School Years Grade 8 #1

                             Shut Up!

 

     When Gilbert didn't want to return to Cathedral Camp, I took it as a good sign. The same should apply to Mount Saint Charles. If Gilbert doesn't want to go to Mount, I won't have to go to Mount. But I get my information second hand. Gilbert talks to Dad, then Gilbert talks to me and he colors the conversation to his liking.

     Sunday morning I'm in the lobby of the Drake. Gilbert is upstairs talking to Dad. Twenty, thirty minutes pass and Gilbert comes downstairs. He's grinning while slowly descending the last few steps to the lobby. The moment his foot touches the ground floor, his grin disappears and he presents a serious face. In doing this, he sucks on his false front tooth, pursing his lips. He doesn't look at me directly. It's as if he want to savor the moment, possibly thinking of how to toy with me. He knows how intently I had watched him come down the stairs, waiting for any sign of news. It's getting close to the starting of the new school year, and the big question is, what school will we be enrolled in?

     Gilbert takes a seat to my right and says nothing. He knows I have to wait for what he has to say. Finally he talks.

     "Dad says we're going back to Mount Saint Charles."

     Gilbert has settled into a reddish vinyl arm chair in the small hotel lobby. Between us is a set of double doors of matching red vinyl with a set of small diamond shaped windows. The doors are the entrance to the ladies lounge and thus an entrance to the bar.

     I try to draw Gilbert out, to see if he's lying.

     "You're joking."

     "No I'm not!"

     "Yes you are."

     "I'm not. Dad's going to be down in a few minutes. You can ask him."

     Gilbert knows I won't ask Dad. He knows I'm going to have to wait till Dad tells me himself. If it's true, it's bad news indeed. I look out the front window. The street is empty, the sky overcast. Across the street is a gloomy stone building protected by a black iron picket fence. Kitty cornered is a variety store. It's closed. Everything is closed. It's Sunday morning. The sun tries to break through the grey in the sky but is unsuccessful. The clock on the lobby wall says eleven forty. Dad should be down soon or we'll be late to Aunt Mary's.

     A scant minute or two and Dad comes down. The wooden stairs creak under his weight. Dad is dressed in his best; a dark suit, pin striped. Clean white shirt, pressed with starch. A nice tie. And topped off with one of his trademark hats, a light grey. The hat is smooth, clean, perfect, in style for the times, and Dad wears it plumb with no bend or break in the brim. No cock of the walk, no tilt forward to Dad. No siree. Straight. Plumb. On the level. That's Dad. From the top of his expensive hat to the bottom of his shiny wing tip shoes he projects the image of a prosperous business man. It is an image that is to slowly change over the next few years. It will become tarnished: for Dad is to become enmeshed with the religious clergy of Mount Saint Charles Academy and the religious clergy of Fall River Massachusetts. All covertly led by the bastard priest Shaleau.

     Dad will lose. He will lose in a big way. He will lose his hotel. He will lose his bar and grill, the Drake. He will lose the Cameo, which is south of the Drake. He will become almost penniless, just about destitute, save for the dilapidated property he has on Pleasant Street. He will lose it all. All for the silence of the bastard priest about the suicide of his young wife. He will lose big time to the bastard priest. He will lose to all the trouble makers and deadbeats the bastard priest will send toward him, and toward his business, and toward his family. And toward me. Me in particular.

     Indirectly, Gilbert and I will lose, but much later on. Once started, the trouble caused by the bastard priest will continue. And having gone so far as to destroy our father's business and livelihood, it will also cause damage to our family. And that damage will continue.

     Our sister Camille was outside of these happenings. Insulated she was while staying at our Aunt's house on Grinnell Street. But she too would be dragged into the mechanizations of the religious clergy, and always in the background, there would be the shadow of the bastard priest.

     But back to the moment in the lobby of the Drake: good morning's are said, and we're on our way. Dad's in no mood to be asked a question, not by the way he grumped that hello. I'll wait.

     We get in the car and ride in silence. We cross Plymouth Avenue, where Rodman Street changes from smooth blacktop to cobblestone, and the car's tires makes thumping noise upon the stones. A rub-a-dub-dub, brrrrr. It almost changes to a whir as the speed of the Olds increases. On rainy days the cobblestones glisten and shine, water moves between in little ruvlets.

     "Did Gilbert tell you that you boys are going back to Mount Saint Charles?"  Dad says it quick, harsh.

     "Yes Dad," I squeak.

     I couldn't help it. Dad doesn't like that little baby voice of mine, but sometimes when times are tight and tense, the words stick in my throat and my high pitched squeeky baby voice comes out.

     The Olds increases in speed and rub-a-dub-dub. Dub-dub-dub-dub. Brrrr. Whirrrrr, and the tires sing on the cobblestone. It tries to soothe the tension within the car. It tries to ease my thoughts, but it can't. Those bad thoughts of Mount Saint Charles intrude. I have to stay there for one more year. A whole school year. I have to try and get out of it.

 

     It is a week later and there is one last chance. A very slim chance. I am waiting in the lobby of the Drake, waiting for Eliza to come to work. Because of the Blue Laws she cannot use the front entrance to the Drake bar. She will go through the hotel lobby, into the ladies lounge, then take the side door into the bar where she works as a waitress.

     She comes in, sees me waiting for her, quickens her step, and trys to get by with a quick, "Hello David, how are you?" But before she can escape into the lounge I blurt out, "Eliza, go and ask my father to send Gilbert and me to a school here in Fall River."

     She doesn't want to get mixed up in Dad's business, his family affairs, or any of that stuff.

     "Okay. But you know you boys are already enrolled in that school in Rhode Island."

     "I know but I don't want to go to that school. Neither does Gilbert."

     She heads upstairs for me, and I call after her, "I'll go to any school around here!"

     In a few minutes she comes back down. "He said you boys are going back to the same school you went to last year."

     I go into a bit of crying and pace back and forth in the small hotel lobby. "No. No. . . . No. I don't want to go back to that school. I don't want to go back to that school! Ask him again for me. I can't go back to that school."

     "Okay. But this is the last time I'm going to ask him," and back upstairs Eliza goes. A minute passes and she comes back down.

     "Your father's real angry, he said, 'If you don't stop your crying, he's going to come down here and give you something to cry about.' I can't talk to him anymore. I've got to go to work." and into the lounge she goes.

     Not wanting to get slapped around by Dad, I quiet up. But it doesn't make sense. If Gilbert doesn't want to go back to Mount. And Dad doesn't want to pay the increased tuition. And I don't want to go back to Mount. Why are we going back there?

     Unknown to me at that time, it was the mechanizations of the bastard priest Shaleau. That's who was behind it.

 

     The next Sunday we're heading back to Mount. Dad is driving. Abe is in the front seat as passenger. Gilbert and I are in the back. As we motor along I have quiet thoughts and look out the side window of the Olds. The wooded New England countryside quietly moves by.

     Abe breaks the silence, half turning in his seat, he says to Gilbert and me, "I bet you boys are glad to be going back to school."

     Gilbert nods quietly.

     "No I'm not." I tell Abe who doesn't listen to my reply. He keeps on prattling. Turning to Dad, Abe says, "My boys can't wait till school starts. They were bored stiff all summer. Nearly drove us nuts lying about the house."

     "What school do they go to?" I ask.

     "My youngest, he's about your age, he goes to (a junior high in Fall River). He's got one more year to go, then he'll go to Durfee. That's where my oldest is going. He's just starting his first year there."

     Then Abe takes a verbal swipe at me, "They're doing real well in school. I'm proud of both my boys."

