Chapter 5
School Days
September 1967
Life at St. Jerome's was different from the old neighborhood in every way imaginable.
First off, there was breakfast—every day: Corn flakes in the summer, oatmeal in the winter, scrambled eggs on Sundays, flapjacks on the good holidays when you didn't have to fast, like Easter and St. Jerome's feast day. There was fresh, cold milk at every meal. Lunch was soup in cold weather, bologna sandwiches when it was warm. And dinner: mystery stew or meat loaf with boiled potatoes and more vegetables than Willie had ever ingested heretofore. The peas, cubed carrots and corn were salty, mushy and tasted like crap, but he had never turned down free food before, so there was no reason to start now.
Being bored was not an option. School classes were conducted year round, although the summer was reserved for remedial learning. In addition, each resident was assigned endless chores inside and out to maintain the building and grounds. Willie wondered why they even had a janitor or a gardener.
The schoolboys played football, dodge ball, basketball and ran laps. Alas, there was no television, but once a month a 16mm projector was wheeled into the auditorium to show an old movie or instructional video about morals, sports or hygiene.
Communal showers were three times a week in cold weather, more often in summer or after exercise. This activity was supervised by Father Donahue who, coincidentally, also held Confession on Saturday afternoon.
There were too many residents to celebrate each boy's birthday, but his name would be mentioned and congratulations extended during morning announcements and prayers, after which his classmates would shower him with an appropriate number of punches to the arm.
Willie's birthday happened to fall on the Feast of the Nativity so, in the excitement, if often went unacknowledged, but he was used to that. Lydia had usually forgotten it as well. Although one year he was surprised with cupcakes at the lounge with his mom, Charlie, Bob the bartender and his two favorite hookers.
At school, they served up a big chicken and ham holiday feast; Willie pretended it was in honor of him and not Jesus.
And, of course, there were "presents." At Christmas, each boy would receive a package prepared by various churches and charitable organizations. They contained school supplies, socks, toiletries, used paperbacks and a treat—usually a chocolate Santa, marshmallow snowman or candy cane. Willie wished you could make requests, but it wouldn't do, he imagined, to ask for comic books, candy bars and smokes. One year, another student received a copy of Peter Pan. Willie offered to trade Great Expectations, Jane Eyre, Ivanhoe and a toothbrush for it, but in the end the novel was confiscated for being sacrilegious.
Punishable offences were smoking, cursing, shirking one's duty, skipping mass, fighting, cheating—the list went on and it was long, but nothing unexpected. Rules were clearly stated and easy to understand.
The time of day to be most wary of was recess, which was a half-hour, twice a day. Then a whole separate set of commandments kicked in. You were expected, among your peers, to break as many rules as possible during this time, especially fighting. The other laws were: Don't get caught. Don't snitch. Don't be queer.
Willie soon made a startling discovery. Being queer to these boys meant hugging or being overly friendly with another boy. However, it was a perfectly acceptable practice for an older student to force an underclassman to do whatever he wished. In their words, to use him for a girl, especially if the party in question was puny or easily intimidated.
The first time his group was lined up in size order, Willie realized he was right behind John Paul Flynn, making him the second shortest boy in his grade. Holy Mother of Fuck! That automatically pegged him as a target. Flynn was labeled a fag because he was slight of stature and sang so well in choir—just like a girl. The lads dangled their classmate by his knees from a fourth-story window until he screamed and wet his pants; then the whole class got detention because no one would snitch.
One day, as Willie was wet mopping a corridor, a hand clamped over his mouth and he was yanked into an empty classroom. There a husky 16-year-old slammed him against the wall and made a request which the younger student found distasteful. Big boy repeated his intention and this time let his fists do the talking, bringing the runt to his knees.
Willie reacted as he would in any situation where something was shoved into his mouth. He bit it—as hard as possible under the circumstances. The bully screamed and went down like a felled tree as Willie scrambled to his feet and flew towards the door.
"Try that again and I'll break it off and shove it down your throat," were the boy's arrogant parting words before running for his life. Willie skidded on the wet, soapy floor partway down the hall, but he kept running.
By the end of the day, rumors were rampant that in the infirmary there was a student who had a lot of explaining to do. But the punk took his punishment and did not snitch on his assailant.
However, the next day, Willie was also called to the vice principal's office and asked why he had shirked his cleaning duties and gotten into a fight, as evidenced by a purple shiner and red stains on yesterday's shirt. The underclassman knew better than to squeal—a dispute of this nature was always settled out of court, so Willie explained that he had slipped on the wet floor and hit his face on the edge of the bucket, resulting in a bloody nose.
Sister Mary Perpetua eyed him skeptically. "Do you know anything about what happened to Thomas McFadden?"
"I don't know that name, Sista," he answered innocently, and almost honestly.
Loomis was given a note and sent on to Father Foster's anteroom to await sentencing.
Willie sat in the outer office, short of breath, his leg shaking. He had never been hit by a grown up before, and the other students told terrifying tales of what went on behind that mahogany door. The youngster almost wet his pants when Father called him into the inner sanctum.
He hesitantly approached the desk as the priest held out his hand for the note.
"It says here you were fighting, insubordinate and insolent to Sister Perpetua." Father eyed him over his spectacles with a cocked brow. "Is this true?"
Willie panicked, not knowing how to respond. The only word he understood was fighting. The boy quickly decided that this was a trick question to see if he would add to his list of charges by contradicting a nun.
"I guess so. I mean, yes, Fadda."
"I see." Father Foster scrutinized the lad. "How old are you, Loomis?"
"Eleven, Fadda." His voice trembled.
The principal retrieved his board of education and Willie was instructed to bend over the large desk. He received 12 whacks, only one more than the minimum for his age, but they were bruisers. Later, the other guys congratulated him on how lucky he had been; Father often handed out 20 or more, and often made the culprits lower their trousers.
Getting sent to the principal was no shame in itself, but it generated another set of peer expectations. You did not bawl or holler, and—if you were really tough—you walked away afterwards and sat down.
Willie put the injustice of that event behind him and resolved to avoid the fag tag by being tough, so he took up smoking in earnest. He became a bona-fide juvenile delinquent and fought without provocation at every opportunity, compensating for a lack of power with speed and endurance, and he joined in bullying sessions aimed at weaker counterparts when it would have looked odd not to do so.
"I'm a shanty Irish bastard, so don't fuck with me!" he'd shout, then pummel them until they dropped or, remembering old Charlie's advice, kick them hard in the nuts.
Funny, how you can be surrounded by dozens of people 24 hours a day, and still be alone. Willie didn't remember feeling that way at home, and back then he was left on his own a lot.
Willie didn't really fit in with these boys; he missed his friends from the old neighborhood—and Lydia most of all. He tried writing to her a couple of times, but always found himself at a loss for words. The child wanted to know how she could take care of herself without him. Would he ever be allowed to come home? Why didn't ever she write or visit like the other moms? Didn't she love him anymore? Willie would stare at the blank paper until letter-writing period was over, then throw it away.
In his nightmares, Lyddie would pass out and burn in a raging cigarette-induced fire. Maybe she was dead, and nobody told him. He'd feel his brain go numb when too many thoughts flooded in. I need some Novocain to the brain, his mom would say with a finger gun pointing to her temple.
After almost two years, Lydia started to send cards around his birthday/Christmas with XOXOs and money in them. She asked her son for a photo, but he had no idea how to do that. The only pictures he knew of were fuzzy group portraits of 300 or more boys taken each year and on display in the main corridor.
Willie made a small tear in his mattress to hide the money.
