The Memory of Running

  “So you all excited and things?”

  “I’m very happy.”

  “He’s a great guy. Jeff is great.”

  “I don’t like that a girl must change her name,” Bethany said, pulling back from the fridge with mayonnaise, lettuce, and a tomato.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. Now I was getting sleepy.

  “Want one?” she asked me as she got a knife and some bread.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “I mean, how would you like to have to give up your name?”

  “I guess it’d be okay.”

  “That’s because you don’t have to.”

  “I meant, if I had to, it would be okay.”

  She finished putting the mayo and lettuce and tomato on Sunbeam bread, shook on some salt and pepper, and squeezed it shut with a top piece of bread.

  “I don’t like having to change my name. I might do something about that. Bethany Greene. Say it out loud for me.”

  It was the morning of her wedding day, and so I said it. “Bethany Greene.”

  “Again.”

  “Bethany Greene.”

  She took a little bite of sandwich. The lettuce crunched across the room. “I don’t mind that, I guess.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “I guess.”

  She ate a little more, and I listened to her lettuce.

  “Is Norma watching?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She watches you. You know that, don’t you, Hook?”

  I shrugged and sat at the table.

  “She’s coming to the wedding. I invited her. Will you dance with her?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “She’s afraid, you know. She thinks you hate her because she’s in a wheelchair.”

  “That’s . . .”

  “I’m not making it up. She thinks that’s why you never see her and why you didn’t write to her. After you were hurt, she came over like she does, rolled down the drive, and just sat out there crying. She’d read about it in the paper. When we heard her and went out, she stopped crying long enough to tell us that, no matter what, you’d still be Smithy and that bodies don’t count.”

  “It’s going to rain tomorrow,” I said, looking out the window.

  “Norma said it’s what’s in your spirit that’s important. I thought that was amazing. Do you think I’ve stopped being crazy?”

  I was feeling like I had to pee. Narragansett.

  “Do you think, Hook?”

  “C’mon, Bethany.”

  “I think I’ve stopped, is all. I really and truly don’t believe I’m crazy anymore. I don’t have a sense that something bad is going to happen. I talk easier, more honestly with the shrinks at Bradley. I talk to Jeff. I feel awfully confident. I’m confident things are going to be great. I think I’m going to be a good wife and a good mother.”

  “I think you’ll be a great wife and a mother.”

  My sister’s eyes were wide, and the water blue of them was light enough to be gray. I had never seen gray eyes before. She seemed smaller, also, than I had ever seen her. A dog barked in the backyard of one of the houses behind us. A yap of a bark.

  “But I’m worried about you, Hook. I’m not worried that I’m crazy, that I’m going to be crazy. Now I’m worried about you.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Can I tell you something, Hook? Can I?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think you’re turning into a fucking fat-ass slob. Also, I think you’re drunk a lot. I think you’re drunk right now.”

  I looked out the window, and I was sorry I had thrown my screwdriver away. I thought to myself that tomorrow I would be an usher at her wedding, under the direct command of Best Man Dave Stone, and my sister had just called me a fucking fat-ass slob. I got up.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Now you’re all mad.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “See, I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about you.”

  I thought her eyes had gone back to light blue, but maybe not. I sensed chemistry, though. I had this feeling of somewhere a mad scientist fooling around with his beakers and vials, and he had me strapped to a chair, and there was nothing I could do.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not. I told you.”

  She took another bite of lettuce and tomato sandwich and spoke between chews. “I just love you and I think you’re at an important crossroads in your life. I think you want to break out, get a better job, fall in love. I don’t see you working on those things. I see you blowing up like a balloon and drinking, and you don’t really have any friends. That’s sad.”

  “I have friends. C’mon.”

  “Name one.”

  “C’mon.”

  I didn’t want to stay in the kitchen and talk about myself, but we were all under one roof the way Mom wanted us, and that included kitchens, or at least that’s the way I figured it. I lit a smoke.

  “The rehearsal was nice, wasn’t it?” she said.

