The Memory of Running (11 page)

She grunted to her feet and pulled her sack of chalk over her shoulder. She walked around
her bird, and off.

Thats the real McCoy, fat boy. Thats Omega there. Thats Gods work.

The Washington Square Park breeze is like a wheel. I mean, one tree will shake its leaves
in the wind and stop, and another one will shake. One at a time. I called Norma from the
edge of the park.

Yes? Norma? Smithy? I watched an old woman draw a circle on the pavement, a blue

circle, and then draw this perfect bird with colors and light all shoot- ing off it. I
felt silly saying that. Norma couldnt see the bird, and I stopped before I explained about
notes that wash away in the rain. But it felt good saying something that somehow seemed
important to me. She waited until she was sure I was finished with the bird.

Where are you, Smithy?

Im in New York City. Im at the Washington Square Park. Thats where the hippies used to be.
Theres still some, only they look older. I dont have any money. I

was wondering, what do you think is the best way for me to get some money?

I can send it. But whats the best way? Will you call me back in ten minutes? I can call my
bank. I have money in my bank. I mean, I can pay you back. Oh, Smithy. I could hear her
again as if she had to cover the

phone with her hand so I wouldnt hear her cry. Me. All disgusting on the other end of the
phone, calling collect. She came back on. Ten minutes, she said, hanging up.

Ten minutes later I called her back.

Smithy? Okay. I called my banker. Find a Chemical Bank, tell them youre having money wired
from the Old Stone Bank in Providence.

Chemical? Chemical. She had energy and defiance, even in her voice. I could see her

sitting tall. I could imagine all of her work spread out in front of her. Ill pay you
back. Oh, Smithy. Oh . . . She sounded like she might cover the phone

again, but she didnt. Im looking at a picture. Im holding Bethanys hand, and Im grabbing
at your sleeve, and Pop is in his Socony base- ball uniform. I remember Mom taking the
picture. I just love . . . I just get happy seeing this picture.

I . . . see Bethany sometimes, Norma. I see her really clearly and when I do, shes dancing
or shes in a pose. Do you think its all right for me to see her?

I felt her in Rhode Island. I felt how fierce she could be when she wanted to.

I think its perfect, she said.

Well . . . I said after a bit. I suppose . . . she said, and her voice drifted off into
the park. We held the phone, I guess, Norma and I. We held each other

quietly to our ears. Thanks, Norma. Smithy, Im sorry I said all that about not being held
and making

you feel bad so you had to say youd hold me. I didnt feel bad, Norma. Id hold you. We hung
for a minute in the air, and then she said, Bye, Smithy. Bye, Norma.

Dr. Glenn Golden had been recommended by several members of Grace Episcopal as a caring
physician with a warm, outgoing person- ality. He could talk to Mom and Pop and even
occasionally me about Bethanys profound psychosis as if he were talking about some slight
outbreak of teenage acne. His process was loosely like this: He would visit Bethany at
Bradley on Tuesdays and Thursdays (when she came home, he added Saturday) and then
schedule a weekly chat with Mom and Pop, usually on Mondays. The financial arrangement,
again loosely, was that Pop agreed never to take another vacation for the rest of his life
and to give all the money to Glenn. My pop thought this was actually a fair deal, because
it coincided with my sis- ters voice hiding out for a whileand he was all too happy to
give credit to the warm and outgoing Glenn Golden.

What do we do when the voice comes back? I asked one Mon- day, sitting with Mom and Pop in
the Thayer Street Medical Building.

Say hi, the doctor joked, smiling his warm smile.

Mom and Pop smiled also, but I kept the question on my skinny face.

Well, you know, Bethanys voice is not something thats really there. Its not something she
really hears.

Yes she does, I said.

He smiled warmly. No, what I meant was, she gets a feeling, maybe, but she doesnt actually
hear a voice.

Yes she does. Shhhh, Mom whispered. You see, the voice she hears is sort of intuitive. Its
really not cor-

rect clinically to call it a voice at all. But she hears it. She really, actually hears
it, and she really, actu-

ally talks to it. Sometimes Ive heard it, when shes in her room alone. It says things, and
what it says is crazy.

Lots of people talk to themselves, he said, less warmly.

This is not talking to yourself or anything. This is real, like, conversations.

Lets remember Bethany first, he said. Lets remember that she comes first.