     Abe, wise-guy cab-driver emphases the word both, implying that Dad is not happy with both of his boys. That Dad is not happy with me. So Abe's going to harp on how both his boys are so great, so good. He's proud of them both. Abe's the same jerk-o who drove us around in circles for a half hour last year on that first road trip to Mount Saint Charles because I didn't know where Providence was. I was being played as the dummy then. Now I have to sit here and listen to his chatter of how proud he is proud of both his boys. He, Abe, this taxi cab driving yokel, who for the price of a beer will be your best friend.

     I counter.

     "I'd be glad to go to school, if I could go to a school in Fall River." I said it so innocently. So straight. It was a come on, and Abe took it.

     "Don't you have any friends at school?" Abe asks of me.

     "Yes," I answer. Yes, Abe, I have friends. You can't catch me on that point. Then I speak my main bone of contention, "but I don't like that school." I say it with contempt.

     "You Shut Up!" Dad shouts.

     Abe quickly turns in his seat and looks at Dad. He's shocked. There is something he doesn't know. And I was ready to tell him. I was ready to mix words with Mr. Big Shot Abe. But Dad stopped me. It was Dad telling me to shut up. Telling me to shut down the conversation. He was almost found out and Dad's neck turned red.

     Last year I was played for the fool--I didn't know where Providence was. Abe was in on that joke. Now, there's something more and Abe's not in on it. There is something that Dad's not telling Abe. Dad is being pressured by the bastard priest Shaleau. Yes, I have friends at school, Abe. Yes, I can make friends. Yes, my father and brother are together in on this. Yes, I'm the one. I am the one who the bastard priest Shaleau is trying to get at. And my father is angry at me because of it. And I am to shut up. I am to shut up, Abe, and not tell you.

     I am a year older. I know where Providence is, but I am to shut up? If I am to shut up, we'll all have to shut up. Gilbert is going to have to shut up. Dad's going to have to shut up. Everybody in the car is going to have to shut up.

     And here is where the silence started. On every drive to Mount Saint Charles Academy in the future, there will be silence while driving to school. There will be silence while driving from the school. Silence will endure every time we take to the car and leave for Mount Saint Charles. Silence will endure on the ride home. Silence will endure for years. And then some.

     In a sick perverted way--from the bastard priest Shaleau--silence and non-communication builds within the family unit and strains an already difficult relationship within the family. Father to son. Brother to brother. Bastard priest. Bastard school.

     Dad increases the speed of the Olds. He is driving sixty miles an hour in a forty-five mile an hour zone. Great! Now I'm going to catch hell if he gets a ticket. I'm going to be blamed. And trying to ward off the impossible, I look out the window searching for police, thinking, maybe there's no police working around here on Sunday afternoons. Maybe they're all at home having Sunday dinner with their families. I can't believe my bad luck. One year at Mount, I couldn't go anywhere. Summer vacation at Cathedral Camp, I couldn't go anywhere. Now I'm heading back to Mount where I won't be able to go anywhere. It has been almost one solid year of Catholic boarding school and Catholic camp. One year away from Barnaby Street, the swimming places, the bike rides down Pierce Street, across Main to Davol, over the Old Bridge and into the countryside of Somerset. Pedaling and pushing my bike along country roads. Up hills in the hot afternoons. My twenty inch Dayton one speed I would make weave from one side of the road to the other, pedaling, standing upright on the pedals as I would slowly work my way up a hill; then, reaching the peak, that change to the easy ride downhill with the wind in my face cooling me. Onward to Swansea Dam, Milford Pond, the Narrows, Freetown and its evergreen trees. That stretch of road dividing Watuppa pond from some marsh land and lily pads where I caught that turtle. Bliffins beach with its raft. All of it is miles away. Miles away and receding quickly, quick as the speed of the Olds taking me once again to that place upon the hill. The confinement of Mount Saint Charles Academy.

     One more year at that school and I won't be able to recognize what the downtown of a city looks like. Through the partially opened car window, fresh air rushes in, ruffling my hair. The trees are still green and full in the woods. The day is bright and sunny. But I'm to shut up. Shut up and say nothing.

     From Narraganset Bay to the wooded inlands, one can smell the living freshness as the trees flicker past. The shadows causing all sorts of dark interminglings within the woods, calling, whispering, whispering; Come. Come here. Here in the softness of the woods and the quietness of the moss. Here all is safe. And there are momentary glimpses of open paths into the wooded interior. Glimpses of soft grass and sheltering groves within its darkened recesses. All one would have to do would be to step over the tall wild grass that near the roadside grows high.

     Help! I'm being taken prisoner! And the most miserable part, the most vile perverted part; there are no bars upon the prisons door. No fences to be climbed. You may walk away. That's all there is to it. But in doing so, there could be worse waiting for you. I would be delivered to my own father who would beat me and tell me to Shut Up! You Shut Up!

     It's not a school. It's a prison. It's a jail. A reform school. For one fleeting moment I want to risk a back hand from Dad and shout into Abe's face. Abe, who will ride along for a few beers. Abe, who will chatter endlessly about any mindless triffle. I want to shout in his face. Abe! It's a prison! It's not a school. It's a prison! I'll be a prisoner for one month. Then I'll have one weekend a off. One weekend a month. A lousy day and a half.

     Good old Abe who will side with my father for a five cent beer. Good old Abe who my brother Gilbert introduced to the family with a practical joke. Good old Abe in it for a ride and a beer.

     The ride continues and in due time we drive onto the school grounds. Dad slows the Olds to a halt, gets out of the car and says, "I've got some business to take care of in the front office. Gilbert, you take care of the suitcases. David you come with me."

     While Gilbert is struggling with the suitcases I smile falsely at him. His face turns red. I leave, and with haughty steps, walk alongside Dad, not knowing why I am needed. We enter the recreation hall and Dad tells me, "We're going to talk to the Director. You tell him what you told me."

     Tell him that I don't want to go to this school? Sure I'll tell him. I'm thinking this is my chance to get out of here. And with Dad at my side, I'm ready for the Director of Mount Saint Charles. I'm ready for any of these black robed Jesuits. Either they're queer or double talking, prayer-like, sleeping zombies that could at any moment blow up in your face. And didn't the Brothers of Jesus say there's always a long waiting list of boys wanting to enter Mount. One of them can have my place. In that naive frame of mind, and with my father at my side, I am emboldened. I had never spoken to the director of the school. I would see him on Sundays when he would give the weekly conduct report. I would see him in the chapel coming down the main isle, leading the Brothers of Jesus in their procession to Communion.

     We enter into the main hallway, and standing outside his office is Brother Director talking to a man and woman. As we approach, they say their good-bys.

     Brother Director turns to us and says, "Good afternoon."

     "Fine, how are you." Dad answers. Then nodding to me he adds, "He has something to say."

     Brother Director looks at me and says pleasantly, "And how are you."

     I disregard his salutation and say flat out, "I don't want to go to this school." It's a snub, almost an outright affront. But Brother Director doesn't flinch. It's as if I don't exist, as if I hadn't said anything. Not a word. He is stone cold poker faced. Did he hear my words? Is he going to answer me?

     It is all so quick, so cold. With lifeless cold eyes, the Director looks at me, then looks back at Dad. With a motion of his arm, he shows the way to his office saying, "We'll talk in my office."

     Dad enters. I make a step to follow but Brother Director blocks my path with his outstretched arm.

     "Not you." He says flat and cold. "You wait out here."

     Not you. You! I bet he doesn't even know my name. You this. You that. You shut up. You wait out here. Dad hesitates for a fleeting instant, then enters the Director's office. He says nothing in my behalf. Absolutely nothing! Brother Director follows Dad into the office and shuts the door behind them.