  We had a walk-through of the ceremony at church and then went over to Asquino’s Restaurant for dinner. There were toasts and an accordion player and antipasto and spaghetti with sausage and peppers.

  “It went great.”

  “I can’t wait to see you in your tux.”

  “It will be a great wedding.”

  “What do you think of that guy Dave Stone? Jeff’s best man? Sharon says he’s a pig.”

  Sharon Thibodeau was Bethany’s maid of honor. She was from Warwick, Rhode Island, and, like the rest of the girls in the wedding, was a friend from Grace Church. Except for some mild poses in church choir, my sister had never displayed to her church friends the horrible things the voice demanded. School was a different story. I liked the church girls better anyway.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You always say that. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ That’s what I’m talking about. It’s time you knew. Jesus Christ!”

  “C’mon.”

  “He told Sharon a dirty joke. He told her a joke about two people fucking. It almost made Sharon cry.”

  “I don’t . . . care about him. I’m only gonna see him one more time. Sharon’s not gonna see him again. What’s the big deal?”

  “Norma loves you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Norma Mulvey. That amazing person. That amazingly spectacular human being. Norma loves you. She’s alone. What are you going to do? Are you going to be a pig? A big drunk slob? What? Are you going to love Norma?”

  “What are you talking about? I haven’t seen Norma. . . . She doesn’t . . . stop, just stop.”

  “I asked her to be in my wedding, but she just cried and said she’d ruin it.”

  I turned away from her and looked out over the sink. I thought I saw the blind flicker on Norma’s window. Bethany came from the corner of the table and put her arms around my shoulders and put her chin under my right ear.

  “I just love you, Hook. I love you more than anything in the whole world. Even when I’m crazy, I think good things about you and hope good things happen to you. Remember how you’d look for me? Remember how you found me once under the water tower and you let me ride the bike back and you ran beside? That’s why I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’ve stopped running, and I don’t want you to. I want you to stay a runner. I want you to remember running.”

  Norma’s blinds opened, and suddenly she was there, sitting tall in a red flannel nightie. Bethany waved to her and blew her a big kiss, and then they were both crying, and then the rain fell.

  65

  Me: Hi.

  Norma: Smithy! I love you.

  Me: I had to leave the bike group. I took a ride from a truck driver whose brother killed his father, then killed himself.

  Norma: What?!

  Me: It’s the kind of stuff I’d have to put in a letter or tell yo
u, but the phone is hard. His name was Philip Wolsey. He said he liked the way you think.

  Norma (happily): You told him about me?

  Me: Well . . . you know . . . I told him some stuff.

  Norma: Why did you have to leave the bike group?

  Me: Well . . . I didn’t really have to leave, but I just thought it would be best if I did.

  Norma: Why?

  (I will always be sorry I didn’t tell Mom the truth about my pop when she was in the hospital. Who thinks like this at forty-three?)

  Me: Well . . . there was a girl. . . . Chris . . . I mean . . .

  (Now here is a pause that is not quiet. There is a change of wind across the country, and the wires whirl above the ground and below.)

  She was with some friends, and they ride on weekends and stuff, and they run a day—

  Norma: She’s beautiful, right? Tall? Pretty? No, she’s got to be better than pretty? Beautiful?

  Me: I don’t know. . . . She was pretty, I guess.

  Norma: Hair?

  Me:Uh . . .

  Norma: Short? Long? Curly?

  Me: Kind of up, you know . . . brown.

  Norma: Brown? Great. Brown is wonderful for hair. And I’ll bet her skin is all tanned from being outside and getting all that exercise. Right? Right?

  Me: Her skin was white.

  Norma: White? All-over white?

  Me: Norma, I’m in Needles, California, and I was—

  Norma: Was her neck white?

  Me: Do you—

  Norma: Huh? Was it?

  Me: Yes.

  Norma: Arms.

  Me: Yes. Sure. She had white—

  Norma: Tits?

