The Memory of Running

  “Give us some room, folks!” Bill bellowed. He was a big man with a huge signature belly.

  There were three or four other customers in the place, and they drifted out of the store. Mr. Allenizio stood over Bethany and the two cops holding her, and hugged himself.

  My legs were heavy, but I moved them silently past hair spray and cosmetics to where my sister lay. Bill Poland was looking around as if there were an answer on the walls.

  “Call her folks,” he said to the other cop.

  “Maybe we better just call an ambulance.”

  “Call her folks,” Bill said again. “Ide, on Brightridge Avenue.”

  The cop went to the phone by the cash register. I couldn’t see Bethany from the waist up, blocked as she was by the great belly of Bill.

  “Bethany?” I called softly.

  Bill looked away from her and saw me. He’d played ball with Pop for years and sometimes even gave us rides home from the games in the blue cruiser.

  “Jesus,” he said almost to himself. “Why don’t you stay over there. She’ll be all right.”

  “What . . . ?”

  “She had a spell. I think it was a spell,” volunteered Mr. Allenizio.

  “She’s all right,” Bill said. “Don’t worry, kid.”

  “One minute she’s showing a woman a new facial cream, and the next minute she’s talking some odd language. She’s screaming things. She’s saying ‘chay’ and ‘chee’ and ‘dampers,’ and she runs to the back of the store and climbs up on the counter and takes her fingernails—”

  “Don’t worry, kid,” Bill said. “Don’t worry. She’s a good girl. We’re calling your old man.”

  “Ide?” the cop by the phone yelled.

  “Ide! On Brightridge Avenue!” Bill yelled back.

  Bethany had been quiet, but now she whispered my name.

  “Hook. Oh, Hook.” She sobbed quietly, trying to catch her breath.

  “I’m here, Bethany,” I said, moving toward her.

  “Kid, please,” Bill said holding up his hand.

  “I’m all right,” I said.

  Bill released his grip on Bethany slowly, then stood up.

  “Hook,” she sobbed again.

  “I’m right here, Bethany,” I said, moving to take Bill’s place.

  I stood over my sister and wobbled. I closed my eyes tightly, then opened them again and felt my head blur. I knelt down next to her and brushed her black hair away from her face, back toward the floor. She opened her eyes and looked up at me. She actually smiled a little smile.

  “Hook,” she said.

  I smiled back to my sister, and that beautiful, sweet face, ripped and torn by her fingernails. The jagged scores bone deep. The amazing quantity of blood such little veins could carry.

  “I’m here, Bethany,” I said. “Hook’s here.”

  7

  Polly Sutter was a small, brown-haired woman, around forty, with two black moles on her temple the size of quarters. She wore a long black jacket that hung almost as low as her black pleated skirt. She smelled exactly like a Camel cigarette.

  “How’s it going?” she said, nodding a condolence as though she knew what I was going to say.

  “Okay.”

  “Good crowd last night? Good showing? Went well?”

  This was the second and last viewing of Mom and Pop at the funeral home of Polly and Dick Sutter. They were brother and sister, offspring of the late Richard Sutter, original owner of Sutter Rest, and grandchildren of Bob Sutter, who had written a book about Virginia ham, called Salt, Keep Meat Fresh Without Ice. Polly had had a date the first viewing night and was anxious for news.

  “It was fine,” I said.

  “Tonight? Many?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Life,” she said, lighting a cigarette with the last spark of her previous one, “life is a funny thing. We go through ups and downs, winters and summers, but somewhere, sometimes, it’s good. I want you to think about all those good times.”

  Polly coughed, a juicy rumble deep inside.

  “Jesus, God.” She coughed again and looked at her cigarette. “I got to stop this.”

  I looked at Polly and wondered if Dick would fix his sister up when it was her time. I wondered if Dick and Polly had fixed up their father.

  Aunt Paula and the Count stood next to me at the foot of Mom and Pop, and we shook hands with the people as they filed past. Most of them were friends from school or Masons or church or baseball, but there were some enemies, too, like Mr. Mayeo who kept a kennel of yapping mutts, and Mr. Viera with his accordion, and even the horrible Liz Fox who bumped Mom from Altar Guild to Hymnal Distribution. Everybody came. Everybody comes when you die. Old Jimmy Boylston came.

