Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (34 page)

Nancy wagged her head, watching perhaps thirty other
people dressed just like me standing in an auxiliary parking lot off
Route 495 in Hopkinton. In a rain shower, temperature in the high
forties.

I said, "These conditions are supposed to be
good for the race."

Nancy made an indescribable noise.

Getting out of her car, I fiddled with the green
garbage bag I was wearing, my head through the hole I'd made on top.
My fiddling had to be from the inside, because I hadn't cut any arm
holes.

"John, please be careful."

"You'll be at the finish line, in the archway of
the bank?"

"With the stretcher bearers. Good luck, you
jerk."

I closed the passenger door, and she drove off.

A yellow shuttle bus arrived. We trash bags filled it
front to back. Inefficient, should have been back to front. Nobody
was carrying much, just wearing extra layers against the wind, rain,
and cold. Nervous banter, the laughter too hearty.

It was a few miles to a school building. From a van
in the circular driveway a kid read incomprehensible instructions
over a loudspeaker, presumably for the registered runners. Hundreds
of us bandits stood under eaves and overhangs, dodging the raindrops
and trying to sound modest about what time we'd finish. A lot of the
folks were my age or older, and no one mentioned not finishing.

At eleven-thirty people began moving in throngs
toward the street. I followed, the throngs swelling to form their own
little parade. We were pointed toward the village green and past the
yellow ropes that corralled the sixty-four hundred registered
runners, in numerical order, white cardboards with red numerals
flapping against breast plates and spinal columns.

At the back of the pack I stripped down to shorts, a
cotton turtleneck and the BODY BY NAUTILUS, BRAIN BY MATTEL T-shirt
Nancy had given me for Christmas. Balling up my outer clothes, I
added them to one of the ragged heaps on the sidewalk.

The crowd buzzed, and the report of the starter's
pistol provoked a loud, long cheer. Nobody in my part of the pack
moved for a good six minutes. Beginning slowly, I finally crossed the
start line at eight minutes after noon, jogging downhill lightly and
freely. There was more spring in my step than I expected, and no pain
at all from the closing wound in my side.

A remarkable number of people flanked the road
despite suburban, even rural, countryside and lousy weather for
spectating. The elderly in lawn chairs, holding umbrellas in gnarled
hands. Kids in slickers with peaked fronts like the beaks of ducks,
splashing both feet in rain puddles. Middle-aged men in Windbreakers
and baseball caps, John Deere or Boston Bruin logos, applauding
stoically.

An oompah band had fun in a supermarket lot. A
country and western group strummed from a truck dealership. Under a
carport, a souped-up Dodge Charger idled, trunk lid up and facing the
street, two stereo speakers booming out the theme from Chariots of
Fire.

A younger woman running my pace paired up with me,
and we talked in brief, grunted sentences. At one point we had to
veer around a video crew in street clothes, gamely jogging beside a
TV reporter who was doing her first marathon and providing the
station with a "running" commentary.

There were other funny things early in the race, so
many I missed a few of the mile markers as I got caught up in the
atmosphere. A guy in a Viking helmet. Two women in tuxedos and top
hats. A brawny gray-head in a strappy undershirt wearing a
coat-hanger crown, the hook dangling an empty Budweiser can a foot in
front of his mouth.

And the T-shirts. Every conceivable college and
university, but also some with legends. LESMISARABLES. SAY NO TO
DRUGS. NOT TILL YOU CRY, TRAIN TILL YOU DIE. One man's front read
CELIBATE SINCE CHRISTMAS, the back, WATCH THE KICK.

By mile ten, however, the initial adrenaline was
gone. Age ache returned to my knees and hips, and my side at the
wound began to burn every other step. I found I had to concentrate.
Breathe rhythmically. Maintain the stride. Drink lots of liquids. I
also found I had to come to a stop to take the water, otherwise I
knocked the cup from the offerer's hand and couldn't swallow
properly.

