Henry of Atlantic City Page 14

  Henry asked if they knew where his father was.

  Sy’s sister shook her head.

  Henry asked Helena if she knew where her mother and Sy were.

  Helena shook her head and then bent down and nuzzled the baby as if she had hardly heard what Henry had asked.

  He asked if they were ever coming back.

  Sy’s sister pulled Henry up close and said, “Try not to think about it too much, okay, Henry? Let’s just say they’re underground.”

  Henry remembered what the emperor had said and asked if his father had a new job at the Palace.

  “Not likely,” Sy’s sister said.

  He asked if they were dead.

  Sy’s sister held him by the shoulders and looked at him for a long time. “These are questions that you’ll have to save for later, Henry. Much later. For now, you should try not to think too much about it.”

  They were all quiet for a while. Then Helena said, “Saint Jude’s is a really nice place, Henry.”

  Henry said the strong who are held in high regard are great people and the weak who are despised are the obscure.

  Helena put the baby back down on her lap. “What’s that mean?” she asked.

  “You don’t have to explain,” Sy’s sister said. “I heard you loud and clear.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to be sad, Henry. We are all very proud of you.”

  Helena tickled her baby under its chin and it began to make a gurgling sound. Then she unbuttoned the front of her blouse and lifted out one of her breasts. She guided the nipple into the baby’s mouth. Henry tried not to look but he couldn’t help seeing that her nipple was big and brown. She held it between her fingers the way people held cigarettes. When the baby was attached she looked up.

  Helena and Sy’s sister stayed until the baby finished eating. Then they both hugged and kissed Henry and told him that they would come back again to visit him soon. When they were gone Henry went outside to look for Mr. Miller. He found him at the basketball court watching Otis Redding and Jim Morrison playing one-on-one. Mr. Miller was wearing high-tops, which meant he was going to play the winner. Henry gave Mr. Miller The Baseball Book of Records because personal property wasn’t allowed at Saint Jude’s.

  Mr. Miller looked at the book. “Thanks, Henry. We’ll put it in the library and you can look at it anytime you want to.”

  Then Henry said he didn’t want to see any more visitors.

  Mr. Miller closed the book. “What do you mean, Henry?”

  Henry said he didn’t want to see anyone else who came to see him.

  “What happened?” Mr. Miller put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Henry watched Jim Morrison do a layup.

  “C’mon,” Mr. Miller said. “Let’s play some ball.”

  Later Henry was raking leaves outside the dorm. His team was assigned to yard detail. When a team was assigned a place to work Mr. Miller got out an old army hat and wrote each job on a piece of paper and the members of the team drew to see what job they got. Henry got raking.

  Mr. Miller stood behind Henry and watched him rake. He was always standing around and asking questions or telling everyone what to do or asking if he could play too. Henry had heard Howlin’ Wolf say Mr. Miller was a loser because anyone who came back to Saint Jude’s after getting out had to be. He didn’t even have a car and had to take the bus when he got his day off.

  “Good job, Henry,” Mr. Miller said.

  Henry didn’t look up or say anything but just kept making long swipes with the rake that sent the leaves flying behind him. He was trying to imagine how anything could shed so much of itself and still be the same thing afterward. He asked Mr. Miller if trees died when they dropped their leaves and then came back to life, or if they stayed alive all winter without them.

  “Good question, Henry. They stay alive but go dormant, sort of like animals that hibernate.”

  Henry raked and said nothing.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, Henry?”

  Henry kept raking.

  “Why’d you let that gorilla out of the cage?”

  Henry backed into the pile of leaves behind him and stood in it and kept raking. He didn’t want to talk about Big Nekkid. At night sometimes Henry thought about Big Nekkid. He was sorry Big Nekkid had been killed. But he wasn’t sorry he had freed her. Freeing Big Nekkid had been a good deed, like the story Father John had told the other day about Jesus bringing Lazarus back from the dead. Letting Big Nekkid go was like releasing her from captivity and saints knew a lot about captivity because they were captives too. They were captives of their sainthood and that meant they didn’t have any choice but to do good deeds. They were called to them.