     He wouldn't face me. He wouldn't allow me to say one word. And to make matters worse, Dad didn't say anything to back me up. I want to get out of this school and Dad wanted me here to say those words to the Director. Again I don't understand. First, Dad wants me to talk to the Director; then he doesn't back me up. In my naive youth like way, I don't understand the dealings of these adults. I am being toyed with. I am being played as a pawn. Later I will think, it is not to get me out of the school; it is to lower or eradicate the tuition. That's what Dad doesn't want. He doesn't want to pay the tuition. Dad is being squeezed, and he is trying to push back.

     Trying to hear what they are saying inside the room, I move closer to the door. It's quiet. Then, I pick up their talk. First it's a murmur, too quiet to understand. All of a sudden I hear Dad shout, "He's right out there in the hallway! Go and ask him!"

     That's right. I'm standing right here in the hallway. I'll tell you. I'll tell you I don't want to go to this school.

     There is more silence from the room. Brother Director must be saying something. Then once again I hear Dad. He shouts as if in total disbelief, "He's standing right out there in the hallway!"

     I move away from the door, expecting it to be opened at any moment. But the door doesn't open. It's useless to try and make any sense out of what they are saying, and their voices turn into murmurs, blocked by the door. Muffled whispers and murmurs. I look down the hallway toward the senior section. The hallway is dark. It's quiet. Seconds turn into minutes. Time passes. The door is opened and my father comes out. He is beaten.

     "Come along, son." He says to me and tears well his eyes. I know I've lost. I know I'm going to remain in this school for another year. Brother Director, standing in the doorway, looks at me cold and unsmiling. If words could interpret his looks, they would say something like: I'll get you, you little bastard. Just you wait. And me in my young naive way, I continue on, paving the way for the worse that is to come, "But I don't want to go to this school." I say once more for both adult men to hear.

     Brother Director is cold stone dead to the words I say. Dad pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at tears welling in his eyes. He and I head back toward the junior section.

     It is to be another year of the chapel, marching within the hallways, study hall, no freedom, no sidewalks, no street corners, no store front windows. There will be no downtown, no girls, no nothing. It is to be one more year of confinement to a baseball field and a building.

     I suspect that Brother Director knew or surmised Dad was caught. Caught by the parish priest, the bastard preist Shaleau; thus giving the Brothers of Jesus the green light. Frere Claver, Director of Mount Saint Charles and of all the perverts of their bastard religious order could now shit upon David. . . . but, don't you touch Gilbert!

     "But I don't want to go to this school," I say, and tears fill Dad's eyes. So he dabs at them with his white handkerchief--the phoney bastard. It doesn't look good. Anytime I am talked to in a civil manner by Dad, or he has tears in his eyes, it is usually to my detriment. Sort of the 'this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you' syndrome.

     From this confrontational occasion, within one month I am to be the object of a dry face fucking by the sick peverted bastard Director of Mount Saint Charles Academy: the reverend Brother Claver of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I will be whipped with a leather strap as I kneel before the pervert bastard. He will hit me with all the pent up sexually repressed feelings that his bastard religious order of Jesus has had him endure over the years, possibly, all of his peverted bastard sexually repressed life. He is to take it out on me. The bastard Jesuit of Jesus. The pevert bastard of all the other pervert bastards of Jesus. Most of them who are either homosexual cross-dressing queens in black drag sporting a crucifix, or the emotionally dysfunctional, including morons and the elderly decrepit. Or, just plain misfits who could not fit into ordinary society. Yet, within the Society of Jesus they are one. Their deficiencies are overlooked for the benefit of all, plus Jesus and the Church. Goddamn and curse the bloody bastard Society of Jesus.

     As we walk back to the rec hall, Dad speaks to me again. "He showed me a report card. On it he wrote, 'I am a man amongst men'." More tears flood Dad's eyes as he says the words. He looks away and wipes at them with his handkerchief.

     Dad is a man amongst men? Brother Claver, the Director of Mount Saint Charles Academy called Dad, a man amongst men? And he wouldn't talk to me? They're not men. They're queers. They're religious peverts. Social misfits. And you are a man amongst them. You're being duped. You will be a duped drunk. And you go along with them? Those queers? But I'm not totally correct. Deep down I believe Dad is being pressured by priest Shaleau. We reach the recreation hall.

     "Wait here," says Dad, "I have something to say to Gilbert. I'll see both of you at the end of the month." And he walks outside to privately talk with Gilbert.

     Gilbert the go-between, returns and says to me, "Dad said for me to tell you, he wants the same services that Mom got.'"

     "I know that."

     "He said you'll understand."

     Understand? Dad wants to be forgiven of his past sins. He wants to be forgiven of the arguments he had with his young wife. The times she wanted to get away from him. The time she wanted a separation or did she want a divorce? Now she is dead. Dead by suicide. A sin of sins. A mortal sin. A sin so grave that it will send a person's soul to Hell for eternity: and Dad wants to be forgiven. He wants Absolution. He wants the last rites that only a priest can give. Dad wants the same services that Mom got. Which is; a solemn high Requiem Mass, a choir singing, priest Shaleau officiating and forgiving, and a funeral procession so long that it wound block after block. Dad wants the same. He wants a long line of cars with a police escort to the cemetery. He wants absolution. That’s what Dad wants. And he wants to receive it from priest Shaleau, the same Catholic priest who absolved Mom of her grave sin of suicide. Dad wants the same.

     So, what does the priest want in return?

     Dad must obey the priest. Dad must obey priest Shaleau and the priest will want little David--Mom's favorite. The priest will want little David to stay within the confines of the Goddamn Catholic school; and after that, off to a seminary to lead a life of prayer, penance and to take the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience and enter the religious life. That will be what the priest will want. He will want my life. Dad thinks I will understand; not at that time, but many years later, would I understand. And I will have different thoughts about the situation.

     Gilbert turns and walks toward the games saying nothing else. Gilbert is to get a free ride for his remaining five years at Mount.

     Me, David--they're brother's aren't they?--I am to be shit upon in the most vile perverted way. I am to be their little whipping boy, their little bastard. Over and over the Brothers of Jesus will make it known: the library will be closed to me; I will not be allowed in their music rooms; I will not be allowed to leave campus without supervision; I will not be allowed in any extracurricular activities that would permit me leaving campus. And all the time I am to study and do the most menial of scholastic exercises possible. My life and learning is to be perverted and blocked. It is to be penance for me.

 

                              Deuce!

    

     The first few days of school students adjust to new schedules and classes. Students new to the school have to learn the daily routine. They follow what us knowledgeable students do.

     The recreation hall belongs to us students. The only religious Brothers who are regularly seen there are Brother Elexsis and the other Brother in charge.

     The first few days of the new school year, a new Brother is in the recreation hall. An older student, an instigator, approaches me and says, "See that Brother over there. He speaks French. Go and say bonjour frere to him."

     So I walk over to the new Brother and greet him in French, using just about my total vocabulary in that language. The Brother answers me in French, and understands that I don't speak the language. But he won't let me go. He's not going to let some eighth grade schoolboy get away with one or two words of French. He's going to give me a lesson, not it French, but in superiority. With fluent French he talks to me. He wants to rub my face in it. He wants me to stand there in the recreation hall while he speaks at me in French, knowing I won't understand what he is saying. So I have to stand there like a dummy.

     This new Brother is clean shaven, tall, athletically built and of course is dressed in the regulation black robe of the Jesuits along with the Crucifix of Jesus. The Brother has a malicious smirk upon his face. He has me, and continues to talk at me, down to me. He pauses for a moment and his face changes to one of question. Perhaps he is now waiting for a response? It is like he is waiting for me to answer. He wants me to answer him in French to what he has just said. But I don't know what he has said, so I have to stand there mute. It is as if I am the dummy. So I stand before this new Brother who turns out to be a malicious, spiteful, bastard of Jesus. This is what my fellow student, the instigator, wanted. He wanted me to be made a fool of.