  Jimmy had played with my pop in the early days. He was much older than his teammates, but he had grit, Pop said. You had to respect him. Jimmy lived with his son’s family now and was a tremendous burden. He wore a baseball uniform all day, cleats included, and on many occasions, when he felt he had taken a sufficient lead and the pitcher had let his concentration wane, Jimmy Boylston stole kitchen. If you were Jimmy’s son, Jimmy Jr., or his son’s wife, you would not find the run and slide funny. Baseball was life and death to Jimmy Boylston. It was everything.

  What would happen was that Jimmy would be in the TV room watching his soap operas, and something would set him off. He’d slowly get up, take a lead, and crouch. Now, if you caught him in the crouch, he could be talked back to his recliner in front of the TV. But if he had the time to set, you were screwed. When he used to steal for the old Providence Steamrollers, and even later with Pop’s Socony club, he was quiet as a mouse until he exploded for second. He’d let out a ferocious “Yaaaaa!” that lasted for fifty or sixty feet. Old age had robbed Jimmy of his speed, stripped that ballsy headfirst, lightning plunge from his arsenal, but time had not eroded the electric “Yaaaaa!” From the TV room, through the living room, and onto the off-white center tile of the kitchen, time turned in on itself.

  “Aw, fuck. Well, goddamn it. Now, shit,” stammered Jimmy, squeezing my hand with both of his. His gray uniform had thin red stripes. It was baggy and worn but newly laundered. He wore his pants high and his red socks high, too. His head seemed to swim in the blue Steamroller cap.

  “Goddamn it to shit. Fuck,” he explained softly.

  “Thanks for coming, Jimmy. This is my Aunt Paula and Uncle Count.”

  “Jesus, huh? Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He nodded comfortingly.

  Jimmy scraped at the rug with his cleats.

  “Dad just had to come,” Jimmy Jr. said behind him. “We’re so sorry about your folks.”

  “Fuck. Shit. Fuck,” Jimmy agreed solemnly.

  “C’mon, Dad.”

  “At least,” Jimmy said, “at least, at least, at least. One good thing. One good thing!” Jimmy’s eyes welled, and he set his jaw. “At least those fucking Boston Red Sox won’t be breaking your father’s heart anymore.”

  “You’re right, Jimmy.”

  “Well . . .” He paused and drew a deep, wheezing breath. “Fuck.”

  Jimmy and Jimmy Jr. moved on, past Mom and Pop. He looked wonderful in his chess gray home uniform. He didn’t take his hat off, but that was okay. He had permission. The big steal was coming soon, and he knew it right down to his cleats. He’d meet Mr. Grim Reaper feetfirst at blazing speed, with those sharpened cleats about chest high. Like my pop said, you just had to respect him.

  After about an hour and a half, I took a break. Count had started telling little jokes to his friends, and while me and Aunt Paula were shooting people through the line with just a couple of words, Count stood there like a buddha, holding on to their hands and not letting go until he finished. He’d lean forward, pretend to look around to make sure no one was watching, then let out one of his classics.

  “There were these two fags. . . .”

  “These fags got into a cab. . . .”

  “There was this fag priest. . . .”

 
“Two fags were in a bar. . . .”

  “Four fags were on a boat. . . .”

  “Train full of fags going to a convention. . . .”

  Count carried something like 300 pounds on his five-foot-eight body. I’m a slob, okay, 279 pounds, five-eleven, can’t breathe half the time, a belly with a separate life and everything, but next to Count I was slim. Not slim, okay, but just another fat guy. Count was a higher order of porker. He’d crossed the line that says forget holding in your belly, forget buying smaller clothes, forget everything, baby, and be proud. Count would set those two little feet on the ground, and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere. My pop would always laugh and tell Mom that Count would outlive him. He never believed it, though, never. Now Count was seventy-one, 300 pounds, pure New York cheesecake blood, and standing over my pop telling jokes.

  “I’m coming? I thought I was going!” Ha, ha, ha.

  “I thought it was a corkscrew!” Ha, ha, ha.

  “Us? We came on the train!” Ha, ha, ha.