  Mr. Miller moved out of the way of the flying leaves. “Why’d you do it, Henry?”

  Henry said because he had to.

  “You had to?”

  Henry said he wanted to too.

  “Are you sorry?”

  Henry said nothing.

  “I have to know, Henry,” Mr. Miller said. He stood at the edge of Henry’s leaf pile. “I’m trying to help.”

  Henry raked.

  “Just tell me you’re sorry. Are you?”

  Henry said no. He stopped raking and looked around at the job he’d done. The raked grass looked like a big scar.

  “Would you explain why you’re not sorry?”

  Henry said because he wasn’t.

  “Even though what you did led to the death of an innocent animal? How can you say you’re not sorry for what you did?”

  Henry said why should he be? Jesus wasn’t sorry for raising Lazarus up from the dead.

  “Henry, drop the rake. I want you to explain.”

  Henry asked if bringing someone back to life was a good deed.

  “It wasn’t just a good deed, Henry. It was a miracle.”

  Henry said well, Jesus didn’t say he was sorry.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Lazarus was four days in the tomb. Did Jesus say he was sorry when Lazarus died a second time all over again?

  Mr. Miller just stood there for a minute. “Don’t forget to do under the bushes,” he said and walked across the newly raked lawn toward the rectory.

  Henry sat in Father Rogan’s office listening to the two priests talk.

  “It’s just a routine procedure,” Father Rogan said. “Custody has to be worked out in court. But if they start anything fancy or try to impugn the reputation of this institution, I’ll wash my hands of the whole thing.”

  Father Crowley said, “Of course. I agree with you completely.” Then he turned to Henry. “I hear you had some visitors yesterday! How did it go?”

  Henry said fine.

  Father Crowley arched his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe him. “We can talk about it later.”

  “Father Crowley has managed to find you a benefactor, son,” Father Rogan said. He crossed his arms and clasped his elbows and leaned forward so his bald head and shoulders became like a shadow cast across the desk.

  “Do you remember Mrs. Fontane?” Father Crowley asked. “We visited her in the hospital. Remember?”

  Henry nodded.

  “Well, Mrs. Fontane has offered to sponsor you here at Saint Jude’s, and Father Rogan has agreed to accept that arrangement. It means you can stay here as a regular student.”

  Father Rogan nodded his head. “It’s not the way we usually do things.” He leaned back in his chair. “But I have decided to make an exception in your case.”

  “There are still some things that need to be ironed out,” Father Crowley said. “But don’t worry. Between Father Rogan and myself, you have some pretty solid support.” Then he leaned toward Henry. “You don’t look too happy, Henry. Is there something you’d like to say?”

  Henry said he wanted his books back.

  “Is that all you can think of? Do you have any idea of the time and the effort that the people have been expending on your behalf?”

  Henry said t
hey are lowly indeed compared to the perfect glory.

  “The rules that apply to the others also apply to you,” Father Rogan said. “No personal property of any kind is permitted. Everyone shares alike, and nobody does without.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon some people are coming to interview you,” Father Crowley said. “Their decision will depend on how well you cooperate.”

  “That is exactly correct,” Father Rogan said. “Ask the Lord for guidance.”

  Father Crowley nodded in agreement. “And hold your tongue, son. Don’t try to be smart. It’ll only spoil things.”

  “That’s enough for now,” Father Rogan said. “Run along. We have other business to discuss.”

  Father Crowley made the sign of the cross over Henry and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s a good boy, Henry.”