  (It’s like the wires tighten. It’s as if they could snap apart. We don’t speak for a long time. Every now and then, I hear other voices crossing us, racing to other cities. I sit on the end of a bed and hold the phone with both hands. It is afternoon, but I have pulled the curtain tight, and the room is black. I have the chills. I shiver.)

  Norma (softly): Did you say something?

  Me: I shivered. I’m sick. I got a good old cold.

  Norma: Did you take anything?

  Me: I’m going to get stuff later.

  Norma: Where are you?

  Me: I’m at the Ramada Inn in Needles. California. The truck driver paid for my room, and I’m going to send him money. His name is Philip Wolsey. He’s on his way to Las Vegas. Dog food.

  Norma: Here’s Needles. I’m looking at it. It’s on the border of Arizona. You made love to Chris? Now you love Chris?

  (I think, Jesus, I’m so sick. When I cough, the room shakes. But I didn’t say it.)

  Me: That’s pretty stupid, Norma. I’m not mad or anything, but that is a pretty stupid thing to think. I’m forty-three.

  Norma: I was . . . I was worried.

  Me: Did you find anything out about—

  Norma: I got it right here. Just a sec. I’m opening it. I folded it. Okay. What they do in Los Angeles is, when they have long-term, you know . . . bodies to take care of until people come for them, is, they subcontract them out to small funeral homes that have refrigerator systems that meet state and city specifications. I spoke to a woman in the coroner’s office who explained that while the city maintains a potter’s field—that’s a special cemetery for . . . you know . . . indigents—because Pop had written to them, they try to accommodate the families as best they can. Bethany was subcontracted to the Cheng Ho Funeral Home in Venice, California. I called the funeral home, and the lady who answered the phone said it’s almost on the water, where Winwood and Pacific come together. There’s an old colonnade, and Cheng Ho’s is directly behind the colonnade.

  Me: Venice, California. I’m in California now.

  (I cough. A deep cough and painful, but it loosens my chest even as it rocks the room.)

  Norma: Oh, Smithy . . .

  Me: I’m gonna go get some stuff. I owe Philip Wolsey fifty dollars on top of the room.

  Norma: I would’ve sent . . .

  Me: I know, Norma.

  Norma: Get cough syrup. It will help you sleep. Don’t be mad at me, Smithy. I know I don’t have any right to tell you anything—just don’t stop calling me. I love you. You don’t have to love me. I think about you, I . . .

  Me: I think about you, Norma. I’m sick.

  Norma: I hate that you’re sick. Don’t be mad at me, okay?

  Me: I’m not.

  Norma: I just got scared when I thought you and Chris were in bed together.

  (My sister sits at a small table across from the bed. She has on her Black Watch kilt and a white blouse. She is fourteen, and the cheeks of her pretty face are red. She looks at me so seriously.)

  Me: Norma.

  Norma: Yes, Smithy.

  Me: Me and Chris . . .

  Norma: What?

  (My eyes burn hotter than the truth, and Bethany has flown.)

  Me: Me and Chris were never, ever in bed. Okay?

  Norma: Okay.

  (I write down the address and phone number of Cheng Ho Funeral Home and shiver against a feeling that this ride has proved what I always knew. That I am a fool, a dog, a cat.)

  66

  Aunt Paula and Count drove over early, and Count brought two boxes of special doughnuts. Count looked great.

  “That was a false alarm,” he announced about the most recent striptease heart problem.

  “Yeah, that wasn’t what you call an actual attack. Doc called it one of my ‘incidents.’ I’m fine. Jelly doughnut?”

  Upstairs Bethany and her attendants laughed and joked and squeezed into their wedding outfits—Bethany’s gown and the maids’ floor-length creamy brown dresses. They all wore gloves and wide, delicate straw hats. Bows were tied tightly under their chests, and Rebecca Coin looked particularly wonderful and full. Norma’s mother had come over, but Bea came alone. These days she always seemed a little angry at me, but that might have just been my imagination.

