Authors: Tom Spanbauer
Then all at once, Joe and I were standing in our winter coats, holding our lunch pails in front of a white house, tall and old, with a turret
like a castle. The iron gate at the entrance made an
Inner Sanctum
sound, and the many shrubs around the house made walking into the house dark.
Then we were inside the old white house, and under a big bright chandelier stood an old woman, Scardino's mother, dressed in a long black dress, most of her hair up in a bun and lots of it flying about her face. She was tall and old like the house, but slumped over, and she rubbed her hands together as if they were cold, and her nose was hooked. I remember I didn't look at her when she said hello to me, just ran up the stairs after Scardino into the room with the turret, which was his bedroom.
But I didn't mention the most important thing.
The smell in the house.
The house smelled like the plate of spaghetti and meatballs Mrs. Scardino put in front of me at suppertime. The house smelled of the grated Parmesan cheese Mrs. Scardino dumped on my spaghetti and meatballs from a silver bowl with a little silver spoon.
Mom was so pretty and young with her red lipstick and rhinestone earrings and her gray tweed winter coat standing under the chandelier. She was polite and smiled like she does with people she doesn't know. I ran to my mother and put my hand inside her hand. Inside my stomach, down low, I felt warm and safe.
Your son didn't eat any of his supper, Mrs. Scardino said.
Mom's hand squeezed my hand tight. She was still smiling, but differnt. The red lipstick was on her teeth.
Why didn't you eat your supper? Mom asked.
Six years old. That's how old I was. Six years old, and I had never seen anything but our farm, Saint Joseph's Church, Saint Joseph's School, Montgomery Ward, S. H. Kress, J. C. Penney, and the Wyz Way Market. Six years old, and I'd only just learned about
v'
s and silent
e'
s
.
Didn't even know how to spell
rhinoceros
yet.
Why didn't I like my supper?
Because my supper smelled like farts, I said.
Maybe the next day. On the playground, near the incinerator, before the playground was blacktopped and it was still gravel, right next to the church on the side where Monsignor Cody's sacristy was. By the light pole with the guide wire coming down and stuck into the
gravel. Right there where the guide wire goes into the ground is where Joe Scardino doubled up his fist, drew his fist back, and hit me square in the mouth.
The way Scardino hit me knocked me back against the incinerator. I sat down or fell down. I remember I didn't cry until I put my hand to my lip and saw the blood.
But between the time Scardino hit me and before I saw the blood, I just sat there and stared straight ahead at the guide wire. How the guide wire went into the ground. And the gravel. Only my heart beating. My breath.
My life ahead of me.
And all the king's horses and all the king's men would never put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
After that day, I was convinced. The universe conspired to fuck me up. No doubt about it. God had it in for me. Every day, everywhere I looked, there was more proof. Spent most of my life thinking that way. But then Flaco and Acho came along, and Billie Cody and George Serano, and with all that's happened this summer I've come to see it isn't just the universe. All along I've had something to do with it too. Still, though, whether it's God or the universe or the universe that's inside you that fucks you up, either way, there don't seem like a whole lot you can do about it. Trying to change yourself is as hard as trying to change the universe. Maybe there's no differnce. The fact is, shit happens none of us plan on. And like Scardino, most of that shit ain't good. My advice is the same as the color orange in the cloakroom. You just got to keep looking.
The next time was in the fourth grade.
The spelling bee.
That morning, after we took off our coats and hats and hung them up in the cloakroom, after we sat down in our seats, our feet together, our hands folded on top of our desk, when the class was completely quiet at eight-thirty, Sister Barbara Ann got up from behind her desk, the sound of the big, long rosary hanging from her waist, beads against beads, and walked to the center of the room.
Children, Sister Barbara Ann said, today I have a surprise for you.
Sister Barbara Ann looked like all the rest of the nuns at Saint
Joseph's School. The only nun who looked differnt from the other nuns was Sister Eta, who we called Sister Teetha because of her long gray teeth, plus there was Sister Bertha who was so damn old.