  I walked past Polly Sutter out a side door and into the parking lot. The East Providence air was damp but cool, with just a hint of the Rumford Chemical Works one town over. I lit a cigarette, opened the Buick’s door, and took a quart of Narragansett Lager out of the small cooler I’d brought. It was very cold, and I drank it right out of the bottle. I finished it quickly, unscrewed another quart, and lit another cigarette. I took another long swallow of Rhode Island’s fine lager beer and sat back. It’s hard sometimes to think. The cigarette is just a lightness now. My pop said he smoked for the taste. There’s a lightness for me, then a little sting, but really no taste to it. I like a lot of beer. Or if not a lot of beer, then beer with maybe some bourbon. I had some small airplane bottles of Ten High I bought on sale at Rose’s liquor store. I kept them under the Buick’s seat. I don’t think a person should drink and drive, and of course say no to drugs. I opened one of the airplane bottles and drank it. Sipped it, really, I sip the bourbon. Beer is more or less drunk; bourbon gets sipped. I sipped it all down, and then I sipped a couple more.

  You know how things get quiet when it’s an odd time? That’s what it was in the parking lot. It was a quiet that was a thing all by itself. I remember the night I got so hurt in the army. Me and this Puerto Rican kid were sitting on a stump at the edge of this swampy place where the company commander had insisted our platoon set up for the night. It was loud, like the bugs had drums and horns. Loud enough that even if you could have fallen asleep—and we never slept out there at night—but even if you could have, you couldn’t. So I had to pee and started to pee in such a way that it went into the swampy water, and—this is true—the bugs and the things that were crawling around all over the swamp, not just where we were, went quiet. That exact same quiet that was, like I said, a thing, a solid thing.

  The Puerto Rican kid’s name was Orlando Cepeda, same as the baseball player. He got shot dead right away, no time for crying or anything. What happened was they heard me peeing. They picked it up, and they all just started firing everything in the general direction of my pee. I got seven different kinds of slugs of the sixteen the doctor took from my thigh and my butt and my chest. I get nervous when it goes very quiet. It’s hard to explain, but if I had to sum it up, I’d say that when it gets very quiet, I always feel like I’ve done something bad.

  I put the cigarette out and screwed on the ’Gansett lid. I’d have to pee soon, but I knew I could use Polly and her brother’s toilet. That quiet kept coming like a wave. I stepped away from the Buick and looked at Aunt Paula and Count through the window. People kept coming. People kept up the funeral line. My collar was tight, my thoughts weren’t clear, and my mouth got so dry. My mouth gets so dry sometimes.

  “Smithy,” she called, and it scared me. I swung around slowly to where Bethany held a pose in the farthest corner of the parking lot. Her black hair blew gently in the night air. Her arms above her head and fingers splayed to the first stars.

  “Smithy,” she called again.

  “I’m here. Hook’s here.”

  “I’m behind you.”

  I started to turn, then turned back to Bethany. But Bethany had become the little maple tree in the farthest corner and her black hair blowing, only night leaves. It’s true. It happens. I have followed her down rivers and seen her on hospital ceilings. It’s the clearness of it that bothers me, and yet it’s the clearness that doesn’t. I see her. I see her arms and fingers and heavy hair, but it’s a ghost that’s young and true. Sometimes I watch myself ride my Raleigh to her. Sometimes I watch my own tears in the dark.

  “Smithy?”

  I turned around. The wheelchair flashed under the light from the funeral home. Norma Mulvey sat with a look of defiance. She had grown into her eyes. They were still pale green but no longer dominated her face, which was lightly freckled. Her red hair was cut short and tight against her head. Norma looked young. Ever see a young person and want to hold your stomach in? I held it in, but it had its life to live, and would live it.

  “I’m Norma Mulvey,” she said, both hands on her large back wheels.

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Smithy.”

  “I know.”

  “Bea’s in there,” Norma said, gesturing to the funeral home. She always called Bea “Bea,” even when she was a kid. I remembered that.

  “Bea’s paying her respects, but I didn’t want to see Mom and Pop in coffins. That okay?”

  “Sure. I’m going to light a cigarette, okay?”

  “I won’t explode,” she laughed.

  “I meant, you know, smoking and people, sometimes . . .”

  “I was kidding.”

  “I know.”

  Norma rolled over to a blue van parked sideways across two parking spots.