  “You look so handsome in your tuxedo,” Bea said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Norma’s being silly. Maybe you could talk her into coming over. For Bethany. Poor Bethany. She’s going to be fine. I feel it. I’m very happy. Go get Norma.”

  I left Bea with Mom and Pop in the living room and walked into the kitchen. I got down my bottle of vodka and made a quick screwdriver. Then I made another quick screwdriver and walked next door and down the driveway to Norma’s window.

  “Hey, Norma,” I said, tapping at the window.

  Norma peeked through the blinds, then raised them and the window. I stepped back and put both hands in my pockets. She just looked at me. A fine, misty rain blew around.

  “What?” she said.

  “Bea told me to come and get you.”

  “Bea told you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, if you don’t want me to come, I’m not going to come!”

  “Who said I didn’t want you to come? I want you to come.”

  “All right, I’ll come.”

  “I’ll meet you on your porch.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll just . . . you know . . .”

  “What? Push? You gonna push the cripple? Bea tell you I can’t come ’cause I’m a cripple?”

  Norma slammed down the window. I stood in the rain. She opened the window again. “Okay, meet me on the porch.”

  I walked around to the back of the house. Bea and Norma had a long screened-in porch, connected by ramps to the driveway, and then to the house itself. I lit a smoke and waited. I had a feeling that I had better remember the way things look today. This included the arrangement of yards and rooms and porches. Then Norma came out, and the feeling went away.

  How small and young in her wheelchair. She had made up her eyes and had put pink lipstick on. Her hair was short, and the way it was cut made her neck seem long and, I guess, elegant. Her dress was pink and satiny, and her white shoes shined out from the hem. It startled me how very perfect she looked. Enchan
ting, I would say if I could.

  “You look very nice, Norma,” I said.

  “Push,” she said. I stepped behind her, and we went down the ramp. I thought she said something.

  “What?” I said.

  “I said you look beautiful. I said I love you.”

  I pushed faster, out of the Mulvey drive and into the Ides’.

  67

  I had twenty-three dollars and some change. In a food shop inside a gas station, I bought cough medicine, spring water, orange juice, and four instant chicken-soup cups that you just add hot water to, and carried them back to my motel. I wanted to take a shower but didn’t have the energy. I took three aspirin, two teaspoons of cough medicine, a huge drink of water, and sipped some of the chicken broth, even though I wasn’t in the least bit hungry. I got into bed and was too sick and tired to sleep. This happens. So I opened Suzanne of the Aspens and read some more about her terrible first winter in the mountains.

  One morning she looked out from her shelter and saw, walking across some newly fallen snow, two Indians. An old man and an old woman clutching each other against the cold. Naturally, being such a good woman and everything, Suzanne called to them and went out to help, but when they saw her, they started to run away. It was a confusing episode for her, but I fell asleep. That was about five in the afternoon. Needles, California.

  I didn’t even move until five the next morning, when I had to pee. I had more cough medicine, aspirin, and water and slept again until eleven, when the front desk called and reminded me that checkout was eleven-thirty. I showered, repacked my saddlebags, and went down to the lobby. My call to Norma was the only thing Philip Wolsey hadn’t paid for. I walked out of the motel with $6.73. I felt a little hungry and pretty good.

  I felt better once the rhythm of the bike and its pedals came back into me. I felt loose and fluid across the dry country. I stayed on the adjacent smaller roads off 40. Into Essex and then Amboy, where I spent the October 18 evening under a cactus, with my belly full of instant chicken noodle soup and stress vitamins and Suzanne of the Aspens moving slowly into spring.

  The next day I reached Ludlow early and spent the last of my money on hot dogs and french fries. These are foods that do not have the right idea about them, especially if you’re thinking about energy and goodness and healthfulness and that, but the feel of the food is important, too, and hot dogs and french fries have a very good feel. After food I cut down through the tip of Twenty-Nine Palms Marine Base, onto 247, then through Lucerne Valley to Victorville and Route 15. Outside of Apple Valley, I pitched my tent under an apple tree.