be put off by whether there is a need or not again I persist with my original question worded a little differently.

     "We aren't allowed to go downtown?"

     "I didn't say that," Brother says.

     "Then, can I go downtown?"

     "You have to get permission to go downtown."

     "May I have your permission to go downtown?"

     "No!" He snaps. Knowing he had lost the exchange he grimaces and looks away.

     So, I had caught him. I had caught him good. And in front of all those boys. A brief moment passes, and as if for a new sequence, a new face, Frere Blaise recovers and restates his last words in a different tone, "You don't have my permission to go downtown."

     He says it with that same noncommittal bland mode of talking the Jesuits have. It is authoritative, superior, and philosophical.  It is such trivia. There is no need. Again I persist in my questioning. I had won, then I lost. If I cannot go downtown today? . . . So I alter my question. "What about Saturday? There's no school on Saturday. May I have your permission to go downtown Saturday?"

     I say the words quickly because my advantage had been lost. Brother doesn't answer my last question and he turns from talking to me, back to his group of students.

     Almost impudently I wait for an answer standing off to one side of him. So, not looking at me, but speaking words for the boys to hear and everyone within earshot, which is me, Brother Blaise speaks yet again on this matter of going downtown. He is not to be contradicted. His words are law. He is not to be defied, questioned, interrupted, or anything. He talks slowly, word by word,

     "There's all kinds of activities on Saturdays . . . Pool. . . . Ping‑Pong. . . . Baseball. . . . Football. . . . Teams play against each other. . . . "

     He has slowed almost to a stop, perhaps thinking of other things to add. I interrupt.

     "What if a student gets sick?"

     Quickly he replies. "There's an infirmary right on campus. See! There's no reason to go downtown. We have everything right here!"

     See! It's all so simple. So logical. Why would anyone want to go downtown? It's all right here. We have everything right here. Everything. Isn't it wonderfull. This is such a wonderful place. You are such wonderful boys. Good students. We are all so wonderful. And everything is provided. Jesus has blessed us. God has blessed us and this wonderful school. Thank God we have everything right here. Right here on campus. There is no need to go downtown. No need at all.

     So I take a different tack. Right here at this wonderful place. This utility room with its wonderful stacks of folded chairs. Its beautiful cool grey cement floor. The wondrously green and cream thickly painted walls. This blessed place of Jesus and Jesuits.

     "What if a student goes downtown?" I say defiantly. Point blank. Like, what if a student flat out leaves this shit ass place and takes a hike. You know, like splits Ville. Zooms. Bugs out to take a look at the ladies. A little peek. Like he wants to know if there is any life in Woonsocket. Young girls. Those creatures who wears skirts--not your kind--but skirts feminine, that are short, to the knee--not for queers to wear but for girls. Like females. The fairer sex . . . Wait! . . . No, no. Mustn't say the word sex while at this beatific wondrous place. Make that the fairer of the fair. Queers excluded. Jesuits too. Like, what if a student goes downtown?

     There is no hesitation in the words of Brother Blaise. No ands, ifs, or buts about it. He says;

     "The school is responsible for the safety of the students. If a student goes downtown without permission, the police will be called. They will find him and bring him back to school. If that happens, he could be expelled. And a respectable school may not accept him."

     The police! A respectable school? Hunting down and capturing a student as if he were a common criminal. Then putting him a police car. The next step would be to expel him and send him to a non-respectable school. He means a reform school! He's implying the boy will be sent to a reform school. A prison. This wondrous place in exchange for a meaner place: a reform school!

     "Is there anyone else I could ask permission to go downtown?" I question.

     "Yes, you can ask Brother Claver. He's the director of the school. Go right up those stairs over there. His office is on the main floor. Go and ask him."

     I take my leave and go upstairs, but not to the director's office; instead, I go outside to the yard.

     It is at this time I recognize the boundaries of Mount Saint Charles; and, for the remainder of my years at school, it will be my prison. The main boundary not to be crossed is the back road to the school. The road that I came in on. It sets higher than the playing field and is buttressed by a retaining wall of stone and mortar. The road sits atop the wall, and the two become one: road and wall.

     Cars will sometimes pass. Occasionally a person will use the foot path atop the wall. Very carefully I had looked at the perimeter, scanning the field from one end to the other and thought--I want to walk out of here; past the wall and onto the foot path. I want to walk up the incline, past the water tower, away from this school. I want to walk away from the black robed Brothers of Jesus with their crucifixes, whistles, and black corded rope tied about their waists. I want to be anywhere but here. But I can't go home. Dad would yell and beat me. I have nowhere to go.

     So every day, for weeks on end, I would look at the road and foot path. I would look at the wall. I would see it covered with snow and wet with rain. I would see its outline at dusk and in the dark. I would see its shadows fall silently upon the ground.

     In time, that road will become my most cherished goal. And the day that it will be the sweetest, will be graduation day. It is then that I will take one last walk away from here.

     The feeling will build within me, week upon week, month after month. I will look at the wall and road. I will look long and wait. I will count the days. They will turn to years.

     There will be moments I will think of the road. In May of my junior year, during Rosary in the chapel; with the stained glass windows cracked open, the summer air and a soft breeze coming in--I will think of the road. I will think; the road is outside, one hundred yards from this chapel where I pray. The time is one year away; I have one more year to do. One more year! Over and over it will creep upon me, invading my thoughts. Month ends in Fall River and summer vacations will be nothing but cancelled reprieves and paroles. Nothing more.

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