Deja Vu In A Dream: A True Short Story Page 3

  The Brothers were strict disciplinarians in accomplishing their founder’s stated goal: to educate youth. I learned this immediately in the fourth grade when I met the Brothers because, if I failed to memorize the answers to the questions in my catechism, written entirely in French, I was sent to the principals office, instructed to hold out my hand, palm up, and received several whacks with the special fifteen-inch wooden ruler Brother Fulton had made famous. That hurt. Those stings from the ruler were far worse than the assaults of The Sisters of the Holy Cross.

  It was best for me to learn the answer to the first question in the catechism, “Ou et Dieu?” Which translates to, “Who is God.” The answer was “Dieu et mon creator.” God is my creator. At the time, at about eight years old, I would have agreed to anyone being my creator, including the kid who sat in front of me in class, just to avoid those whacks. I had to memorize the French answers to the catechism phonetically, because although my father was one-hundred percent French, my mother spoke only English, and I had not learned French at home. The teachers always translated before holding us accountable, but we still had to pronounce those nasally French words.

  The Brothers were very serious. They were clad in black robes, tightly clasped at the neck and sporting stiff, constraining collars that revealed a tab which stood out like a white Hitler mustache under their chins--a Roman collar, they called it--and they hung huge crucifixes from their necks which dangled down to the black rope they used for belts. Any disturbance by one of us in the class like talking “out of turn” could be reciprocated with a slap to the side of the head or a kick to the upper thighs. More serious discipline involved standing up before the class and getting slapped around and bounced off the blackboard. Whenever I saw other kids react to this abuse shamelessly, I swore that I would never give in to it, never duck and hide or squeal and whimper at the blows. I would maintain my dignity; shut up and take the punishment. Rough me up all you want, I thought, but you will not change my attitude.

  Everything at Sacred Heart Academy was regulated, even our playtime before classes. Only officially organized games were allowed in the schoolyard, and there was no place for games which might have been organized spontaneously, favorite games like tackle football on asphalt that invariably devolved into group wrestling, so, naturally, many of us found time to amuse ourselves without participating in the official dodgeball and baseball games, umpired by the Brothers. Of course, my friends and I had been toughened on sandlots and city streets, not on athletic fields where rules and umpires rein. We were not skilled athletes, and though an athlete may be tough enough to sneak a punch at one of us in a pile-up, he had better be tough enough in broad daylight to take a punch in the mouth in return--totally different warrior cultures in the world of kids. I hung out in schoolyard corners with my dysfunctional buddies inventing jokes, often expressing horror and disgust at the conformity and shameless behavior around us. Look at Todd Quidette, we’d groan, a kid who should be respected for his athletic prowess, yet running like a lapdog every time a teacher beckoned. You could almost see his tongue hanging out, salivating with servility. Todd was tough enough, except that he would leap to sharpen the teacher’s pencil. Not like our pal, Al, who, when ordered to sharpen a pencil said, “I don’t have to do that,” and took a beating for his opinion, starting with slaps to the head, followed by shoves and kicks until he was crawling on the floor up the aisle to get away. It was a bit humiliating for Al, but at least he refused to do the deed. The teachers always knew who to ask for such favors, so it must be that on that day, the teacher wanted to extend his mandate, or, he just felt like kicking ass. Meanwhile, we sympathized with Al’s predicament and agreed that Todd Quidette would have to wash his face every couple of hours to get the shit off his nose. “Probably recites, ‘Yes, Brother’ in his sleep,” we agreed. Compared to our stellar pal, Al, Todd Quidette was lower than whale shit, good grades and official kudos be damned.

