punctuated by the most awful screams any boy could have produced. Mr. Wickenhauser called for the other hand. Brady had all but given up now, his hand awaiting each blow, like a steak on a butcher’s block.
Kim Levy, the great beauty of the classroom who had earlier been giggling, burst into tears and ran out of the class. Miss Ponick glared at Mr. Wickenhauser briefly then flew after Kim.
“Perhaps some of you think that all of this is amusing. How about you sir?”
“No sir,” Jimmy Higgins stammered.
“And you, Mr. O’Reilly!” the teacher turned his laser vision on Marcus.
Marcus shook his head.
Flannery was next. He stepped forward, his eyes red, a tattoo of tears down his cheek. As he put his hand out his lips began to quiver. He bit down on them. The pupils in his eyes enlarged, waiting.
WHACK!
Flannery fell to his knees in pain, biting down on his lips, trying to restrain the tears that seemed destined to burst out.
“Oh sir!” he whimpered, climbed back to his feet, rubbing his left hand on the leg of his trousers. Mr. Wickenhauser waited. Flannery put his right hand out. Except for Brady’s continual wheezing, the room was dead silent.
WHACK!
Flannery cried out, bending but not falling to his knees.
After the third round of swats, Flannery too began to howl.
“No more, sir!” Flannery pleaded, his face flush with tears.
David couldn’t look. Mr. Wickenhauser caught him. He glared down at the small red headed boy.
“You look away again son and you’ll be next.”
David forced himself to look. His mouth was dry, his throat aching. For a brief moment he thought he was going to vomit. He wished he was invisible so that no one could see the fear in his eyes.
Mr. Wickenhauser seemed to take an extra relish in presenting Cormier to the class. The good soldier, Mr. Wickenhauser described him. Cormier stood leaning to one side with a smirk on the opposite side of his face as if to balance himself.
“Mr. Cormier and I have had a lot of fun this morning, haven’t we sir? There has been a long history between the three of us, - Mr. Cormier, myself, and the strap. But this history is going to end today, isn’t it, Mr. Cormier?”
Cormier nodded still smirking.
Cormier hardly flinched during the first two rounds. Apparently five straps on each hand were not enough for young Cormier. On the third strap of round two, his left hand betrayed Cormier. He cried out. By the fifth strap, Cormier too was on his knees, biting back tears. Mr. Wickenhauser called for another round.
“Sir!” Cormier said pleadingly. It was the only word he would utter.
There were still three classes to go.
As the three boys headed out of the class, heads bowed, sniffling and wheezing, Cormier looked up at his comrades, and winked.
Penny returned to school the next week, a patch over his eye. The boys collected around Penny envious of the new addition to his wardrobe.
“Just a scratch!” Penny boasted. “Nothing but a scratch.”
The injury hadn’t bothered Penny but what did upset him was the flogging of the three boys.
“Ain’t fair! They get punished on my account and I don’t even get to see it. They should do it over again.”
The wars were over. The boys returned to less violent play, British Bulldog, football, tag. There was an early snow that winter. Snowplows had pushed the snow off the street onto the sides of the road creating great hills. Driveways were ploughed in. Sidewalks disappeared. Branches bent under the weight of the new snow. Snow piled high on wires like trapeze artists only to be thrown over by assassin crows. Houses looked like lemon meringue pies with their new caps of white. Cars slid down the icy streets, their wheels spinning. Bushes were covered over with a sheet of white to rise from death again the next spring. Dump trucks rumbled down the ploughed streets spreading sand and salt. Mailmen trudged through the drifts looking like their bodies had been cut off at the waist. Dogs leaped into the air from the snow only to disappear once again several feet onwards and then leaped again. Cats huddled on windowsills. And still the snow came down, day after day.
Our Lady of Peace School was organized in rows of two for the trek to Our Lady of Peace Church and the First Friday Mass. Most of the teachers drove to the church in cars. Three of the teachers including Mr. Wickenhauser escorted the children. All the grades except for the grade ones attended the Mass.
Like an army of crusaders, the children walked in a long double line that stretched for blocks, plowing through the sidewalks that remained covered in snow. At the front of the line, led by Miss Ponick, the younger children trudged, bundled up against the cold of winter in boots, scarves, winter coats, and mitts. At the rear the senior grades, jackets unzipped, boots undone or replaced by running shoes, slipped and slid along the paths created by the younger children.