The nuns, except for Sister Bertha, were all about the same height. Not any of them was fat. So all you really had to go on was the face. The face was all that was sticking out.
Their faces were all white faces, kind of milky white next to the starched white of their wimples, and their eyebrows that weren't plucked because they were married to Jesus.
Now that I look back on it, their eyes would've had to be differnt, but I don't know anyone who actually looked a nun straight in the eyes.
Not even our parents looked a nun straight in the eyes.
Not even Scardino.
Of all the Holy Cross nuns, the last one you wanted to look at straight on was Sister Barbara Ann. She was the principal, and the thing that made Sister Barbara Ann differnt, besides being the principal, was that Sister Barbara Ann loved spelling bees. At least once a week, even though it was time for arithmetic, that nun would get a glimmer in her eye, and she'd say
spelling bee!
the way most people say
chocolate fudge frosting.
Since I'd learned the
v
sound and the silent
e
back in the first grade, I'd been extra-good at spelling, almost as good as I was at running. Pretty much every spelling bee, if I wanted to, I could win hands down. The only problem was keeping my cool. For a while there I won so much, everybody in class started to hate me. Especially Scardino. So it got so after a while when I went to spell a word, I could feel how much everybody wanted me to lose, and I'd get that awful feeling in my arms that means I'm helpless, and look over at Scardino, and he'd be snarling his sharp tooth, and sure enough I'd make a mistake. Sometimes I made the mistake on purpose.
The day of this particular spelling bee, for some reason though, things were differnt. I don't know how. I guess it was one of those days when all you can do is say what the hell.
Sister Barbara Ann told the class that we were to stand alphabetically, beginning with the A's at the door, then all the way around the room to the Z's, Jo Ellen Zener, by the windows on the other side of the room.
The Saint Joseph's School and the Holy Cross nuns had a list of
spelling words. The list started out with 1-A words, which were real easy, like
it
and
and,
then went to 1-B words, which got a little harder, like
book
and
eat,
then 2-A and 2-B words â
have, love, eyes,
then harder and harder and so on, up to the 9-B words.
The last three words of the 9-B words were the hardest words ever. They were:
chandelier, rendezvous,
and
rhinoceros.
But there were some sneaky ones all the way through the list you had to look out for.
Mischievous, salmon, receive.
Rain, reign,
and
rein.
Thought, through, throughout, though, thorough.
The whole class stayed standing through the 5-A words. Ronald Wilson was the first to go down with a 5-B word,
early.
Then they started dropping like flies.
Rosemary Gosford went down, Stephanie Smith went down, Roger Waring went down. Vern Breck and Michael Muley went down.
Joe Scardino couldn't spell
excrement.
Not really. That's a joke.
The word Scardino misspelled was
granite.
Then
granite
was up to me.
From under his desk, Scardino gave me the finger.
But I couldn't help it. I had to get the silent
e.
G-r-a-n-i-t-e,
I spelled.
Pretty soon it was just me left standing. Sister Barbara Ann wanted to see how far I could go, so she kept giving me new words, and I kept spelling and spelling right through all the 8-B words.
Industrious
was the last of the 8-B words, and when I spelled it right, Sister Barbara Ann's milky white skin was splotched red under her chin, red coming up her cheeks. Then when I got the 9-A and 9-B words all spelled right, and then the last word,
rhinoceros,
and I spelled
rhinoceros
right with the silent
h
and no
u
in the
ros
part, Sister Barbara Ann went into a conniption fit and started walking around in circles, saying I was a child genius and making the sign of the cross, saying Jesus, Mary, and Joseph over and over and over.
Scardino gave me the finger with both hands.
Your ass is grass is what Scardino's lips enunciated out of his mouth without speaking.