  But, the Brothers ominously took notice of our mirthful loitering as, they figured, we conspired against decent society. We were the Troubled Boys on the far side of the Smart Kids, with a lot of unexceptional kids in between. Eventually, we would be dubbed, mockingly, “The Fearsome Five” by the new principal, plying his sense of humor over the school intercom. But my membership in the Fearsome Five was always in question because I was fundamentally a loner, and I had befriended a Smart Kid, namely Maurice, despite my buddies’ objections. Maurice had all the credentials of a Smart Kid, except that he was never known for kissing ass. He never got in trouble, earned exceptionally good grades, participated honorably in schoolyard sports and, otherwise, minded his own business. I found him interesting, and I spoke to him often. He told me, at the age of twelve, that he intended to become a doctor (which he eventually did). I could understand the extravagant emotions of my buddies in the Fearsome Five--even shared their cynicism--yet I never gave up trying to understand Maurice, whom I liked as much as any of my rebellious buddies. How could Maurice not get upset over our bald-faced subjugation, I wondered?

  I still don’t know--unless he was some kind of super-rational kid, unaffected by emotions, which I consider unlikely. But…I do not know.

  Meanwhile, the Brothers were so physical with their discipline that they sometimes crossed the line into criminal assault, for which they were never accountable, as far as I know. Maybe most of the students were like me; we knew that to report the crimes of our masters, we’d have to confess our own crimes, our frequent breaches of the rules, so we kept it to ourselves. I knew that if I complained to my father about a kick in the ass, his first question would be, “What did you do to get a kick in the ass?” which was a question I wouldn’t care to answer, even if my crime was as innocuous as chewing gum in class.

  “You know you’re not supposed to do that,” he’d probably say, “Those are the rules.” And, I’d be at a loss for an answer.

  Before long, though, I was a witness to a criminal assault by a Brother of the Sacred Heart. Our schoolyard was strictly governed by the Brothers’ regime. All conversation and activity was mandated to cease at the sound of a whistle from one of the Brothers; and, standing orders obligated us to freeze in our tracks until a second whistle blew, whereupon we formed ranks in total silence to march to the school a half block away. My youngest brother, Jimmy, one day brought a rubber ball to school and began an unauthorized game of catch with my middle brother, Ray. One of the Brothers of the Sacred Heart, named Paul after the famous Apostle of Jesus who founded the Roman Catholic Church, stepped between my two brothers and demanded they give him the illicit ball.

  Brother Paul was a bit of a fruitcake, known among students for elaborate and effeminate nose-blowing, with frequent flourishes of his hanky. He kept a glass of water on his desk covered with a three-by-five card to stave off the dust and unpleasant microbes undoubtedly lurking in the unfiltered air. He was also famous for requiring all his students to use “flat writing,” handwriting which involved going back to the base line after forming each letter. Papers written in “flat writing” were easily identified by the incredible length of each word--one word could take up three-quarters of the width of the paper, each letter separated by a long journey of the pencil tip. It looked weird but very neat.

  Brother Paul was the inventor of the gigantic, bright red bow-tie, twenty inches wide, designed to humiliate students who neglected to come to school wearing a necktie (Imagine a grown man, committed to God’s work, sitting in his room in his spare time framing this tie with coat hangers and covering it with fabric, needle and thread in hand. Is this funny, or is it pathetic, or is it slightly malicious? Maybe, all of the above). Given my own neglect of keeping track of my ties, I was forced to wear this clownish tie more than once, and actually, I kind of enjoyed the attention it brought me; if I was inclined to make a face or a joke, nobody missed it, and it generated some fun, which was sorely absent in the school.

  Anyway--by the age of eight, my youngest brother, Jimmy, had acquired an
intense devotion to property rights, having lived with two older brothers who might appropriate his toys at any moment except for the intervention of my parents, who invariably defended his rights. When Brother Paul held out his hand and demanded Jimmy’s ball, the little guy objected vociferously. He was a very volatile kid.

  “No! It’s my ball!”

  Brother Paul immediately charged toward Jimmy. “Give me that ball!”

  Threatened by a tall man in a black robe bearing down on him, Jimmy called out to his older brother and tossed the ball over the teacher’s shoulder to Ray. Brother Paul immediately pivoted, ordered Ray to give him the ball and charged.

