Works and Days

Our Lady of the Sacred Marlboro

Conclusion

“I’m wearing my girlfriend’s underwear!” Jack Keegan announced.

It was not true to say that Russell and Gilead were outcast or friendless. Their frequent exiles were more self imposed than they knew. Between Russell and Gilead was a crew of mostly sophomores, like Jeremy Rusk, Andy Toms, Ari Appledore, Adam Hower and Michael Pendamn. Jack Keegan was the one nobody really liked and no one could shake. This day, Russell and Gilead were unable to shake him. So they tolerated him in the chapel.

They were near the end of lunch and Jack Keegan was saying, “Russell, we’ve got gym class! We’ve got gym class!”

Russell was paying no attention to Jack Keegan. He was looking from the statue of Saint Joseph, to the statue of Mary, both of Jesus’ parents standing thin and serene over a preborn galaxy of unlit votives when Russell started to laugh.

“What, Lewis!” Gilead demanded.

“Wouldn’t it—?” Russell started and stopped himself with his own laughing. “Wouldn’t it—?” Russell pointed to Mary and kept laughing.

“What, Lewis?”

And then Russell told him, and Gilead laughed too.

 

The next day Father Wallshing came into the chapel to find the Blessed Virgin calmly smiling from under the visor of a cheap ten gallon cowboy hat. A bandanna was about her throat and her hands calmly offered benediction and a cigarette.

Beneath unlit votives, the miracle was boldly displayed by red letters painted in cardboard:

 

OUR LADY OF THE SACRED MARLBORO

News of the apparition flew about the school before day’s end, secret as it was supposed to have been. In truth, few people actually saw Our Lady of the Sacred Marlboro, but the mere mention of her story flew about the school, and the boys of Our Lady of Mercy were in awe of whoever the hell had dared to desecrate the Virgin.

Among the upperclassmen, Mark Young walked around with his hands in his red cardigan, shaking his handsome brunette head and chuckling. Chayne’s cousin, Curtis Brown, took a pool out on who had desecrated the Virgin, and Nick Ballantine commented, “How many more statues have to die!”

Dean Mercer was demanding the head of whoever or whomever had done this, threatening them with immediate suspension. It was widely believed that in his past life Patrick Mercer had been Henry the Eighth, and he was, in his current incarnation as dean of a Catholic boy’s high school, a frustrated potentate.

Russell was in the middle of a geography quiz when Todd Secrest came to the door. He was sophomore class president, probable future valedictorian, incredibly attractive, and goddamnit, even unfailingly kind. Today he was serving as office aid to the Dean.

“Mr. Cordino?”

Russell’s teacher acknowledged Todd.

“The Dean wants to see Russell Lewis.”

Jeff shared a glance with his pupil, then said, “When he’s finished with his quiz it will be my pleasure.”

Russell was certain that “the jig was up” and after answering that Mahatma Gandhi’s making salt had been such a great deal because the British Empire had passed a law that Indians could only buy salt from the English, he stood up and made his way toward Todd who smiled apologetically. They went down the hall, downstairs, past the statue of Our Lady of Fatima bestowing blessing on a mother of pearl cloud to the three Fatima children, and into the velvet mouth of the main offices.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Todd said with a heartening smile, and for a second Russell was sorry that they weren’t friends. The two of them had never had a class together. There had never been a need for them to be friends or even meet each other until now.

When Russell stepped into Dean Mercer’s office and saw Gilead sitting, impeccably dressed in beige and tan, he knew the jig was up.

“I’ve been informed that you all are responsible for the prank pulled on the fourth floor.”

“Prank?” Gilead looked as vapid as a Black person could be bothered to look.

“You know exactly what I mean,” the Dean’s voice was chiding.

 “Russell, is it true that you all made a mockery of the statue of the Blessed Virgin on the fourth floor?”

“Who told you we did?” Russell asked.

“So you admit it?”

“I think you mistake my friend,” this from Gilead. “He didn’t admit a thing. He asked who said this to you?”

“I’m sorry boys,” the Dean sat back and drummed his fingertips on the desk. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Well then neither will I tell you from whence the Son of Man gains his power!” answered Gilead.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Gilead smiled ruefully, “I should have known biblical references would be lost on you.”

They were not really afraid of anything happening to them, so the boys only played with Dean Mercer for a few minutes before confessing to the stunt.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to call your parents,” Dean Mercer said in a sympathetic voice that neither Russell nor Gilead bought. “I know you probably don’t want them to know,” the Dean went on, “but this can’t be avoided. Gilead, let me call your mother. Your home phone number—” he said, reaching for the directory.