I didnt understand what he meant, but he got up and walked over to the door. Were counting
progress minute by minute. Im very encouraged.

We left the doctor and drove home. Bethany had cooked for us, but she seemed distant, as
if she were thinking of something she shouldnt have been thinking. That, I would say, is
the hardest of all. Knowing that something called her, from God knows where.

At first they wouldnt give me the money. I really didnt blame them. My reason for not
having any identification must have seemed crazy. How I took the exit ramp too fast and
how my brakes werent ad- justed properly, causing me to crash through the trees and fly
into Wood River. The bank officers kept saying, Just a second, and theyd get another
officer to hear the story, then another, until all the Chemical Bank officers at Fifth and
Fourteenth knew my story. If it werent for Norma, who had driven to the Old Stone Bank and
was sitting right there with her banker, I never would have been able to take the money
she wired.

It was almost noontime when I walked out of the bank. The money felt very nice in my
shorts pocket. I kept feeling it. Money is nice. I dont mean its wonderful like a river or
anything; and, as they say, it cant buy happiness, but its comfortable in your pocket. And
its a real pleasure to know you can fill up your bikes saddlebags with bananas and apples,
and even those huge juice oranges, anytime you want. Which I did on Sixteenth Street.
Right next to the fruit stand was a clothing store, and in the window was a serious answer
to my porkiness. A huge XXL, twelve-pocketed, khaki fishing vest. The store dummy had
camera gear in his vest, but I figured the pockets were a bonus. The vest could cover my
Europe-size hips and Mount McKinley ass. Especially on the road. This doesnt mean
anything, but I thought I looked okay in it. Twenty-five bucks. So I was get- ting set. I
was sort of taking some control. I stopped at a bookstore and bought a pocket map of the
United States and a paperback novel at the checkout line. The novel was called Iggy, and I
didnt know what it was about, but, like money, it felt good zipped into my vest pocket.

It was afternoon, and I was ready to ride. Where? I needed to go somewhere. Denver. I
spread my map, and I saw it. I felt something,

and I think it was determination. People looked clear on the street. I had a book, for
Gods sake, in one of my pockets. An older man in shorts and a New York Yankees T-shirt
jogged in place next to me waiting for the light to change.

Excuse me, sir, whats the best way to get out of the city? Out of the city? he said. Yes,
sir. You dont get out of the city. Nobody does. After he jogged off,

I asked a young woman. Where to? Denver. Thats west.

I guess. PATH tubes. PATH tubes? Fourteenth, Sixth. Thank you. Then Jersey Transit. Thank
you. West. Thanks. I walked my bike to Fourteenth and Sixth, and everybody helped

me west. Out of New York from under a river, I got on a train head- ing toward a place I
recognized from my map of New Jersey. Mont- clair. I got off the train with my Raleigh,
and nobody said boo about a fat guy with a bike in the aisle. I bought a tuna sandwich and
some apple juice and took it to a little park and ate and marked up my map. Denver didnt
look that far. I walked across the space between New Jersey and Denver with my fingers. A
dog ran across the green of the park, and I thought of Malzone. I began Iggy, there in
that park. Reading is a lot like riding a bike. Once you get back to it, its easy, its
natural. But at firstlike the deep, deep, stab in your legs and hips and stomach and chest
from the Raleighthe sentences

twist your head. I read eleven pages that afternoon before my brain said, Wait. I found
out that Iggy was black, was a cowboy, and that 70 to 80 percent of the true cowboys in
the Old West were black. Eleven pages. Headache.

I ate some bananas, and when it got dark, I pushed the bike under a pine tree and lay near
it on the grass. In the very early morning, I was cold and damp, and I dreamed it had
rained all night. I made a mental note, in a part of my huge head that Iggy hadnt banged
up, to get a sleeping bag and a raincoat; then I pumped off in the general direction of
Pennsylvania.

So I picked up Jill Fisher at six oclock in my pops Ford wagon. She looked nice in a sort
of off-white long dress that made her appear taller than she was but didnt show how big
her chest was. I gave her the corsage, which was expensive but just what she wanted, with
yel- low somethings and lilies. Her mother made a big fuss about how nice we looked
together. I could tell that Jill had been crying, be- cause her eyes were all red.

I wish your father could see his little girl, Mrs. Fisher gushed. Jack Fisher had gone to
school with my pop and had bought it in Italy on the last day of the Big War. Pop always
thought some wop had got him, but Mom said it was most likely a leftover kraut. What-
ever, I was glad I didnt have to deal with another parent. I dont mean that like it sounds.

