He carefully stores in his memory the words Saint Catherine Street.
Just before summer’s end, Marie-Thérèse hits upon the only punishment that can really get to him: she has found him another boarding school.
“A real Catholic school, this time,” she declares.
“You mean,” says Neil “. . with morning and evening prayer, catechism and confession, the whole kit and kaboodle?”
“Yes, of course! The kid needs to be taken into hand. He’s the only one in his class not to have been confirmed yet. We have to straighten him up. .”
On the eve of Milo’s departure, Neil summons him to his study.
“It hurts me, my boy, to think of you struggling with the selfsame soul fetters as I did at your age. . But no matter what they do to you, don’t go to confession. Tell those meddling priests that what goes on in your body and soul is none of their flaming business! Here, put these in your suitcase. These three small volumes will stand you in better stead than a thousand prying priests.”
The books are Homer’s Odyssey, Shakespeare’s Tragedies and Cervantes’s Don Quixote.
THE ENSUING YEAR can be compressed into a single minute: We see Milo attending catechism classes. . using a photo of Kim — and memories, ah memories — for his solitary pleasure. . hiding Homer’s Odyssey behind his geography book when he’s under supervision in the study hall. . especially playing hockey. Reviving skating reflexes learned years ago with the Manders family, he throws himself into the game with a vengeance, passing the puck, swerving on the ice, moving strong and low and fast, skating backward, forward and sideways, scoring point after point. . but eschewing rowdy displays of comradeship, never letting the other players, with their enormous gloves, thickly padded knees, shoulders and groins, bobbing helmets and clacking sticks, throng round to hug and pat and jostle him when he scores, preferring always, when not on the ice, to wait alone in the rafters reading Don Quixote. . We see him in church, with Othello hidden inside his hymnbook. . using a photo of Jane Fonda in Barbarella. . kneeling at the altar to take communion with twenty other boys. . striking up a conversation with a boy he sees reading Aeschylus and Euripides in the library — a shy, overweight, devout, bespectacled, pimpled adolescent whose nickname is Timide. Kneeing the testicles of a tall, blond, snotty student named Augustin, for having teased Timide. . sitting across from Timide during meals in the large dining hall and making him explode with laughter, scattering crumbs in all directions. . teaching Timide to smoke without coughing and to fend off the insinuating words and fingers of the priests. . Stealing extra food from the kitchen so that he and Timide can snack in the dorm at midnight. . descending deep into himself so as not to feel the pain when caught and whipped by one of the sisters. . gluing samples of leaves and flowers into his botany album, labeling them carefully and showing them to Timide. . stealing wine from the chalice in church and sharing it with Timide. . being dragged to a confessions box on a Friday morning. .
Here we can zoom in on his dialogue with the priest.
“What did you do, son?”
“None of your business.”
“This is serious, Milo. I’m asking you if you’ve sinned in thought, word, or deed.”
“And I’m telling you to mind your own business. No way I’ll ever tell you what goes on inside my head.”
“You shouldn’t talk that way to a man of God, Milo.”
“I didn’t ask to talk to you.”
“You’re under our authority here; you can’t do just anything you please.”
“Neither can you!”
“If you go on talking that way, my son, I’ll have no choice but to punish you, you realize that?”
“I’m not your son, for Chrissake!”
“And on top of it all you take the name of Our Lord in vain!”
Milo detests priests and finds it hard to tell them apart. They all seem to wear the same glasses, have the same phony smile, the same cruelty masquerading as virtue. . Preferring brutality to hypocrisy, he’d rather deal with his cousins any day.
The holy sisters drag him out of bed before dawn and force him to wax the hallway or sprinkle the skating rink for two hours. But he sleeps little anyway, and would rather wax a floor or sprinkle a skating rink than have nightmares. He finds the work soothing, does it carefully and well. Loves being alone. The sisters yank him away from early Mass and send him down to the kitchen to make toast for 150 breakfasts. . But he can dream while making toast — far better than in church, where organ music, incense smoke and priestly prattle clog his senses within minutes.
Throughout the long winter months he deals patiently with his fate. But as April begins to wane, as the snows melt and the river ice breaks up and the sluices open and the juices run, an atavistic urge rewakens in his veins. . and, suddenly, no. No. None of this. He must be gone.
In the dorm one night at half past twelve, he sneaks over to Timide’s bed.
“You awake?”
In his upper bunk, the fat boy flops over and struggles to focus.
“Here. Put on your glasses, we’re hightailing it out of here. Just you and me, okay?”
“Where to?”
“Montreal. Get dressed.”
“Montreal! You must be nuts! It’s a hundred miles away!”
“Take your blanket and stuff a few clothes in your knapsack. I’ll wait for you in the hall. It’s the perfect night, there’s a full moon. Everyone’s asleep. .”
“Everyone but the wolves.”
“You and I are the wolves now. Come on, Timide, get your ass in gear!”
As Timide reluctantly descends from his bunk, Milo notices Augustin, the tall blond snotty boy, archest of his archenemies, feigning sleep in the bunk below. Has he overheard their plans?
Hiking Timide’s pudgy, clumsy, terrified body over the high wall of the institution is no mean feat, but Milo is all-powerful tonight. Free! Free! his mother’s voice sings softly in his brain. Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA. . By one in the morning they’re on the road: full moon, springtime, owl calls, river thundering down below, good graveled road underfoot. Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA. . Milo’s knapsack is packed tight with food stolen from the kitchen and his heart is high with hope.
Timide’s step, however, is less buoyant.
“What are we gonna do in Montreal?”
“Find my mom.”
“I thought you were an orphan!”
“No, my parents are alive, I just haven’t met them yet. But I know where my mom lives, on Saint Catherine Street. We’ll surprise her. You’ll see, she’ll be thrilled! And then she’ll help us out. . But first we’ll stop off at the house of a girl I know.”
(This next scene, Milo, is one of the least glorious episodes of your life. .)
Two or three days have elapsed, and while Milo’s enthusiasm is unabated, Timide is in bad shape: exhausted, sweating, smelly and scared, his feet covered with blisters. The runaways arrive at Edith’s place after dark.
“Where’s your friend?” whines Timide.
Milo pulls him around to the back of the darkened house and picks up a pebble. CUT to Edith at the window. At sixteen as at twelve, what she lacks in beauty she makes up for in warmth.
“Milo, wow! This is fantastic! The police are looking for you guys. My parents heard about it on the radio. They’re combing the whole area. And here you are, wow! Hang on, I’ll be right down!”
CUT to the woodshed half an hour later. A flashlight propped amidst the stacks of wood and kindling gives the place an eerie glow. Edith, dressed only in a nightgown, drops to her knees on the dirt floor and slowly bares her breasts. Timide’s eyes pop out of his head. He backs away in terror, repeatedly making the sign of the cross and whispering, “Non, non. .” but Milo constrains him, gently pushing him forward.