Gilead rattled it off.

Not quite trusting the boy, Dean Mercer looked it up anyway.

“No, Gilead,” he said, like a game show host telling a player he’d lost, “I’m afraid that’s not it.”

“You’ve got our home phone number,” Gilead told Dean Mercer. “But my mother works for a living. I just gave you where she works.”

 

“This—” Mrs. Story declared, “is some bullshit!”

“Mrs. Story, that isn’t necessary,” Dean Mercer said in a voice intended to sooth.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t necessary,” said Mrs. Story. “Calling me from work for this bullshit. That isn’t necessary.”

She reached into her purse for a cigarette, remembered where she was, and settled on a stick of gum instead, which she handed to her son. On Gilead’s right were Thom and Patti Lewis. Thom covered his mouth to hide the fact that he was laughing, while Patricia ducked her head into her shoulder and pulled strands of gold brown hair over her face to hide her mirth.

It wasn’t working.

Russell’s parents didn’t know what was funnier, Saint Mary’s latest incarnation or Mrs. Story.

“Russell, haven’t you learned anything about tampering with Virgins?” his dad demanded through a chuckle.

Russell, for his part, was relieved.

“I don’t think any of you understands the seriousness of this situation,” Dean Mercer went on, while Patti threw back her head, caught Thom’s hand and roared out a laugh that sounded like, “Marlboro!”

“And may I say—” the Dean continued valiantly. “that I understand where these boys get their lack of respect from.”

The parents were silent. Mrs. Story cut her eyes at Dean Mercer and warned him: “You’re almost out of place.”

The Lewises finally broke into gales of outright laughter, and Thom, reaching into his side pocket, brandished a pack of Marlboro Reds and said, “At last, I do have something in common with the Mother of God!” while Patti took the cigarette from her husband, and Sharonda Story took one out too.

Now Dean Mercer was outraged.

“This,” he proclaimed, “will result in immediate suspension for your boys.”

And there was an immediate suspension of all laughter in the Dean’s office.

 

“Good news,” Mr. Cordino told him after class on Russell’s first day back, “your last score was one hundred, and I decided that while you were gone I’d just triple your scores for the quizzes you missed.”

“I ought to get suspended more often.”

“Don’t you even think about it, Russ,” Jeff Cordino smacked the boy lightly on the top of his head.

 

“So, Russell honey,” Jason Lorry said, batting his eyelids and flipping his wrist, “how’s it feel to come back?”

“Yeah, I heard the Dean nailed you and Gilead’s asses to the wall,” Ralph Balusik said triumphantly, as he stuffed the last of the bagel he was cramming into his mouth between classes.

“I heard,” Ralph began, then he stopped, still chewing. Mouth full, he continued, “I heard—”

“Next time,” Gilead’s voice cut across the hall, surprising them all, “you should remove Jason’s dick before speaking.”

Then Gilead turned his back and headed toward his Latin class.

“I was just gonna say—”

“Save it. Ralph,” Russell closed his locker. “I gotta go to class too.”

 

There were a few boys who openly jeered at Russell, but Gilead pointed out that these were all assholes, and Russell was rather pleased at learning what his little stunt had done for the popularity he’d always though he never cared about.

The bathroom was full between second and third period, the smell of an illicit cigarette or two hit his nostrils as Russell went up to the urinal. Beside him, Chuck Murray was engaged in his favorite activity—bothering other people. Currently this activity manifested itself in shaking Jeremy Rusk at a urinal while he tried to take a piss.

Things had more or less hushed with Russell’s entrance when Gilead came in, wild eyed and roared, “WHERE THE HELL IS HE?”

Well then faces blenched and things really got quiet.

“Hey, Gilead!” and there were a few “What’s up, man?”s that Gilead ignored, pushing through people around him, now searching the doorless bathroom stalls until he lunged into the last one, and everyone heard a pitiful yelp followed by, “Gilead, man! What the—!”

When Russell, amid the others, came to investigate after washing his hands, he saw Gilead holding Jack Keegan aloft, the white boy’s scrawny throat against the wall, his legs with the trousers falling off dangling over the toilet.

“You—little—shit.” Gilead pronounced every syllable with care. “Did you or did you not go to Dean Mercer and tell him that we’d done it?”

“Done what—r? Ow!”

