freshman named Harold Redinski was harbouring a portable TV in a tennis bag. Quietly he pulled Harold aside and struck a friendly bargain. In return for his silence Father Albert asked to borrow the bag once a week in order to watch his favourite sitcoms. At a prescribed time Harold would leave it sitting by his desk. Father Albert would walk by, pick it up with comic nonchalance, and calmly transport the contraband to the privacy of his cell. He even went out and played tennis once, just to keep up appearances.
When I saw Father Albert shuffling through the hall that day, toting the bag with the tennis racket zipped to the side, whistling the theme to All in the Family, I asked him about his game. He smiled, told me his backhand needed work, patted me on the head, and continued on his way.
FOUR COLLATERAL DAMAGE
I held the shaft in my hand and considered its girth and weight. It was long and sharp and perfectly balanced. It made me feel like a savage. I began to run, then, as if the javelin were eager to fly, it left my hand and sailed through the smoke-grey sky. It punctured the ground fifty yards away, pricking the earth like a giant silver needle.
Jon stood with his hands in his pockets, his javelin stuck in the ground before him. “Brother Ambrose said he’d cook up anything we bring back, as long as we clean it.”
“That’s because he doesn’t think we can catch anything,” I said.
I stood back to give him room. Jon plucked his weapon out of the grass, took a few skipping steps, and hurled it into the air. It skewered the field ten feet farther than mine.
Brother Ambrose had hairy fingers and dishpan hands. He was a swarthy little man who always smelled like flour and BO. He wore his cook’s white apron and paper chef’s hat more than he wore his habit. He ordered the supplies, planned the meals, directed the preparation and cooking of every meal for forty-one monks, 109 seminarians, and anywhere up to two dozen guests. He always kept a supply of cookies hidden in a box by the knives.
Out of the corner of his eye he’d catch the glint of metal doors swinging open and grab a big knife or a meat cleaver in one hand and continue punching dough or cleaning lettuce with the other. When we asked for a cookie, he’d always say we didn’t deserve it, but gave us one, anyway. Just one. If we begged for more, or made a move for the cookie box, he’d tap the knife on the counter and say, “C’mon, little man, give it your best shot. I’ll cut off your hand and feed it to you.”
The cookie was usually excellent—except for those Christmas things he made with the little squares of coloured formaldehyde fruit. Sometimes the cookies he handed over had the flavour of whatever he was working on—gravy-infused chocolate chip or stewed-tomato peanut butter cookies. We’d eat them just the same.
Brother Ambrose had no time for the Student Nutrition Advocacy Coalition. That was made plain from the start. It took him six months to calm down and forgive us SNAC boys for suggesting something was wrong with the food. But he seemed to be over it with the new school year. Plus we had changed our tactics. Now we went over his head directly to the rector. Despite all that, I liked him and wanted to show him I wasn’t all bad. I wanted to waltz into his kitchen and present him with a freshly killed grouse or pheasant.
Jon pulled his javelin out of the field and cleaned the mud off the tip with his fingers. “They think we’re hunting with slingshots. They’d freak if they knew we’d taken these.”
After passing the lower field, we found it difficult to weave through the densely packed trunks with nine-foot aluminum spears. The Douglas firs and hemlocks were thick on Mount Saint John. They held up a dark green canopy some hundred feet above. The forest floor was dim and moist with the sweet mushroom smell of rotting needles and leaves. Only ferns and Oregon grape seemed able to flourish here.
The pheasants were usually up in a field on the east side of the slope. It was occasionally used as a cow pasture but had sat untouched all summer, the tall golden grass reaching wheatlike proportions. When we emerged from the woods at the edge of the clearing, I heard the beating of wings but couldn’t see what it was. I hurled my spear into the grass for practice.
We walked around the field a few times and found only a couple of crows. Then, just when we decided to walk across the middle of the field, we saw a big male pheasant. He strutted with his red head cocked and long tail trailing regally behind him, taking careful steps as we readied our spears.
“At the same time,” I whispered. Jon nodded, and we crept a few paces closer, within thirty feet. I extended my left arm and drew the weapon back with my right, then whispered, “Ready, set, go!”
Both shots went wide and one clanged loudly against a rock. The bird jumped awkwardly, then ran into the grass. Jon grabbed his spear, reloaded, and fired. Another miss, but much closer this time. When I grabbed my spear, I noticed the tip was split. Brother Fulbert, our coach, would kill me. Jon got off a few more shots, but by that time the bird had made it to the trees and had disappeared into the shadows. I showed the javelin tip to Jon. “Why does this shit always happen to me?”
“Happens to everybody. You just make a bigger deal about it.”
“Oh, really? What am I supposed to do now? This thing’s worth over a hundred bucks.”
“Put it back in the equipment room with the bad tip down and let someone else discover it. Unless you have a hundred bucks, it’s your only option. Or you can get the money from your dad.”
“I’m not getting anything from my dad.”
“Okay.” He planted his javelin in the grass and lay down beside it. “Do what you have to.”
“First of all,” I said, glaring at him, “a hundred bucks is worth something to us because we don’t have money lying all over the place. Second, my dad and I aren’t talking.”
Jon casually crossed his legs at the ankles and propped himself on his elbows. “You know, I’m getting a little sick and tired of your rich guy, poor guy bullshit. I didn’t ask to be rich, which I’m not, and you didn’t ask to be poor, which you’re not. My family does have more money than yours. That’s just the way it goes. I don’t have a problem with you because of what your dad does or doesn’t do, or how much he makes. I don’t have a problem. You have the problem.”
I reached into my pocket for a cigarette and jabbed it between my lips. “I wasn’t getting mad at you because you’re rich. I was just—”
“Why are you so pissed off at your dad, anyway?”
I lit the cigarette, then shoved my javelin into the ground. “Because he’s a creep.”
There was rustling in the grass behind us. I crouched down and grabbed a rock. A raven flew out of the grass and landed on a nearby tree. It started squawking, alerting every member of the animal kingdom to our presence. I threw the rock at the bird and hit the tree trunk below the branch it was sitting on. It jumped a bit, then quickly settled back into its nonstop monologue. I bent, grabbed another rock, and hurled it at the bird, striking its breast. It tumbled and flapped as it hit a few branches on the way down, finally landing on the ground in a luminous black heap.
Jon sprang to his feet. “You totally nailed it. Why did you do that?”
We ran to the injured bird and squatted. It shook one wing and dragged the other on the ground. Its frenzy increased as we circled it. The bird stretched its neck repeatedly, then began panting. It was going to die.
“You can’t eat these things,” Jon said. “Put it out of its misery.”
“Maybe we can nurse it back to health and keep it for a pet or something.”
Jon looked at me sourly, then grabbed the flopping mess. It was too far gone to resist. He seized its head, stood, and whipped it around in a circle. The flapping stopped. Then he tossed the limp body into the grass, walked over to his javelin, and sat. “You’re an asshole.”
I found a soft spot in the forest floor, dug a hole with a stick, and gently laid the raven inside. It had a dark beauty like