My partner pulled up lame at mile eleven. I said I'd
wait for her, but dejectedly she said no, it had happened before and
wouldn't get better.

After that the images are a little hazy, just kind of
strung together. Passing Boston's Mayor Flynn, a former basketball
star at Providence College a couple of academic generations before I
hit Holy Cross. I thought back to the tree-lighting ceremony and his
short speech, when Nancy almost said the "O" word. Then I
looked at Flynn. Hizzoner's face was red as a beet but the legs still
churned, what looked like two well-conditioned cops on either side of
him. If he could do it, so could I.

The rain perfect for what we were doing, neither too
hot nor too cold. My clothing felt like just a particularly moist
outer layer of skin.

A blind man and a sighted woman, him jogging her
pace, his hand resting lightly on her forearm. Each smiled a lot, but
for each other, not the crowd.

The sweet but refreshing tang of Exceed, the orange
drink restoring lost chemicals. Just as Bo said it would.

Runners with numbers at the side of the road in
agony, clasping blown-out knees or torn Achilles tendons. Members of
the crowd put sacrificed jackets around the runners' shoulders as
race officials with walkie-talkies tried to raise the sweep bus.

Wellesley College, roughly the midpoint of the race.
The young women stood four deep, cheering so wildly I heard them for
half a mile before the crest of their hill. Some offered liquids,
others paper towels to wipe off the salt caking our legs.

On the downslope, passing a woman in her forties.
Cellulite jiggled over the backs of her thighs as she muttered her
way through a downpour.

Mile fifteen. The legs no worse, but my left side
really throbbing now, no matter which foot was striking the ground. I
probed it once with my index finger. Just a little blood seeping
through the dressing. Orange rinds, scattered over the road like
autumn leaves, slippery as banana peels. After nearly going down
once, I began picking my way around them.

Johnny A. Kelley, eighty years young, exulting in his
fifty-seventh marathon. A painter's hat worn backward on his head, he
blew kisses to the increased roar he received as each section of the
crowd recognized him.

Mile seventeen. Column right onto Commonwealth at the
firehouse to begin Heartbreak Hill. Counting the inclines and
plateaus to stay oriented, I remembered Bo's advice and kept my eyes
on the horizon. Four-fifths of the field were walking, the other
twenty percent of us still running, my knees feeling like I was
climbing a rope ladder.

Gaining on a father propelling his son in a
wheelchair. I realized the man got no rest at all, having to push on
the upslopes and then drag on the downslopes. A few of us offered to
spell him. The father smiled and shook a drenched head.

Mile twenty-one. Boston College and the top of
Heartbreak. Exhilaration, then the incredible bunching pain in the
backs of the legs from going downhill. My calves went mushy, and my
feet kept tangling. My left side felt like somebody was plowing it
with baling hooks.

No functioning water stations for two miles until
just below Coolidge Corner, where a guy my age and his kids braved
the rain outside a majestic synagogue. They poured from Belmont
Springs bottles as fast as they could, all of us thanking them. I
remember the daughter saying she thought I was her five thousandth
cup that day, my legs warning me not to stop for too long.

The marker said "25" at Kenmore Square.
Every joint below my waist had tossed in the towel, the bones sawing
and grating against each other. The crowd chanted a single phrase.
One more mile, one more mile.

At Hereford Street we made a right toward Boylston.
The first ninety-degree turn for a while, I found I had to
consciously plan how to do it. An older man in front of me took the
corner too fast. His hamstring snapped like a dry branch, and he went
down. Several people from the crowd pushed through police barriers to
aid him.

I eased left onto Boylston Street, three hundred
yards to go. The crowd was still enormous, easily two hours after the
technical winners had passed. They screamed, clapped, and whistled,
most of us summoning a little extra to acknowledge the encouragement.

