Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.
BOTH OR NONE – Part Three
Al bent down next to his bed and slipped the food out of his pocket, wrapping it deftly into his handkerchief and hiding it between the bedpost and the wall. The other boys were getting ready for bed. Al took off his shoes again, and his socks, and wiggled his bare toes on the cool wooden floor. He unbuttoned his shirt carefully---he'd lost three buttons off of it already, and Sister Marie had threatened to make him sew the next one back on himself. Then he slipped off his trousers and put on his tatty, patched and greying nightshirt. He folded his clothes carefully over the pine box at the foot of the bed, ready for tomorrow.
The dormitory door opened, and twenty-eight boys dove for the edges of their beds, kneeling down and folding their hands in front of themselves in the approved position. Sister Marie led them in their Paternoster and the Ave Maria. Al mumbled the words because if he didn't Sister would make him repeat them alone, but he did so grudgingly, thinking angrily that he didn't mean any of them.
"I'm not praying to You!" he thought viciously, as he always did. "I'm just moving my lips for Sister. You let Poppa die! I'm never going to pray to You again, I swear it! I hate You!"
Then it was over and the boys crawled into their narrow beds. Al punched his limp pillow to soften it. Stork Davis, whose real name was Stuart, got in beside him, and the nightly struggle for the lion's share of the blankets ensued. It was a hollow ritual, because Stork would wind up stealing them all anyway when Al snuck out of bed later, but it seemed necessary to observe the rite.
Al satisfied himself that he had his fair share, and turned his back to his lanky bedfellow. He tried to ignore the cramps in his abdomen as he listened to the other boys fall asleep one by one.
When the dormitory was silent save for the shallow, rhythmic breathing of slumber, Al slipped out of bed and retrieved the bundle of food from under it. He walked on the tips of his toes to the end of the room and past the partition behind which Sister Marie slept. He opened the door halfway, stopping just before the place where it squeaked, and slipped into the hall. Two doors down was the room were the seven, eight and nine-year-old boys slept. He entered it and passed like a scrawny ghost between the two rows of small metal beds, each holding a pair of little sleeping bodies. At the very end, next to the radiator, was the bed he sought.
There was only one occupant in it, since the paralysed leg tended to have a mind of its own at night. Al crouched next to the bed and watched Billy's face, freed of its lopsidedness by the relaxation of repose. The little boy stirred and made a small whimpering sound in the back of his throat. From under the blankets Al could hear the all-too-familiar gurgling of an empty stomach. He put out his hand and shook the smaller boy gently.
One eye shot open, the other twitching, reluctant to obey. A unilateral smile split the child's face.
"Al!" he whispered eagerly. "Food?"
"You bet," Al said, producing the little bundle proudly. Billy sat up and snatched it. "Quiet down," Al warned. "You don't wanta wake Sister up."
Billy ate quickly, devouring the cold repast as if it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Al watched, denying the protests of his own empty stomach. Billy was hungrier than he was. The Sisters couldn't watch everybody at once, and it was easy for the bullies at any given table to steal food from their weaker neighbours. Billy never got to eat his whole meal.
Al grinned as Billy swallowed the last mouthful of bread and patted his belly happily. "Thank you, Al," he said.
"Sure thing, kid," Al said. He leaned forward as Billy hugged him. "You get some sleep now," he added.
"Okay," Billy said, lying down again. Al tucked him in carefully.
Billy wasn't retarded, he was just a little crippled, with a weak leg and a twisted foot because when he was six he had got very sick with polio. But his round little face and his trusting innocence reminded Al of Trudy. While he watched the little boy fall asleep he thought about Trudy. He wondered if she was okay. He knew she hated the institution. She had never complained, but she had been so happy when Al and Poppa had come to get her, and although she hadn't even cried at Poppa's funeral she had wailed and screamed and fought when Uncle Jack's skinny blond wife had told her she would have to go back.
Soon as he was old enough Al was going to go back for her. The day he turned eighteen he'd be out of this orphanage. They wouldn't let him take Trudy out of the institution until he was twenty-one, but he'd get a good job and make lots of money, and on his twenty-first birthday he'd go back and get Trudy. He would buy a big bag of gumdrops, the orange ones that Trudy loved, and she would be so happy. He would find them a place to live, maybe even buy a house, and they would be a family again. Just him and Trudy.
Billy was asleep now, a happy smile on his little face. Al got up and quietly returned to his bed. Stork had sprawled out over the whole bed, and Al had to shove him over far enough to make a narrow shelf that he could lie on. He tried to wrestle enough of the bedclothes out of the other boy's death-grip to cover his body, but he couldn't quite get the covers to meet the mattress. The draught filtering under the gap made him shiver. He spooned his back in against Stork's side and hugged his knees. Somewhere far away he could hear the thin sobs of a little girl. Al lay awake for a long time, miserable and uncomfortable, before finally drifting into bad dreams.