I opened the door to the Ford, and she got in and folded her long dress in with her.

Listen, Jill, I said, we have to stop at my house for five minutes. My mom wants pictures
and stuff.

Jill Fisher was quiet for a few blocks. Then she said, Look, no big deal, but Billy is
going to the prom, too, and were probably going to run into him.

Thats okay, I said. Hes going with Cheryl Adams. Its no big deal. We drove for a minute,
and then she started to cry. I didnt know

what to say. I didnt know why she would cry for somebody who didnt want to be with her. I
guess I dont get that part of it.

Dont cry, Jill. Cheryl Adams, she sniffed, honest to God. When I pulled into our driveway,
Mom and Pop came out. We

posed for pictures, and Jill did that girl thing that girls do so good. Made it all seem
natural and happy. I looked around for Bethany and

finally saw her looking out her bedroom window. She waved at me with a small wave, and I
waved back. I knew Norma was watching, too. I almost walked next door to show her my
tuxedo, which was all black with the purple tie and purple cummerbund, but there were too
many years now. Id let them pile up, like a coward. I could feel her venetian blinds bend
and snap behind me.

A bunch of us were going to Chip Santoss house before heading to Rhodes on the Pawtuxet
for the dance. I liked Chip, and I thought his mother and father and sisters were
terrific. Mrs. Santos had the rec room all decorated and lots of food and soda and stuff,
and Mr. Santos came down and told Chip that if the gang wanted to go to their summer home
in Bristol for a late party after the prom, that was okay. He made a big deal about giving
Chip the key. It was this thing that Mr. Santos could do for his boy. It was just so nice.

Jill found some of her girlfriends and went over to them immedi- ately, and I went
upstairs and watched some Red Sox with Mr. and Mrs. Santos.

Radatz has no snap in his arm, Mr. Santos said to no one in particular.

Thats not good, his wife said. No snap at all. After a while I went back downstairs and
got some soda and went

over to stand around sort of close to Jill. I assumed that was my as- signment. Her
friends, I guess, didnt like me, because some of them acted as though they had to protect
her from me. That was really get- ting someone wrong. Nobody in the world ever had to be
protected from me. I never even fired my weapon in-country. Ever.

Anyway, I stood there; then we all left in a kind of caravan to Rhodes on the Pawtuxet.
Jill was very quiet, and she squnched against her door as if at any second I was going to
reach out and grab her. Well, here is the truth. Here is my dilemma. I do not like to
touch, and I cannot stand being touched. Not that I wouldnt like to have sex with a girl
or touch her in wonderful places, and not that I

dont think about it, or used to think about it, but I suppose I really, really would have
to love that girl, and I havent done that yet. The stuff I told you about those
prostitutes was awful. I couldnt bear it. I dont know why I did it. I understand why they
hated me so very much. Yes.

Todd Sanderson and his swing banda piano, a trumpet, a saxo- phone, and a bass, with Naomi
Lesko from Warwick, Rhode Island, on vocalsperformed arrangements of Dion & The Belmonts,
Fats Domino, and Elvis, as well as some outstanding movie themes. The bandstand was in the
middle of the dance floor, so of course you danced around it. Like standing near Jill in
Chips basement, I wanted to try to get the assignment right.

May I have this dance? I said, as cute as I could. I . . . have to go to the girls room.
Okay, I said, and Jill walked away. This was going better than I

thought. I had imagined there might have been some social or cul- tural rituals to proms
that I didnt know about, and I wasnt prepared for any surprises. The girls room was
something I guessed might happen.

I stood around for an hour or so, and then I figured I better find Jill and go stand near
her. I thought I saw her by the parking-lot door, but as I walked over, somebody grabbed
my arm.

Where you going?

I turned around, and Dick Marshall stood there, not letting go of me. Like all really dumb
guys, Dick had a group that did everything together. Billy Carrara, who was usually a
pretty good guy, was also part of this group. Actually, Jill was part of it and Billy sort
of joined up. I shook off his hand.

So where you going? Outside. Stay inside. What do you mean, stay inside? His girlfriend,
for as long as I remembered, even in grade school,

was Barbie Zinowitz. I see her now sometimes, when I go to the big movie complex in
Sekonk. Shes bigger than me, and I pretend I dont know her.