The finish line itself was under a viewing stand.
Yellow and white awning, beneath it bunting in orange, blue, and
white, the colors so vivid through the rain. Crossing the line, I
thought I heard Nancy calling my name, the official clock glowing
4:11:31. Not counting water stations, I stopped running for the first
time in over four hours. Hands on hips, I kept walking to postpone
the cramping. Scanning the crowd, I looked for an old Redskins cap
and taped glasses. Not there. Other runners slumped on the sidewalk
or trundled with tiny steps, wrapped in foil-like Mylar blankets to
ward off hypothermia. Under the archway of the bank, Nancy waved to
me, holding a little camera high with her left hand, as though she
were taking a photo over the heads of people in front of her. "I
got you crossing the finish line!"

In yellow foul-weather gear, the peak riding down
almost to her nose, she'd never looked more beautiful to me.

I stopped and posed in right profile. Nancy brought
the camera to her eye, clicked a button, and put the camera in a coat
pocket. I said, "I heard you yell to me."

"I couldn't believe I could finally go inside."

"I want a hug."

"Not on your life. You're the most disgusting
creature I've ever seen."

"What happened to the stretcher bearers?"

"Unionized. They went home at four."

I tried taking another step, cramped, and had to grab
a signpost to keep from falling. My hand away from the hip, Nancy got
a look at my left side.

She hurried over and steadied me. "John, your
shirt's soaked with blood!"

"That's not the problem."

"Then what is?"

"My legs hurt."

"Revelation. Your legs should hurt after you
drive twenty-six miles."

"Maybe at your age."

That brought a smile. "You're a dunce, John."

"If I can just rest my arm on you . . ."

Nancy took my hand and drew my arm around her
shoulder.

"That's Dunce, capital D, and I'm worse for
loving you."

We moved off like that, medic and soldier, through
the crowd still cheering for the people still coming in.
 

=32=

BACK AT THE CONDO I TOOK A LONG, SLOW BATH, MY
REOPENED side and a blackened toenail the only visible damage. Pride
made me crawl over the side of the tub rather than call out to Nancy
for help. After I toweled off, I taped a new dressing on my side and
got into some clean clothes.

Nancy and I celebrated with pizza delivered by
Domino's and ale chilled by refrigerator. The six o'clock news gave
extended coverage to the race. It was an out-of-body experience,
seeing the start better from a helicopter's point of view than I had
at the back of the pack, the winners crossing the finish line in half
the time I took.

By eight o'clock I was walking well enough for Nancy
to head home and prepare for her trial. Just after she left I thought
about trying to see Alec Bacall, which made me think about Maisy
Andrus. Fired or not, I cou1dn't seem to let go.

I picked up the receiver and punched in the number of
the Andrus town house. The voice we all recognize said, "I'm
sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service at this time.
P1ease — "

Depressing the plunger, I tried again. Same message.
I thought back to Saturday, the hoarse voice. To Sunday, busy, like
maybe she'd taken the phone off the hook. Now Monday, not in service,
like maybe she'd left it off the hook.

I got the snub-nosed Chief's Special from the
bedroom. What was seven blocks after twenty-six miles?

This time, though, I. didn't run it.

It was a moonless night, not much activity on the
holiday now that the marathon crowd had dispersed. As I turned onto
the little mews, there was no one in sight.

I hobbled to the front steps and used the knocker.
Nothing. I waited, tried again. Still nothing. Then I heard it.

The sound of glass breaking, followed by a strangled
cry. The door was locked. My legs didn't want to work, but I finally
braced a shoulder against the hinge jamb and generated enough force
to smash my right foot through the wood at the lock.

Inside the foyer, weapon in hand, I could hear the
sounds of a struggle from the kitchen. I crossed to the swinging
door, hitting it and diving onto the linoleum.

I slid to a stop three feet from Maisy Andrus,
thrashing around on the floor.

Arms outstretched, back arched, her legs pistoned
like a brat throwing a tantrum. Her eyes and throat bulged, and her
mouth was locked half open, saliva cascading down her chin and
cheeks. One leg kicked out, toppling a breakfast stool.