  On Fridays after dinner Saint Jude’s divided up into two teams that were like the factions in the Hippodrome except they weren’t called Blues and Greens, they were the Reds and the Whites. Instead of fighting about whether Jesus was human and divine or just divine or just human, they killed each other trying to capture the other team’s flag. Each team had a general and everyone wore a colored strip of cloth around his waist. You killed someone by pulling off his flag. When you were killed you were out of the game and had to go straight to the front steps of the chapel and stay there until the game was over. You weren’t allowed to say anything to anyone on the way even if you had been carrying the flag when you were killed. If you were carrying the other team’s flag when you were killed the person who killed you got the flag and it was their problem after that. The whole point of the game was to get the other team’s flag and deliver it to your general. Anyone caught fighting or doing anything stupid or dangerous—like climbing onto the roof of the dorm or hiding in one of the walk-in freezers in the kitchen—was thrown out of the game. It was the general’s job to make up the strategy. You had to obey his orders and if he suspected you of collaboration with the enemy he could have you shot.

  Otis Redding explained these rules to Henry on their way to meet the rest of the Red team. The dorm groups were mostly kept together but a few from their section played with the Whites. It was so the sides were even. There were seventy-four boys at Saint Jude’s so each team had thirty-seven players. Keith Moon and Elmore James played for the Whites. Otis Redding said it was okay because they weren’t such good players anyway. He said the best players were the crazy ones who would do crazy things. Field Marshal Rommel was the craziest and that’s why he was always chosen to be the Red general. The general for the Whites was Attila the Hun. He was crazy too but not as crazy as Rommel. The last two games had ended without any winner and when they got to their fort behind the gym Field Marshal Rommel was explaining the new strategy to everybody. “We’re going to use guerrilla tactics,” he said. “That should confuse the fuck out of them. If we can’t get the flag, at least we can wipe them out.”

  “The rules are that if nobody gets the flag, then it’s a tie,” Jimi Hendrix said.

  “Well, I say if we kill them all, we win,” Rommel said. “Fuck the flag.”

  “But that’s not the point of the game.”

  Rommel spat on the ground. “The way I see it, if we kill them all, it’s the same as winning. Ever hear of total war?”

  Field Marshal Rommel suddenly seemed as dangerous to Henry as Mr. Earl. He didn’t want to play. He tried to move out of the circle but just then the belts with the red flags came around. Otis Redding showed Henry how to tie the belt around his waist in a way that made it harder for the enemy to kill him. “Even though it’s called capture the flag,” he said, “the funnest part about it is trying to stay alive until the end.” He yanked Henry’s flag off his belt and held it up. “Getting killed is as easy as that. And once you’re dead, the fun’s over.”

  Rommel told everyone to shut up. He looked at his field watch. “Seventeen minutes to get into position,” he said.

  Otis Redding opened his hand and showed Henry a plug of chewing tobacco. He took it between two fingers and shoved it way back into his cheek. “You better keep quiet, dude. I’ll know who told if I get caught.” He smiled and it looked like he had an infected tooth.

  “Paint up,” Rommel said. A couple of guys with burnt corks went around making everybody’s face black. Otis Redding and some other guys took out red lipstick and went around making war marks on everyone’s face. Then Rommel pointed out across the lawn and spat some tobacco onto the ground. “Let’s waste ’em, dudes.”

  Otis Redding spat too and turned to Henry. “C’mon!” he said and tore off into the woods.

  There were no sieges and besieged or advances and retreats or emissaries and ambassadors or standoffs or lines in the sand or prisoners of war or forced marches. There was only in-bounds and out-of-bounds. Henry was put into a group of skirmishers. Their mission was to comb through the woods and engage the enemy whenever they found him and to make as much noise as possible when they got into a fight. As soon as they reached the woods the war began. Henry hid behind a tree and felt a flush of animal vigor overcome him. He was frightened for his life and at the same time he felt exhilarated at the possibility that he might lose it at any moment. The angel in his ear said something about fear underlying both the noblest and the most evil deeds of men, but he didn’t hear exactly because his heart was beating hard and blood was heating up his ears.