     The new Brother is waiting for my response. I gave him a salutation in French. He answered my salutation in French, then proceeded to converse in French--ending it with a tonal inflection of question. Added to that, his facial expression is one of question. It is time for me to respond. I am to respond in French. He stands before me, his six foot frame, two hundred pounds, athletic build, clean shaven. He is young, robust and in good physical health. He is imposing.

     Me? I want to take my leave. But he's waiting for my response. And in French please. I say nothing.

     He changes facial expression to one of befuddlement. As if, perhaps he had used some words that were too sophisticated. Or, perhaps he talked too quickly. Was some of his dialogue or enunciation was in error. Or is it a different dialect of French that I am used to. It could be he speaking Canadian French and I am tuned to Parisian. So it could have been a mistake on his part.

     In a phoney effort to correct whatever reason that I didn't understand what he was saying, he starts again, talking at me in fluent French. It is oh so false. It is in my face. Better than thou. And he wearing the Cross of Jesus.

     I wait for him to finish. I don't have a clue of what he has said. But he is teaching me a lesson. It is a lesson of the Jesuits. It is one of contempt. It is better than thou. It is contempt toward me. He was talking in my face all the while knowing that I don't understand what he was saying. And all I said was, "Good day Brother."

     I force a smile, nod, and take my leave. I had learned enough from my first meeting with Brother Charles of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. From that encounter I will try him again at a different game, but it should be remembered that this first encounter happened in the junior section recreation hall. A hall which belongs to the students and two supervisory Brothers, of which he was neither. The trouble maker who told me to go over and say hello in French was an instigation.

     It's a week later, again in the junior section recreation hall. And Brother Charles is playing ping pong. Doesn't he know the routine of the school yet? There is a division within the school, a division between students and teachers. A division between boys and Jesuits. But it seems this new Brother Charles hasn't learned it yet. He plays Ping-Pong quite well. And the student on the opposite end of the table is a beginner. The game pit-a-pat. Brother Charles keeps the student in the game, helping him along with easy shots, easy returns. He can beat the student at any time but doesn't choose to do so. Shouts of encouragement come from the sidelines where a few boys watch the game.

     Brother Charles wins and the small crowd disperses. He looks for another student to continue the game with and stands there with paddle in hand. The student who just lost placed the paddle upon the table and has left.

     "I'll play you Brother!" I say. And I grab the paddle from off the table.

     The rule is: after winning a game and standing at the ping pong table with paddle in hand and with no opposing player, it is my right to challenge.

     It's not the game of ping pong I want to test him in. It is his demeanor. I want to see if he's going give me a line of contemptuous French, but I am not going to give him that salutation in French. No bonjour Frere. And there is something added. If he has allowed one inept student to play the game and was helping him along with easy fluff shots, then I want to see if I am to be given the same benefit. No French. Just table tennis with nice easy shots, comraderie, good will, peace on earth, and all that. Amen. Oh yes, . . . he may be a Brother of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, but this is the junior section recreation hall. This is the student’s area. This is where I am in the right. So no French, just a nice game of table tennis. 

     Brother Charles doesn't acknowledge me at first. He looks about for other players. Perhaps another student would want to play and then Brother Charles could have his choice of players, but there are no other challengers.

     With no more words said, Brother Charles lofts the ball over the net for volley to serve. We tip and tap the ball back and forth. Serve, point. Serve, point. It is another slow game. He eases me along for a few points and all is well. No conversation in English or French. And me being just about a rank beginner, I'm learning as I go, concentrating on keeping the ball bouncing back over the net, just trying to stay in the game.

     Brother Charles strings me along with easy shots, high looping cream puff shots. He gives me points and the game moves along. So far so good. There is no polite conversation, in its place is tension. It is from our last meeting, our last talk. Is the residue of contempt there also? So I try a few words to see if I can break the tension, but mainly it is a probe for the reason of his contempt for me.

     He's not speaking and the game continues. Pit, pat. Pit, pat.

     Then, toward the end game he hardens. He starts to talk. My point. Your point. He snaps his words at me. I want to think it is because of my two words of French from the other day. But there's something else, something that I don't know at that time, but I will understand later. It is the grapevine of the Roman Catholic clergy. Unknown to me--I am the nigger. It connects back to my former parish priest Father Shaleau. The sick bastard priest who wants me at this school. The priest who will want me to enter the clergy and to take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The Catholic clergy grapevine goes from priest to Brother, from Father to Brother. It covers all the clergy within the Church. Just as would any other grapevine within any other social, religious, or political organization. It is their grapevine says that I am to be treated as a nigger, a bastard, a whipping boy. It is all unknown to me at that time. And that is the reason he has the contempt for me, and he plays the game of ping pong with that contempt. It is excessive pride, that's what contempt is.

     The game continues: My point. Your point. No conversation. No French. No bonjour Frere. And he is a much better table tennis player than I. He has strung me along to the end game, and with it comes the payoff. Deuce! The deuce game. This is what Brother Charles was working toward. What he was stringing me along for. The reason he has eased me into a deuce game. Again: he wants to be in my face. He wants to do it to me again. This is another chance of his to talk down to me. It will be one word: Deuce! . . . Deuce! Deuce! Deuce! I am going to be the little nigger Deuce, and Brother Charles will want to rub my face in a little of his shit, Deuce.

     He slams a shot past me, then yells, "Deuce!"

     It is with contempt he shouts at me, and his face contorts in disdainful contempt. I don't understand the contempt. I have only met him this past Sunday, and I had done nothing to warrant this contempt he holds toward me. I have done nothing against him or little to arouse his ire at me. Nothing. It will take time for me to understand. To understand him. To understand the religious order of the Jesuits, the Society of Jesus. It will take time for me to understand the working of the Catholic grapevine and a vile bastard priest can work their network.

     Brother Charles serves again and tips the ball easily over the net for me to make the next point. He doesn't want to end the game just yet. One minute his face is contorted in a contemptuous sneer and he yells, "Deuce!" The next minute he is the benevolent Jesuit with a serene face emptiness. He goes back to a beginners game of tippy tap to string me along.

     I hit the ball over the net. It's an easy shot. Tip tap. Tip tap, and Brother Charles misses an easy point. It is ‘my add’, I stay in the game and I serve.

     Wham! He slams the ball past me.

     "Deuce!" He yells again, jutting his face forward and stares at me mean faced. Then he perversely watches for my reaction. As if saying, ‘what are you going to do about it?’

     I'm off guard trying to understand his behavior. It doesn't make sense to me. First, he is a player easing me along; next, he slams the ball past me and shouts at me, Deuce! then he sneers at me in contempt. The moment passes and he puts on another face. It is one of serene emptiness. He puts forward that demeanor of polite composure and wishes to continue the game. Yet, he doesn't want to win.

     "How do you win this game?" I ask.

     "You have to win by two!" He snaps at me. He sneers and looks at me contemptuously.

     Two! Deuce! It will be my unrecognized moniker. My label amongst the Jesuits and the Catholic clergy. Two! Deuce! I will gain more names from them, but at this point in time, my names are few.

     I want to finish the game. I want to be done with this Brother Charles. This nut cake, but he won't let me go. I can't just quit and walk away in this part of the game. This is the end game. I've come this far and there are only two more points to go, my add, then one more point for the win. He's not out to win, but he's careful not to let me lose. He wants the game to continue so he can yell at me, Deuce! to his hearts content. He's going to string me along with easy shots, then he will turn on the power, win a deuce point and shout at me, Deuce! Then he may jut his face forward as if he wishes to fight. He will talk down to me, and all the time wanting the game to continue. One second he is playing with civil politeness, next, he explodes with controlled anger and contempt. Still, he wishes to continue the game.