Stay away, thats all. Jill and Billy are talking, Barbie snarled. Yeah, added Dick. Why
dont you dance with Cheryl Adams or something, Barbie

said. Her group laughed. I saw Cheryl across the dance floor, moving in place, snapping her

fingers by her side. She didnt seem sad or anything, so I walked over. I enjoyed walking
in my tuxedo. It hung on me nicely, and I looked heavier in it. I put my hand in my pocket
and swung the other arm coolly and evenly.

Hello, I said. Hi. She continued dancing in place, and I looked at her from the side.

She was a short girl, with a nice face and brown hair that she wore in the way that Dutch
Boy, on the paint can, wears his. Her dress was light blue and tight and reached the top
of her toes. She looked more Portuguese than most of the Rhode Island Adamses, and she
had, I guess, a more or less normal chest.

I like this band, I said casually. I dont like them, she said, not looking at me. I mean,
for a band thats a bunch of older guys, I mean, I dont

really like them either, but . . . You mean theyre not good but the beat is okay. Thats
it, I said. I like the beat. Id give it a seventy, she said, moving gracefully.
Absolutely. I started to move a little, too. You wouldnt call it dancing, but

maybe a beat move or step. Maybe. I didnt think Todd Sanderson and Miss Lesko did a bad
job at all with Jailhouse Rock and made a neat transition into Throw Momma from the Train.

When the song ended, I asked Cheryl if shed like some punch,

and I got her some. Then we danced again, like before, kind of side to side and separate.
This was okay. I could do this. I looked around, and I guessed I must be having as good a
time as anybody else. I mean, nobody looked particularly happy except during the bunny
hop, which Cheryl and I just watched.

Wheres your date? she asked. Shes somewhere. Im not sure. Who is she? Jill Fisher.

Cheryl stopped dancing and turned and for the first time that eve- ning looked right at me.

You? Me. But Billy said he had to go and protect her from you. Huh? Youre so jealous and
you grab her and stuff. I looked around to make sure people werent looking at me and

hearing things about me I didnt know myself. Im jealous? I grab her? Thats what she told
Billy. He went off to protect her. When I was sixteen years old, I had grown to my full
height of

five foot eleven. I weighed 121 pounds. I took my hands out of my pockets and let them
dangle at the ends of my arms. My butch cut had grown out about a quarter of an inch and
lay flat on my big head. Cheryl looked me over. I started to sweat a little.

Why do you grab her? I shrugged and looked around. I wanted to be in the Ford. I wanted to
stop, all by myself, at the A&W in Riverside and get a

cheeseburger and onion rings and a big root beer in a frosty mug and eat it alone. I didnt
want to hurt Cheryls feelings, and I figured I could if I told her that Billy Carrara was
a liar and a guy who gave rings back in toilet paper.

How long have you been Billys girlfriend?

Im not his girlfriend. Youre not? Were just at the prom together. Hes just a nice guy. So
hes not, like, your boyfriend or anything. No, hes not my boyfriend. Oh, well, hes a big
liar, then. I mean, Jills not my girlfriend ei-

ther. Im not jealous. I dont grab anybody. I didnt want to hurt your feelings or anything,
but since youre not his girlfriend, hes out in the parking lot with Jill.

Cheryl Adamss hair went limp.

What? she yelled so loud that Naomi Lesko, in the middle of Pat Boones April Love, looked
over to us.

Want some more punch? I asked hopefully, but by then Cheryl was rushing toward the parking
lot with tears of rage splashing over her mascara.

I went to the bathroom and had a Marlboro with the other guys, and then I walked back to
the spot where I had stood with Cheryl. Some of the dancers had made a circle and were
clapping to the mu- sic, and inside the circle dancing and twirling was Lewis Rand, a se-
nior man about campus, and Carol Robey in her wheelchair. Carol was the president of our
junior class, and Lewis was her boyfriend. I felt good to see her always so happy, and I
felt bad about a littler girl behind her blinds. I watched them twirl for a while; then I
went back and had another smoke.

Carol Robey became the principal of East Providence High School some years later, and
people still love her and like to see her happy. Lewis Rand went to Carnegie Mellons
School of Drama and died of AIDS maybe five years ago. Carol named the high school stage
after him. Love dies hard.

I waited until most everybody had gone, but I couldnt find Cheryl or Jill or Billy. I
drove back to East Providence, but the A&W was closed.