Talking was forbidden. Even though Mr. Wickenhauser moved up and down the line enforcing this law, chatter was impossible to squash altogether. Some students threw snowballs at trees, rooftops, and other targets of opportunity. Mr. Wickenhauser threatened to take names and that activity was curtailed. When he wasn’t looking, kids would kick the feet out from under other students sending them crashing to the ground. If the victim did not rise immediately to his feet, those following behind would kick snow in his face.
“You going to Communion?” Marcus asked.
David nodded.
“I ate,” Marcus confessed. Since abstinence from food was a requirement for receiving Communion, eating was a grave error.
“What are you going to do?” David asked.
“O’Reilly!” Mr. Wickenhauser called out from down the line. Marcus dropped his head and walked in silence.
“I had three tins of beans this morning.” O’Reilly laughed under his breath. “You are going to hear Gabriel’s trumpet during this Mass.”
“You going to fart during Mass!” Brady gasped then broke into a giggle at the prospect.
“I ain’t sitting behind O’Reilly!” Penny laughed.
“Penny!” Mr. Wickenhauser cried out.
Penny dropped his head and continued on in silence.
Some of the girls ahead of the boys chatted away until Mr. Wickenhauser drew Amy Shanahan out of the line and waving his finger in her face brought Amy to tears.
“Good one sir,” Genova cried.
Mr. Wickenhauser responded: “Three-thirty, Mr. Genova. Detention.”
Danny cried out in a muffled voice three rows back of Marcus and David.
“Hey Marcus, you want to get a game of ball hockey after school?”
“See me after school, Mr. Cameron! Detention.” Mr. Wickenhauser roared.
“But, sir!” Danny moaned.
“Three thirty sharp, Mr. Cameron!”
Margaret O’Hara laughed. Mr. Wickenhauser glared at her.
“What a suck!” Penny snorted.
“You too, Mr. Penny,” Mr. Wickenhauser added.
As the children marched past Wedgewood School, they watched the Protestant kids, who were out on recess, building forts and participating in various games of tag. When the Protestant kids spotted the Catholic army, they started to taunt them. One boy said something disparaging about the Pope’s mother.
“Kiss my ass!” Marcus responded.
“Mr. O’Reilly!” Mr. Wickenhauser cried.
Some of the girls ahead of the boys turned around and pointed, chuckling as a group.
“But sir, they’re saying things about the Holy Father!”
Another Protestant questioned the virtue of Sister Bernadette, the principal of Our Lady of Peace.
“Your mother is a douche bag!” Cormier responded.
“Both your mothers!” Wilson added.
“Quiet!” Mr. Wickenhauser bellowed.
Penny spit towards the offending Protestant.
One of the Protestants threw a snowball and hit Danny on the back of the head. Wh
en Danny picked up some snow to retaliate, Mr. Wickenhauser cried out.
“Don’t even think about it, Mr. Cameron! Anyone responding in any way will face the strap!”
Flannery glared at the Protestants as if he was memorizing their faces for some future retribution. The kids were handcuffed, but the Protestants were not. Immediately they could see the advantage they now held over the Catholics. For the time it took the children to pass the public school, the Catholics faced a gauntlet of Protestant snowballs. Some of the girls began to cry, trying desperately to protect themselves from the flurry of snowballs. But, each time there was any move by the Catholic children to retaliate, Mr. Wickenhauser’s voice bellowed out.
“Bastards!” Flannery cried.
“Quiet!” Mr. Wickenhauser roared.
A group of girls ran for shelter across the street but were called back by their teachers. With no chance of defending themselves, the children bowed their heads and turned the other cheek. A terrible need for vengeance burned in each of their hearts.
“I ain’t going to forget this!” Marcus muttered angrily.
“Cameron!” Wickenhauser bellowed.
“I didn’t say nothing, sir!” Cameron cried out. “Honest!”
“I know what you were thinking, Mr. Cameron” Mr. Wickenhauser responded.
And the students marched on, in single file, past the public school and down Martin Grove Road toward the church.
“Did you see Leonard?” Marcus asked David under his breath. Leonard was the strangest boy in the school. The boys guessed that he was about twenty years old. He shaved. Smoked cigarettes when he wasn’t at school. He wore a suit and was often mistaken for a teacher by strangers. Leonard wasn’t right upstairs.
David shook