     I'm not wanting to lose; but if he wins, okay. I'll gladly walk away. All the while I'm waiting for a chance at a win. I bide my time waiting for one of the those high easy looping shots.

     Brother Charles slams another shot past me. The ball touches lightly upon the table.

     "Deuce!" he yells, and shows a contemptuous face toward me. He stares at me for a moment. It is the evil eye, a sneer. "Baaah!" He adds. It has nothing to do with the game of ping pong. He bleats at me like an animal. "Baaah!" all the while he is looking directly at me, contemptuously. It is as if I am the reason why he cries out. He has bleated like a goat, an angry animal. Baaah! And the game continues.

     His point. Deuce! My add. Deuce! His point. Deuce. Brother Charles is using the game to get at me, to string me out, to shout Deuce in my face. It should be my new name, Deuce! David Deuce. Deuce, then followed by a bleating, like some animal. Baaah! "David Deuce, baaah!"

     I want out of this little crap hole game manipulated by the great Brother Charles.

     "Baaah!" He shouts missing another shot.

     It is my add.

     He returns an easy looping shot that comes in high and slow. He backs up waiting for the return. I slap at that ball with a timed anger, aiming for the corner. The ball flies from my paddle. He can't return it. In that instant, the game is mine. The ball tips upon the corner of the table and bounces to the floor.

     I watch the expression upon his face. It is surprise.

     Game over! I don't have to listen to any more of your crap. Barks. Contempt. Holier than thou, arrogant shit. I toss the paddle upon the table with a tone of triumph, "I win!" I shout. Turn. And walk away.

     (Goddamn! What a bunch of shit I had taken from that bastard.)

     But it doesn't end here with the bastard Jesuit Brother Charles, not at all.

 

                          Brother Salvio

 

     A new school year sometimes brings new teaching Brothers to the school, and there's a new eighth grade teacher, Brother Salvio. He's gaunt looking, has coarse close cropped greyish hair, usually with a morning stubble upon his face. Brother Salvio is wiry, a boney build, and he is a chain smoker. The fingers of both his hands are stained a dark yellowish brown. He is intense, and sometimes as he talks before the class, spittle will form in the corners of his mouth. But he teaches eighth grade quite well.

     As the days go by, a weakness begins to show. Brother Salvio of the Sacred Heart of Jesus; black robe, white collar, and the Cross of Jesus: is a groper of young boys.

     This is how he operates:

     During class, usually midmorning, he will slowly arise from his chair and quietly step off the teaching platform. Quietly he will maneuver amongst us students, first walking along the side isle next to the blackboard and toward the back of the room. He will then circuitously make his way from the back of the class, down one of the isles, stop, and sit upon the edge of a student's desk. He will pivot his torso on the student's desktop, look about the class and ask a question to a student that is some distance away. While the class is supposed to be looking at the student who has been asked the question, Brother Salvio reaches behind him and quickly squeezes the shoulder or arm of the student upon whose desktop he is sitting. Brother Salvio doesn't look as he grabs, he blindly gropes, and once grabbing the student--his arm, shoulder, back, whatever he has been lucky to affix upon--he squeezes.

     The first time it happened, it was so fast that I don't believe many in class saw it. Brother Salvio grabbed, squeezed, let go, then he quietly got up and walked back to the front of the class. Stepped up on the dais, and retook his position as teacher at the head of the class. It was a feel, straight and simple. Some students who did see the grab, exchanged glances, sort of like uh-oh!

     That was how it first happened. Brother Salvio would repeat the action about once a week. It was his weekly feel.

     A week later: mid-morning, Brother Salvio goes on the prowl again. Following his previous pattern, slowly and quietly he gets up from his chair, steps off his dais and moves to the side isle next to the blackboard. This time the class goes silent. Brother Salvio doesn't pay attention to the eyes upon him or he doesn't care. He walks to the back of the room, around, then comes down an isle and sits upon the desktop of another student.

     The student is cautious and folds his arms across his chest.

     Brother Salvio asks a question to one of the students in the back corner of the class. This time, not many of the students turn in their seats to look toward the back. It doesn't deter Brother Salvio. He is obsessed, driven. He is going to get his feel one way or the other. From out of the corner of his eye he spies his victim, then he looks toward the far corner of the class, to the student whom he has asked the question. He doesn't look at the student while he is groping for him. It is a contradiction, a contest within himself. The religious celibate struggling against the pedophile urge. The saintly side loses. He grabs for the student. The student moves and slips the grab. Brother Salvio has grasped a handful of sweater. His fingers clutch the material, and he pulls it toward him. The fabric stretches. Brother Salvio lets go and quickly grabs again. He is successful and has grasped the student by the arm. It is a firm grasp. Immediately the student jerks free.

     Brother Salvio gets up and goes back to his desk. It has taken a few minutes of class time; the getting up from the desk, the walking around to the back of the class, the asking a question to a student in the far corner of the class, the grab, the grope, and his return back to his desk resuming the role of teaching Brother of Jesus.   It has all been done in silence.

     We are taught silence. We live in silence, walk in silence, study in silence, read, write, sit down, stand up, kneel down, all done in silence. Silence in the hallways, silence in the dorm, silence in the chapel. And now it is silence in the classroom. It is for us students to be silent, obedient, good little Catholic boys.

     In the yard, at recess, the talk starts. Questions filter from eighth grader to eighth grader. Where did Brother Salvio come from? Has he taught before? If so, where did he teach class? But no one has any background on Brother Salvio. It is part of the silence. The background of the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus is one big secret. The proclivities of Brother Salvio becomes a joke to some of the bigger students in the classroom.

     He's queer! Brother Salvio is queer.

     A week later and it's time for another squeeze:

     It's the same scenario, Brother Salvio quietly steps off his platform, and uses the same circling around toward the back of the class, and slowly, from the back of the room he comes down my isle and stops at my desk! He turns his back to me and sits upon my desktop, placing both his hand on the wooden lid to steady himself. He shifts his weight and using both his hands, pushes and lifts. He slides on the wooden desktop moving closer to me. His right hand, in a tense jerking motion, inches closer. I slide in my seat, moving further from him, waiting for the inevitable grope. He asks a question to the back of the class. While the student is answering he blindly reaches out for me, but I have quietly slipped off my seat and am crouching down in the isle. His hand continues to grope, moving back and forth over my empty seat, his hand waving from side to side, grasping nothing but empty air. He looks to see where I have gone and sees me crouching the isle. I look up at him from my frog like position. Without saying a word, he gets up walks back to his desk. The class is snickering.

     That recess, out in the yard, the talk has extended beyond the eighth grade. Other students listen in at what is going on in Brother Salvio's class.

     A week later it's Darrel Luzier's turn.

     Darrel sits in the second desk from the front of the class, and his isle is all the way on the right side of the class, next to the windows. It is almost directly in front of Brother Salvio's desk.

     The same pattern is followed. Brother Salvio gets up from his desk, quietly steps from his platform, circles around to the back of the room, circling the class, and comes down the last two isles. It is always from the back of the class that we students are approached. The class has tensed and is waiting. There is some snickering. If Brother Salvio hears the snickering, it doesn't deter him. He quietly walks, stops, and sits on the edge of Darrel's desk. No sooner has Brother Salvio sat upon the edge of Darrel's desktop, when Darrel jumps up out of his seat and moves away from his desk, moving back toward the windows and facing Brother Slavio.

     "Don't You Touch Me!" Darrel yells.