  Ray panicked and tossed the ball back to Jimmy. Brother Paul pivoted again and found himself in what we used to call, in baseball, a pickle, with the ball going back and forth over his head, a situation which enraged him. As Jimmy tossed the ball back to Ray again, Brother Paul kept coming. He grabbed Jimmy by the collar, swung him around and shook him, and Jimmy exploded, just as the whistle blew signaling everyone in the schoolyard to freeze and be silent. Brother Paul scooped Jimmy off the ground and lifted him to carry him out of the schoolyard, but Jimmy screamed, kicking and flailing. Everyone--about three hundred boys and a half-dozen teachers froze, then turned toward Jimmy’s screams.

  “It’s my ball! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

  Jimmy went berserk, fighting and screaming like a wildcat.

  Order in the schoolyard collapsed into chaos as every kid broke his position to get a better view of the action, swarming toward Brother Paul as whistles from several Brothers screeched frantically without effect. Now--I was screaming too, “Leave him alone!” as I pulled on the back of Brother Paul’s robe while shouting and roaring students closed in from every direction. Apparently, many of these energized boys thought it their duty to defend Brother Paul from this craven attack, so a few of them pulled me away by the back of my shirt to get a front row view of the action. As I flailed my fists at them, they evaporated and I realized that they had very little interest in me; they wanted to see what Brother Paul would do as he struggled to carry Jimmy toward the school.

  Jimmy fought like a tiger, light as a feather but not harmless. He punched, he kicked and he wriggled, screaming all the while. Brother Paul lost his grip and dropped him to the ground twice before reaching the edge of the schoolyard at the center of a mob of shouting, crowding boys, whistles blowing out of breath. When he dropped him the third time, the struggle reached its denouement. The teacher scooped him off the ground, then tossed him against the back wall of a garage that bordered the schoolyard and pinned him with one hand against the wooden wall, Jimmy’s feet kicking high off the ground. With a balled up fist, covered only by a thin black December mitten, Brother Paul punched Jimmy straight in the face, and I saw my eight-year old brother’s head bounce off the wall of the building.

  Now--I went berserk. Until then, I had been another member of the crowd fighting my way forward, but now I flailed blindly at the boys who blocked my access to Jimmy and Brother Paul, bleating and roaring tearfully. I pounded my fists on the boys in front of me trying to get closer, but they turned on me, stung, only to knock me to the ground, my back on the asphalt, righteous boys above me punching and pressing me down, defending the Brothers of the Sacred Heart, or themselves--I don’t know which.

  I may have lost consciousness from sheer hysteria for a short time, because the next thing I was aware of was looking up and seeing Brother Anthony with his knee on my chest, holding me down. He restrained me until I could speak, then asked me if I was calm enough to get up and behave calmly, to take my rank in the customary march to the school building.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  By this time, the teachers had gained control of the crowd and the boys were forming their customary ranks, finally quiet. When I regained my feet, Brother Anthony led me to the ranks as I searched the schoolyard for Jimmy. I spotted him in the distance, at the other end of the block, just as Brother Paul carried him through the door of the school. I broke away from Brother Anthony’s grip and ran as fast as I could through the empty schoolyards to the building, heaved open one of the big old double doors and scrambled up the dusty wooden stairs to the third floor. I burst into my brother’s classroom breathing hard and I saw Jimmy sitting in a chair at the back of the room, gasping and sniffing, blood blazing red and spreading around his mouth from his nose. Brother Paul was down on one knee about to dab Jimmy’s face with his hanky, apparently very concerned and sympathetic. I was horrified at the sight of the blood..

  “Oh!” I shook my head at the teacher, “Now you’re going to get it!”

  I ran back down the stairs to the principal’s office and barged in to lodge my protest, but Brother Fulton only tried to calm me down. Later I learned that Brother Fulton claimed he thought Jimmy’s nosebleed had been the result of an accident in the schoolyard and that, as his older brother, I was understandably upset. But I couldn’t swallow the principal’s admonition to calm down. There was only one last place to go. My father owned a gas station only about six blocks down the street, and I was sure he would help Jimmy when he heard what had happened. I hadn’t thought of my brother Ray since the fight broke out, and I hadn’t seen him, but when I rushed out of the principal’s office, scrambled down a half flight of stairs and crashed through the door of the school, I ran right into Ray and my father coming up the concrete steps. “Dad! Dad!” I blurted, trying frantically to explain the situation, though he interrupted me.