Gilead slammed him into the tiles again.

“Gilead, brother,” started Chuck Murray.

“Now should I start over again?” Gilead asked politely.

“I, I…” Jack Keegan winced in anticipation of more pain, “I might have.”

“Oh?” Slam-slam.

“I did!”

SLAM.

“Gilead!” Now Andy Thoms came forward. He was a curly haired, amateur magician everyone had a deal of respect for, and along with Ari Appledore and Adam Hower, he made up Keegan’s group of reluctant friends. They didn’t like him, but they’d grown up together, and their parents were all good friends.

“Gilead, please let him go.”

Gilead liked Andy, so he shrugged, said, “Okay,” and immediately Keegan crashed—painfully—to the toilet bowl.

“I’m too scared to shit now,” Keegan complained.

“Well, I can scare the shit back out of you?” Gilead offered making for Keegan with such a sweep of the hand that the boy screamed.

“Take him,” Gilead said to Andy, turning from the stall and Jack Keegan.

In exasperation, Andy nodded and told Keegan to pull his pants up.

“Sorry, Gil.” Andy apologized, then added, “And sorry, Russell.”

He, Adam and Ari surrounded the boy and took him away while Jack Keegan murmured, “I didn’t get to wash my hands.”

“Oh, by the way, Keegan,” Gilead said as his friends were taking him from the bathroom, “It’s on.”

Then Russell did something he’d never done, he deliberately called attention to himself.  “Keegan?”

The boy turned to Russell.

“That counts for me too.”

Keegan’s eyes bulged, and his friends led him out of the lavatory.

Russell was on his way out of the bathroom when Bobby Reyes said, “Russell, what you doing on Friday night?”

“Uh…?” Russell had always been able to come up with some excuse anytime someone had asked that. He didn’t know if he detested parties or feared them.

“You and Gilead?” Bobby continued. “I’ve been trying to get Gilead to leave his hole and he never does. How bout the two of you come with us Friday night?”

Russell heard someone say, “A’right,” in a strangled voice and realized it had been himself.

If the color could have drained from Gilead Story’s face it would have. Now he had to go out too.

After Bobby and his friends had left, Russell turned to Gilead.

“Well now, I suppose we’re officially popular. We’re partying with Bobby Reyes.”

“What made you say yes?” Gilead sounded just a little perturbed.

“I wasn’t able to phrase no,” Russell said, amazed. “I wasn’t.”

“I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself,” Gilead confessed to his new friend. “I’ve been a nerd for so long—”

“You?”

“Yes!” Gilead hissed. “And I’m not sure that partying is my forte.”

“Oh, it’s a great idea,” Chayne said.

“I am terrified to go to this party,” Russell declared. “And I think Gilead is too.”

“Yes, yes,” Chayne agreed. “And that’s why you must!”          

 

That morning when Russell woke, he opened his bedroom door and walked out into the hallway of the second floor of Our Lady of Mercy. The Blessed Virgin, all white and plaster, was riding a ceramic cow, and she had just lassoed Jason Lorry. Behind her came Dean Mercer dressed as Henry the Eighth, followed by Jeff Cordino in black hose and cape, a giant red feather hanging from his hat. The cow tipped over as Mary hopped off and, like a Russian doll, the cow opened to open to open to reveal smaller and smaller cows until the last cow opened to reveal a little wind up car, like the ones he’d found in Happy Meals as a child, only with Ralph Balusik’s head in it instead of Hamburgler’s. Russell stepped forward now, picked up the little wind up car and said, “Screw in a lightbulb, bitch.”

As he twisted the key on the back of the car, it spurted off going faster and faster, growing larger and larger until it was D.L. Lorris’s station wagon, and Aaron Loft was hanging out of the back of it. Mrs. Story came down the hall smoking a cigarette and saying, “This is bullshit, this is just some ole bullshit!”

 Suddenly. Russell had to piss. We whipped out his stiff dick and peed and peed on the floor. It was an aching piss, like he was opening up.

And then he woke up.

The sky was the sort of six a.m. grey that comes in March, and Russell was afraid he’d wet his bed. Then he touched the place in the bed and felt between his legs where it was more like mucus than anything else, but wholly different. He knew what it was. He’d heard about it, and known it should have happened long ago, that he really was what some called “a late bloomer”. Quietly, Russell went to wash off and change his shorts, not knowing how to describe what he felt. Relieved? Happy? Both. He’d been wondering if he would ever grow up, and now he knew he would.