     Brother Salvio swivels on the desktop, turning and looks at Darrel. Brother looks at Darrel in total disbelief! Brother Salvio is stunned. Shocked. He can't believe what he has heard. He is angry and outraged. Why would anyone accuse him of such a thing! Imagine! Imagine that! Why you! You . . .

     "I'm not touching you!" Brother shouts back at Darrel.    

     The two are just beyond arms length. Darrel is standing with his back to the windows. Brother Salvio is still sitting on the desktop of Darrels desk.

     "Yes you were! You were going to touch me!" Darrel shouts.  

     "No I wasn't! I wasn't going to touch you!" Brother Salvio shouts.

     Brother Salvio stands. For a moment it seems he doesn't know what to do. Then abruptly he turns and quickly heads back to his desk.

     Darrel shouts at him while he is in retreat, "Yes you did! You touched him! You aren't going to touch me!"

     The words stop Brother Salvio in his tracks. He turns, looks at Darrel and answers, "I was not! No! I wasn't! Sit down and be quiet!"

     The last few words Brother Salvio said, Sit down and be quiet! was as if the words were to himself. And Brother Salvio became quiet. He walked the remaining steps to his desk and sat. Darrel then went back to his desk and sat. The class was in stunned silence. The unsaid has been said. A confrontation had taken place. It was student against Brother.

     Now it appeared that Brother Salvio didn't know what to do. He fiddled with some papers upon his desk, then regained enough presence of mind to give the class a reading assignment for the remainder of the morning.

     During lunch recess groups of boys gathered and talked. The news was so big that students from the senior section walked over to listen in. A few days later Brother Salvio was removed from class and left school. Darrel Luzier was not to be long for school either. It would take time, but the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus would not allow him back in school.  Darrel would be forced out of Mount Saint Charles Academy on some flimflam schoolastic excuse at the end of the year.

 

                         Brother Charles

 

     The school had difficulty in placing a new teaching Brother before the class. Rumor had it that there were more Brothers in the school who were queer.  Another rumor had it that the school was going to be investigated. And that gave me pleasant thoughts of detectives coming to campus, asking questions and finding queers. Then the police would close down the school. But it wasn't to be.

     As for teaching Brothers, one by one they were paraded before the class. Each would teach for a few days, then they would be removed.

     One day, Brother Oscar, the Prefect of Studies introduces yet another new teaching Brother. It is Brother Charles! The same bastard Brother who talked who talked down to me, at me. The same Brother who contemptuously shouted at me in the rec hall, Deuce! Deuce! Now this bastard Brother is placed before the class. He sits at the teachers position and is smiling benignly at us. One thing the Prefect of Studies doesn't want is yet another queer Brother at the head of this class. Brother Charles doesn't appear to fit that description.

     Introductions and pleasantries are said and the Prefect of Studies goes to the back of the room and takes a seat.

     Before the class is our new teacher: Brother Charles. He doesn't say a word. He smiles. He smiles . . . and he smiles . . . and he smiles . . . It's like he is frozen. Like he has stage fright. Nobody says anything. Not one word. There is complete silence within the room. Brother Charles is sitting there in his seat, facing the class, and has a smile upon his face and still there is not one word from him. It's time for him to lead the class, to teach, to talk, for him to do something. But he does nothing. He sits there with a silly smile upon his face.

     More time passes. More silence. The class is waiting but all Brother Charles does is sit in the big desk at the front of the class. He sits and smiles. He is frozen in time.

     The Prefect of Studies has had enough and breaks the silence by asking Brother Charles a question. It is a prodding and it works. The two Brothers talk for a minute, Brother to Brother. Then Brother Oscar stops talking. Brother Charles stops talking too, and we're back to where we've been when he first entered the class. There Brother Charles sits, frozen in time, with a pleasing benign smile upon his face. He sits and smiles. Sits and smiles. And again, silence envelopes the class.

     Not wasting more time, the Prefect of Studies tries again. He prods Brother Charles into some more small talk, and this time, with a little hesitation . . . it works! Brother Charles catches the gist of it. He makes the transition from talking to the Prefect of Studies, to talking to the class. From the back of the class the Prefect smiles and nods his head in approval.

     But there comes another glitch. Now that Brother Charles has started talking to the class, he can't stop! On and on he talks. He talks exhaustingly, going from one subject, jumping to another. He changes gears. He is a motor-mouth. He talks and talks and talks. But what he is saying makes no sense. It is free association, stream of consciousness. Brother Charles talks about anything and everything. Perhaps this is the advanced venue of psychological here and now. There's no stopping Brother Charles.

     The class sits in amazement, wondering what will be next. The longer Brother Charles talks, the slower time seemingly moves. But it is the contrast that is amazing. First, Brother Charles was sitting immobile. He was silent with a benign smile upon his face. The next moment he is talking a blue streak and won't stop; or can't stop; or is afraid to stop. For having stopped, he won't know how to restart.

     Eventually--five, ten minutes go by--through the exhaustion of talk, perhaps the tiredness of jaw movement and facial muscles, Brother Charles does stop talking.

     "Are there any questions?" he asks the class.

     What! Questions on what? His discourse was a rambling, jump from A to Z, have a good day, the weather is fine. And any questions?

     "On what?" a brilliant student asks of him.

     "On anything," answers Brother Charles, "I'm here to answer all questions."

     The Prefect of Studies is radiating warmth and smiles from the back of the classroom. Here is teacher to student rapport. This can work. Problem solved. Placement filled. Adios.

     Brother Charles is here to answer all questions; so, from the class, come questions. Slowly at first.

     "Is Brother Salvio going to come back on campus?" a student asks.

     "Only time will tell," Brother Charles answers and smiles.

     "Are you going to be the permanent teacher?" asks another.

     "That's up to the Brothers," he blushes and looks to the Prefect who breaks in and tells the class not to worry who the new teacher will be.

     Another hand raises.

     "Yes," Brother Charles says, giving permission to speak.

     "Are people going to come on campus?" the student asks.

     "What people?"

     "Private detectives."

     He doesn't know the answer. But later, the answer to this question will filter back to us students by another Brother of the Sacred Heart. The answer: This is school property. Private property. If they (private detectives) are invited--yes.

     Another hand raises.

     "Yes," permission given to speak.

     "Is the school going to be open next year?"

     "Of course the school's going to be open. Whatever made you think that?"

     The class laughs.

     It's something to think about. Police. Private detectives. Queers. The closing of the school. And I secretly wish the school would be closed.

     "Are we going to have to start over?"

     "Start what over?" asks Brother.

     "Schoolwork. From the beginning."

     Brother Charles is stumped and again the Prefect of Studies answers from the back of the classroom, "The class will pick up where it left off."

     The student adds, "Brother Salvio had given us a test that was to be counted on first quarter grades. Is that still true?"

     "I . . . I don't know," and Brother Charles stutters to a stop.

     I'm elated. There is hope. Out with him. The more Brother Charles stutters, stops and sits mute, the more of a chance that he will not remain at the head of the class. But, from the back of the room Brother Prefect makes it known that it isn't too far into the first quarter. And grading would not be determined by one test. If the student who did well on the test sees him after class, it would be considered.

     There are more questions and answers between students and teacher, so the Prefect of Studies quietly leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

     It's all his. It's all Brother Charles' and we in the classroom look to our new teacher. We're all alone now. It's just him and us students. We look at him and he looks at us. Then he looks left and right. He looks from one side of the classroom to the other. Brother Charles looks and looks and looks. He's stuck again. We wait. Yep, he's stuck.