After the spelling bee was over and after I'd won, I was supposed to feel good, I guess, but I didn't feel good. I felt like I was a big showoff, plus it made me really stick out.
At recess, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joe Scardino, Vern Breck, and Michael Muley come around from behind Monsignor Cody's garage.
I was standing by the incinerator, next to the guide wire, out on the playground, on the blacktop, waiting for Sister Barbara Ann to ring the ten bells so we could go back inside.
It was spring. I remember the trees were just starting to get green â that new green that looks like lime Popsicles.
And lilacs. The lilac bushes along the side of the school. The lilac smell I remember and the wind blowing summer vacation all through the May morning.
The way Scardino and those guys walked, I knew they were walking right to me.
There was nowhere to go. Nothing around me, just summer air and open playground.
So I just stood.
If it was a movie, the camera would go spinning around and around me.
I said my favorite aspiration: Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on my soul.
Joe Scardino walked up close.
It was spring all right because Joe wasn't wearing a coat, and his white short-sleeve shirt was rolled up high on his big arms.
You should wear green on Thursdays, Scardino says to me, because you're so fucking queer.
Then he just hauls off.
I can still see the toe of his black leather boot headed right for my crotch. I jumped back, mostly just threw my hips back, but it was too late.
There were kids all around playing, but no one seemed to notice me down on my knees. No one noticed I was turning green.
What I mean to say is nowhere was there help.
If I told on him, Scardino would find another way to get me.
What would Jesus do? Where was Sis?
There I was, just me and my bent-over shadow on the playground pavement.
So what do I do? I make the sign of the cross and say a prayer for Scardino's soul. He was going to hell for sure.
I managed to get to Monsignor Cody's gray stucco garage wall before I went down all the way.
In my ears the school bell. Even though I couldn't see her, I knew Sister Barbara Ann was standing like always in the middle of the playground, next to the incinerator, next to the guide wire, her right arm lifted, the bell above her head. The ten rings of the bell.
Just like every other day, all the kids stopped what they were doing, stood up straight, put their arms to their sides. Then they turned and walked into Saint Joseph's School. No one talked. You weren't supposed to talk. Girls in one line, boys in another.
The morning sun was hot against the gray stucco. I put my face into the sun. The sun on my closed eyelids made everything inside red.
That's when my eyes felt a shadow.
I opened my eyes, but all I could see was sun and somebody between me and the sun.
Rig? You OK?
I knew the voice.
His real name was Allen, but he always threw up in class, three times already that year. So we called him Puke.
Puke Price.
Puke's shoulders were high up, and his hands were in his pockets. His lopsided glasses held together with tape in the middle.
Puke stuck out his hand. The morning sun on his open palm made his whole hand glow.
Jeez, Rig, Puke said, Scardino nailed you square.
Puke squatted down on his knees, his hand still out in the sun.
Jesus would have reached out and put his hand inside Puke Price's hand, but I just couldn't take Puke's hand.
He was Puke Price, and he threw up all the time, and his skin was dry and flaky. He had bad breath. He made radios for a hobby.
If I took his hand, I'd be like him.
Forget it. Never in a million years.
So I just lay there holding my nuts.
Get away from me, Price, I said. Leave me alone.
Go puke on something.
My ball sack swoll up. I was black and blue down there for weeks. But I never told anyone.
Said I just hurt my knee.
I mean, who would I tell?
Please excuse me for being late for class, Sister Barbara Ann, but I had to wait for my nuts to drop back down from my throat.
Excuse me, Dad, Joe Scardino kicked me in the balls, and I'm afraid I might be hemorrhaging internally, would you please help me?
Mom, could you please take a look at my balls to see if they are ever going to go back to their normal size again?
Uh, Sis? I've got a problem with my balls. They're purple. Could you give me a hand?
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I made some Italian creep so mad he kicked my balls black and blue.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Shit.
That's exactly it.
I didn't ask for help because I thought there was something wrong with
me.