  “This is mine,” she said tapping the driver’s-side door. “Little lever here opens the door, another lever sends an elevator gizmo down and sets me up to drive. Operate the gas and brakes manually. Manually I’m in good shape. I lift weights. I have good cardiovascular. I really do.”

  “That’s great,” I said, the way I say almost everything—stupidly.

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  Norma looked pretty when she was talking. When she talked, she didn’t look defiant. I guess a person who’s in a wheelchair gets an attitude. I guess the attitude is defiance.

  “I do drafting freelance,” she said, looking at her van. “Got a facsimile machine, computer linkups, tilt table—the works. Do some magazine layouts, some Providence Journal, but mostly, because they can rely on the steadiness of my line, I work on architectural blueprints. It’s a skill, you know. I’m very, very good.”

  “I . . .”

  “And because I never see you, I just wanted you to know how it is. I don’t want you to think I roll around Bea’s house doing nothing. Mostly my days are work. I pay all the bills, I take care of my mother. Not the other way around. I have an exercise system set up so I can get a good cardiovascular workout.”

  Norma still hadn’t looked at me. Her arms and shoulders appeared strong, and she sat—it’s true—tall in her chair. She had a chesty voice that sounded full and hard. I could feel the bourbon warming me. I started to sweat and needed to pee.

  “You get my letters?”

  “Letters?” I asked stupidly.

  “I wrote you at the hospital.”

  The hospital was twenty-four years ago.

  “I wrote you every day. I sent good thoughts.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then how come you never came over to see me? How come? Stupid question. Never mind. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about Mom and Pop. They were so good. They used to hold hands. I’d look out the window, and they held hands. It was awfully nice. And it wasn’t easy for them. Bethany was so beautiful and so nice. But it was hard for them. Do you know where she is now?”

  “We don’t know. I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Just gone,” Norma said. “She would tap on my windo
w, and when I opened it, she would blow me kisses. Or she’d do a pose. Sometimes she’d hold the pose too long. Remember?”

  “I remember,” I said, not so stupidly.

  “She was so beautiful, but it was hard for Mom and Pop. How would a person know what to do when you love someone and they hurt themselves? I’m clean, too. I don’t know, I don’t know if you’ve known people who can’t move around with their legs. Sometimes you think they can’t keep themselves clean. I’ve got systems for everything. Clean. Very, very mobile. I take care of Bea, you know. There really isn’t anything I can’t do. You haven’t changed.”

  I moved one hand to my chest. It slid unconsciously to the ridge above my stomach. Down below, the enormous avalanche of guts suspended over my strained belt defying gravity and other laws. My free hand passed unobstructed through the several strands of graying brown hair on my head. I was drunk, but I was used to it.

  “I mean,” she said as if correcting herself, “you look great.”

  “I . . . I got to go back in now, Norma. My aunt and uncle . . .”

  “Oh, yes, yes, you’d better. I’m so sorry. They were really wonderful, wonderful people.”

  I walked back into the funeral home. I was numbed from the bourbon and beer, and I kept getting a distracting little pain and racing in my heart, but I could still feel her, it’s true, feel her looking at me walk, as if she were behind those venetian blinds in the dark.

  8

  Mom and Pop were at their best when it was worst. There was a kind of calmness, and it would settle over our house. We’d spend so much time waiting for the bad part that it was almost a relief when it came. We didn’t have to wait in that edgy, nervous zone, because what we waited for had come, and for a while we were rescued from it. From the waiting, I mean.

  I was sixteen when Bethany jumped off the Red Bridge. It was two days after Christmas, and she’d been great. Really. Church was wonderful, and Bethany had helped plan a caroling thing with some of the other choir members. I didn’t go because I went to Diamond Hill in Cumberland, Rhode Island. Some kids I knew were going there to ski on the little hill. I didn’t ski, but Linda Overson was going, and I just had to go because she was so good-looking, and I wanted her to like me, which she never did. Bethany climbed to the very top of the bridge, which connected East Providence with Providence, adjacent to Swan Point Cemetery, where the Ides go when they die. What I know about it comes mostly from the Providence Journal, but some information I got from my pop, who didn’t see it, but some of the boys in the Brown crew who were rowing under the bridge at the time told him.