     Brother Charles sits before us and smiles. He sits and smiles and smiles and doesn't say one word. Not one word. It's like a stand off. A sit down. He looks at us. We look at him. And nobody says anything. An embarrassing quiet settles upon the classroom. One long minute goes by with not so much as a word being spoken. A change takes place upon the face of Brother Charles. Slowly his smile fades. Slowly his face turns pink. There is more silence. The silence is becoming heavier. Everyone is intent upon Brother Charles whose face now turns from a light pink to dark pink. His face is now in a full blown flush. He's stuck, and there is no Prefect of Studies sitting at the back of the class to help jump start him.

     Some brilliant day student saves the day and asks a question. Brother Charles immediately brightens with a smile and gives forth a lengthy discourse. That sets the tempo of the class.

     In the future, that is how we are to interact with our new teacher. When he sits stupidly, not saying a word. When he is stuck, not knowing what to do. We students are to ask a question. We students are to jump start him, and in that way he will respond. The pattern is set and continues for the rest of the day. It is question and answer. Question and answer. He said he was here to answer all questions and that is what he is doing.

     The next morning, class starts the same way. It is a repeat of the day before. Brother Charles will look at the class; left, right, front to rear, seeking a student with a question to be asked. He will scan the class for a hand raised. And slowly a student will rises his hand.

     "Yes?" Brother Charles says, giving permission to speak.

     And the student will ask a question and Brother Charles will obligingly answer. It is as if he were an automaton, a mechanical robot. The questions are spur of the moment; the answers worse. They make less sense than the questions. But there is no stopping Brother Charles once started. Once a question is asked, Brother Charles is good for five, ten minutes max. On a roll, even more. He talks and talks and talks. But he doesn't make any sense. There is no continuity to what he is saying, but the pattern is set.

     The next day and the next, it's more of the same. A student will ask a question. The teacher will answer. He will say something, anything. He will give a lengthy discourse, jumping from one subject matter to another. He will change from one thought process to another. There is no reasoning, no connection from the first line of thought to the next. The first response could be history. Brother Charles would wind down; Europe, America, and then into geography. There is no main subject. He is answering a question. The next day and the next, it is the same. Questions and answers. Questions and answers.

     I wait for the teacher to start on a subject and stay on that subject. I wait for him to lead us in reading, writing, exercises. Anything! But our new teacher doesn't know how to teach. From time to time he will lock up, and there he will sit. His face will turn red, and he will say nothing. He will look for a student, any student. Any student with a question. Does any student want a question answered? He's here to answer all questions.

     For some students, it has turned into a game. They will work Brother Charles. They will ask him phoney questions. Meaningless questions, knowing Brother Charles will answer. A brilliant student will ask a question, totally unrelated to what has been previously talked about. It doesn't matter. Brother Charles will brighten with a smile and will answer that student's question in an outpouring of words. It will be a non explanation, a jumping from one subject to another. And woe if no student's hand raises. Woe if there is no question to be asked. It is then that Brother Charles will sit, smile, and say nothing. And then an embarrassing silence will envelope the class. (He doesn't know how to teach. Shhhh!) And Brother's smile will fade from his face. A worried look will appear and he will blush.

     In frustration, I look to where the question originated. What student has kept this miserable charade going? Why do some students continue to ask these meaningless questions? Why not let the teacher sink in his own ignorance? Maliciously I want to time the silence. I want to watch Brother Charles go from happy benign smile, to worried look, to pink, to dark pink. I want to see him blush a deep red. I want to time him. There is something wrong with this teacher. He's incompetent. He can't teach. He only answer questions. I don't want any student to ask him a question. Let's see if he will he speak without prompting. Let's see it he will talk after three minutes of silence? Four minutes? Five? Ten? Nobody ask a question. Will he talk? Will he lead the class? Will this Brother of the Sacred Heart of Jesus teach without continuous input from the class? Can he ask a student a question? Can he design a format for the class that he can follow? Can he teach religion for forty-five minutes? And after that math for another forty-five minutes. We'll have a fifteen minutes recess and upon returning to the class, can he teach another subject for forty-five minutes. Can he do that day after day, progressing through subject material with a set format? Can he do that?

      But not all the students share my sentiments. They have a free ride and laze in their chairs. Homework is non existant. Sporadic. I'm miffed. This is the same Brother who called me Deuce. This is the Brother who talked down to me; he can't do his job.

     I watch some of the students are who are asking the questions. One bold day student (could have been Charboneau), he asks a question totally unrelated to the previous. As Brother Charles answers, the student looks on as if interested. But it's a false look, a blank look. It is a look that doesn't give a clue one way or the other if the student is following what is being said or not. He has done his part. He has asked a question. The student then quietly withdraws into a dream world. The question was asked to waste time. It was to pass the day. To daydream the days away. But there is a full year to go and you can't sit in class and daydream a full school year.

     Out in the yard, I talk with some of the students.

     "We're learning nothing," I tell them.

     "What can we do? He's the teacher." a student replies.

     "Tell Brother Oscar he doesn't know how to teach class."

     "We can't do that."

     "I know, but do you want to sit in class all day and learn nothing?"

     A couple of students who are nearby and listening in, laugh. It's a joke to them.

     "He can't fail all of us," one of those students says.

     The student is correct and that's why they're laughing. He can't fail the every student in class. That's why they're stringing the teacher along with meaningless questions and then they daydream and waste time. But they're right; when it comes time to take a test, he can't fail us.

     "He's right," says another student, "He can't flunk the whole class." And they laugh some more.

     So it's a joke. Brother Charles is a joke. To me, he's a moron, an imbecile. To some students, he's a big likeable, laughable, joke. The class is divided about fifty-fifty; those students who don't want to work, and who will obligingly sit in class all day to jack off the teacher. And then they will privately laugh amongst themselves at how smart they are. Then there are the students who want to learn something, buy are stymied by this new Brother at the head of the class.

 

     Early in class one morning, I raise my hand.

     "Yes?" Permission to speak given from Brother Charles.

     "What do we have to cover today?"

     "Today we're going to cover English, Math, and History."

     "Where in the book is that?"  I give no Brother this, Brother that. He is not my brother. He is the bastard who shouted at me, who put me down verbally.

     Brother Charles gives me some page numbers.

     I open my book and start reading. At first I sneak read a few paragraphs, then I'd look up to see what Brother Charles would be doing. He'd be answering a student's question and I'd go back to my reading.

     Some students took their cue from me and they opened their books and started to read. A few days went by. The students who found it difficult to sit in class all day and learn nothing became emboldened and started to read more openly.

     "Pay attention in class." Brother Charles warned, and there was a bustle of books being snapped shut and set aside.

     For the rest of the day I busied myself by rearranging my desk. As the hours would slowly drag by I would make a game of it by moving my books and pencils from one corner of the desk to the other. I'd move my pencil inch by inch. A little to the left. A little to the right. Then I'd look at it. I'd cant my head one way, then the other. Is the pencil in the exact middle of the groove upon the desk? Is the stenciling upon the pencil facing forward? Is it just right? Is it perfect? Nope. And I would move it a minuscule amount to one side or the other. Again I would eyeball it, cocking my head for different angles and perspectives. That done and looking for another chore to do, I would clean my desktop. Back and forth I would wipe with the palm of my hand. Then I would reposition my books, pencils, eraser, adjust my shirt, tighten my belt.

     And occasionally I'd take a look at how the class was progressing. I wanted to see how the jokers were getting along. I wanted to see their eyes glazed over. I wanted to see them mesmerized by the eloquence of the classroom discussion. Were they stupefied by the drone and jumble of words spoken by Brother Charles? No?