  Henry watched the way the other skirmishers ran from tree to tree and dove behind bushes and fallen logs. He stayed behind his tree and waited. He could hear voices and see shadows and shapes moving about. A great racket erupted from the direction of the dormitory and Henry saw three Whites chasing a Red across the lawn. They were yelling and their flags were streaming behind them. The Red they were chasing was John Lennon. He was shrieking but Henry couldn’t make out what he was trying to say and when they disappeared around the corner of the dorm there was a loud bang that sounded like the side door to the building slamming.

  Henry wanted to move but he didn’t know where to go. He wanted to spy on the battle from a safe place. His angel said without fear you are plunged deeper into darkness. To be without fear is to be without knowledge and only by knowledge can you enter the light.

  Somebody went psst and Henry looked but he didn’t see anybody. The person went psst again. It was Pigpen. He was squatting behind a bush about twenty feet from Henry. He pressed his finger to his lips and made a motion with his hand that meant Henry should stay where he was and be quiet. Then he pointed in the direction of a big pine tree. There was a White standing next to it. Henry guessed he was a sapper, which meant his job was to roam around looking for groups of Reds and when he saw them to sneak up and try to kill one—even if that meant sacrificing himself. A sapper’s job was only to harass.

  Pigpen raced to another tree and another and another until he was practically next to the enemy. The White didn’t move but just kept standing there like he was waiting for somebody. Suddenly Pigpen pounced. The White let out a yell and Pigpen tackled him. There was a flurry of hands and legs as each tried to kill the other. Then Pigpen stood up holding the flag he’d pulled and waved it over his head and in the face of his victim. Suddenly three Whites sprang out. Before Pigpen could even yell they had him down and pulled his flag. They let out a war cry that echoed through the woods and disappeared into the trees again.

  Henry didn’t move. Pigpen and the White he’d killed both started off toward the front steps of the chapel, where the dead gathered. They didn’t look in Henry’s direction. The rules were that you weren’t allowed to interfere in the game after you got killed. The dead weren’t allowed to acknowledge the living and the living weren’t allowed to acknowledge the dead. They were out of the game for good.

  Henry sat on the ground and leaned against the tree. The sun was setting and the shadows in the woods went from long to nothing. From where he sat on the ground, Henry could look up into the treetops and see the gathering blackness. The lights were com
ing on in the rectory and the other buildings. Fear closed around Henry and beat around his ears and muffled his thoughts. He didn’t know if he should keep moving or stay put to avoid getting killed. The angel in his ear repeated the part about light and fear and knowledge but Henry’s fear stayed and he slouched lower to the ground.

  A group of Whites burst from the woods and began to race across the lawn. They were followed by a group of Reds led by Elvis Presley, who was shouting and waving the flags of the Whites he’d killed. The Whites began to scatter in different directions. One by one they were brought down, and it was impossible to separate the howls of the victors from the laughing shrieks of the vanquished.

  Then it was over. The Reds, led by Elvis Presley, reassembled and began to return to the woods. The dead got up and brushed themselves off and made for the chapel steps. They talked among themselves and one or two swore loudly and flipped the bird at the Reds, who were tucking their trophies into their pockets. Then Mr. Miller appeared with his whistle around his neck. The dead gathered around him and some pointed into the woods. Henry couldn’t hear what they were telling him. Mr. Miller listened for a minute, nodding, then he sent the dead on their way and jogged off in the other direction.

  Henry was suddenly ashamed. Saints don’t cling to the forest floor in fear. They walk through the forest and talk to all the creatures that live there. He stood up and brushed himself off and glanced around. Then he began walking. But before he reached the edge of the woods he was brought down by three Whites, One had him by the neck, another knocked his legs out from underneath him, and the third yanked the flag from his belt and did a jig while waving it in Henry’s face.

  Henry said let me up.

  “You’re dead, man.”

  Henry said let me go.

  “We killed you, dude.”

  Henry said I’m not dead.

  “Like shit you’re not!”

  Henry said it’s only a game and I quit.

  The boys looked at each other and then at Henry. “We’ll show you a game you can’t quit, fuckhead.” They pulled Henry up and twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him farther into the woods. “Only babies quit,” the boy with the flag said.