  “Go to your classrooms, both of you,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Imagine my father wondering what the hell was going on; first, one kid comes running into his workplace with this outrageous story, now, here comes another one bursting out the door during school hours, tears not yet dry on his face. Something unusual was going on. Obviously.

  I went to my class, as ordered, but I could only sit still for a few minutes. I had to ensure that my father got the whole story, the way it happened, with all the horrible details--especially the blood--included. They would need me in the principal’s office to testify, since I was a first hand witness, I thought. Even Brother Fulton would be horrified to know the truth. When I couldn’t sit still any longer, I got out of my seat and hurried out of the class despite Brother Anthony calling for me to get back to my seat. When I stepped into the hallway on the same floor as Jimmy’s classroom, I saw my father with the front of Brother Paul’s robe twisted in his left hand, pushing the teacher against the wall, my father’s right fist cocked at his side. Jimmy was standing silently nearby. As I hurried to the scene, Brother Paul removed his glasses with one hand and said, “Hit me, Mr. St. Laurent, I deserve it.”

  “Hit him, Dad!” I blurted.

  “You ever lay a hand on one of my kids again and, I swear, I’ll come down here and throw you down these god dam stairs.”

  “Hit him, Dad!”

  My father shoved Brother Paul aside and turned to me. “Go get Ray.”

  Hallelujah, I thought, we’re out of this hellhole. I was never so righteous as when I threw open the door of Ray’s classroom and stepped inside, interrupting the lecture, making sure I commanded the attention of all the kids and, especially, the teacher.

  “Let’s go, Ray. Dad wants us,” I announced proudly.

  We were the real blood brothers of the sacred heart.

  Yay! We would go to public school! Public school, where legend held that kids could tell teachers to “piss up a rope” and get away with it, with no more punishment than some kind of administrative detention, mostly harmless gestures--no shoving, no kicks in the ass, and no red ears from slaps to the side of the head. Golden!

  My father took us to an ice cream stand for lunch, which felt like a reward for being righteous, then left us home alone, waiting for my mother, while she worked her full time job, and we thought we were liberated. But the celebration was premature. When my father came home from work that night, he informed us that we would have to
go back to the parochial school. “It’s a good foundation,” he said, to which I disagreed, though not aloud, and we went back to Sacred Heart Academy the next day.

  As horrible as the experience was, I felt no need for vengeance. The incident was just one more battle in the struggle between unruly kids and oppressive adults, accepted by us as part of our place in the world. Somewhere along the way, though, my love for learning took a back seat to typical adolescent resentment, at least during school hours, and I lost my natural desire to please my teachers. In fact, I began taking pleasure in displeasing them, and my need for revenge would come later, shortly after Sacred Heart Academy got its new principal, Brother Euclid, who took his official name from the ancient Greek founder of geometry.

  I’m sure Brother Euclid, probably during the table talk at the Brothers’ community dinners, heard about the three troublesome boys and their father, because it was certainly a noteworthy event when a parent barged into the school brandishing balled-up fists, threatening one of the teachers. The Brothers continued to push us around, but they must have hesitated to strike a direct blow when they realized that it might result in a punch in the mouth from Mr. St. Laurent who, by the way, sported a very athletic build.

  Brother Euclid was a nightmare compared to his predecessor with the fifteen-inch ruler. He stalked the hallways and interrupted classes arrogantly to flaunt his authority and amuse classes with little jokes, and he enjoyed teaching special classes like sentence structure (which, by the way, I thought were brilliant). But, along with the lectures came his bragging anecdotes, always featuring himself as a hero of some kind. These were hard to stomach without retching into the aisle. I never felt more like emulating my hero, Froggy, and I would have splattered a tongue-wagging raspberry at him, except that, unlike Froggy, I couldn’t make myself disappear in a puff of smoke.