     One student in the isle row next to the blackboard, sat with his head resting in the palm of his hand. He had his elbow upon the desktop and his head tilted to his right. He had a look of question upon his face. It seemed idiotic, because he sat there with that same look of question upon his face for such a long time. It appeared that some Faeiry Princess had come upon the classroom and waved a magic wand over the student and it induced him into the effected position that he projected. There he sat frozen in time with a look of befuddlement upon his face.

     At that moment Brother Charles finished one of his monologues.

     I looked at the student. He wasn't aware that Brother Charles has finished one question and was waiting for a student to ask him another. Silence enveloped the class. Half the class was asleep. As the silence becomes apparent, the daydreaming student became aware. Immediately he raised his hand.

     "Yes?" questioned Brother Charles, and the student asked a question so totally unrelated to the previous question that there was no meaning, no continuity, no semblance of anything reasonable or fluid in his asking of the question. Nothing at all.

     Brother Charles immediately started on another monologue and the student promptly went back to what he was doing. Daydreaming!

     Okay. I took my cue from the day student. I placed my elbow upon my desktop and rested my head in the palm of my hand. But then I slid out a school textbook, opened it and started to read.

     Brother Charles didn't say anything at first, but as time passed he glared at me now and then. At one extremely long glare from Brother Charles and I closed my textbook and set it aside. Then I went back to the task of wiping off my desk, and reposition my books. I tried to busy myself so I won't fall asleep.

     A few of the other students who had reopened their textbooks shut them in a flash. To clear any misunderstanding of who was in charge in the classroom and what we students were to do, came the command from Brother, "Clear desks of all reading material!"

     It seemed this new teacher, not having much experience in day-to-day classroom activities, would get help from the other Brothers of Jesus. Hence, new classroom procedures usually came first thing at the start of the next day. Most likely after a thorough discussion between the Brothers the prior evening before. Perhaps Brother Charles complains, There is reading in class! and the tight knit community of Brothers gives their input. No reading! Pay attention in class! Clear desktops of all reading material!

     Within the first month, I start to ignore Brother Charles. I would look about the room. I would look from door, to desk, to clock, and then to the windows. I wouldn't slyly shift my eyes. I wouldn't try to hide. I was right out in the open.

     He would glare at me from time to time. At one of his longer glares, I pretended; Is he looking at me? I would pay no attention to him. I wouldn't recognize him. Maybe he is angry at someone near me. And I would make a show of looking about the class to see why Brother Charles had stopped talking. I would pretend amazement. As if; Is there a class is in progress? If so, where is the teacher? There should be a teacher. And again I'd make a show, scanning the front of the class, looking past Brother Charles, back and forth I my eyes would search for a qualified teacher. Is there a qualified teacher in the room? And Brother Charles' face reddened with anger.

     The class awoke.

     My brother Gilbert recognized what I was doing and became ecstatic. He tensioned with excitement and could barely contain himself in his seat. Gleefully he nodded his head up and down in approval for me to continue with what I was doing. 

     I dusted off my clothes with the back of my hand. Flicking the imaginary dust in the direction of Brother Charles.

     If his face had reddened, now it was a deeper red. A dark red. Brother looked like he was about to burst.

     "Mr. Faria! Come to the front of the class!" he almost shouted the words.

     Mr. Faria? There are two Faria's in this room. Whom do you want? Gilbert or David? We're brothers. Don't you remember? They're brothers, aren't they? So now in this scenario, my position is: who would you like? David or Gilbert? Gilbert or David? And I turned in my seat and looked at Gilbert. Then turning once more, I faced front and looked at Brother Charles to await clarification. Which one? Gilbert or David?

     Brother Charles decided to out wait me, and stared me down. Not to be outdone by the moron, I pointed to my chest and silently mouthed the word: Me? And I put on an innocent face.

     "Yessss, You! . . . Mr. Faria! . . . Come to the front of the class!"

     I slowly got up and ambled to the front of the class.

     "And . . . Stand . . . Right . . . Over . . . There! . . . Further . . . From me . . . Pleeease!" . . . I don't want you near me!"

     Each word, each enunciation, he said haltingly. Almost as if he was having some difficulty in speaking. But clearly, he said the words with all the sarcasm he could muster. He doesn't want to be near me? Good! I don't want to be near him. I don't want to be in this bastard school. I don't want to be in this stupid class. He doesn't even know how to teach class. And yet, he wants me to listen to his stupidities eight hours a day. He doesn't want me near him!? I want out of this miserable class, this miserable school.

     And this is the same bastard Brother of Jesus, who, just weeks ago, in the rec hall, shouted in my face: Deuce! Deuce! Now he points to where I am to stand. And he doesn't want me near him? I'm forced here by a bastard father. A bastard father in collusion with a bastard priest. And here I am, by the guilt of my father, and the anger of a mad bastard priest.

     He doesn't want me near him! This moronic bastard piece of Jesuit crap. So, I brush off my shirt once again, flicking the back of my hand to where he is seated. Five minutes pass and I brush off my clothes, hitch up my pants, and sneer.

     "I've taken about enough of you," Brother Charles says. He gets up from his desk and walks past me angrily. He goes to the door and flings it open. The door swings on its hinges. Hits the wall with a bang, and ever so slowly, moves back and manages to click latch shut again.

     Brother Charles is oblivious to the door that he opened, closing.

     He walks to me, grabs me by the nape of my neck and yanks me toward the door. I try to twist out of his grip by swinging my head downward and away from him. His hand slips from my neck and clutches my shirt collar. With his other hand, he grabs behind me, clamps his hand on my belt and hoists me up. I fall forward and put out my hands in an attempt to cushion my fall to the floor.

     Bastard Brother Charles yanks me up again using more force. He pull drags me toward the doorway swinging me toward the front of the room. And then he kicks at the now closed door with his foot. It had latched. With one hand, he lets go, grabs the doorknob, twists and kicks the door open again. He grabs me again; one hand holding me by my shirt collar and his other hand holding me from behind by my belt. I twist and turn trying to break his hold knowing he is going to throw me out of the room, bodily. Unable to break his hold on me, I reach out and try to grasp the door frame. I clutch at it with my fingertips, but it slips my grasp.

     Forcefully Brother yanks me backward and jerks me off my feet. Again I fall forward. Brother Charles has me by the back of my shirt collar and the back of my belt. He is holding me like some duffel bag, sack of potatoes, some portage. Then he swings me slightly forward and then back. In a pendulum motion he throws me out of the room. It is a two hundred pound man angrily throwing a one hundred pound sack out a doorway into the wall some ten feet away.

     I hurtle from out of the doorway and fly over the length of the hallway floor. I hit low on the opposite wall, about one foot off the floor. I had blocked most of the impact with both my forearms folded before me, over my head, protecting it. I hit the wall and I crumpled to the floor. Stunned!

     The impact sent shock waves down the hall.

     Crumpled on the floor I tried to clear my head. I looked up and at the same time, heard doors unlatching. Brass knobs turning. From the floor where I lay, I looked down the darkened hallway and saw a dreamlike sequence of black robed religious Brothers. One by one they opened their classroom doors and peered into the corridor to see what had broken the quietness of the morning classes. Eerily, with no words spoken, I viewed the doors open; one by one, as if in some magical sequence, from opened doorways black robed Brothers did emerge, turn, look, turn again, and re-entered their rooms. It is like some clockwork upon a Gothic tower. A Germanic mechanical presentation. A robotic exhibition, complete with door latches clicking, twisting, cogs turning, blocking, and catching. Then silent dummies emerged, turned, bowed, hit a gong, and semi-quietly they withdrew. Turning, and going back into their rooms from whence they came. Not a word being spoken. Not an expression on their passive faces did they let escape. It was as if the dead appeared, looked, and seeing a downed boy upon their floor with one of their own standing above him in triumph--and all was in order--so they left. They would talk about it over lunch.