The Memory of Running (13 page)

Monday Night (Couple of rings.) Norma: Hello? Me: Norma? (I hear a catch of breath and a
pause, as if she is determined not to

say what she needs to. It comes anyway.) Norma: Im not gonna jump up and down, Smithy, you
have to

know that. Im not Norma, little next-door Norma that you can pat, just pat, pat on the
head. Ive got, Ive got . . . Ive got responsi- bility. I do. I take care, is allBea, the
architects I draw for, layouts, prints, and I even write articles and things about being
kids and be- ing in wheelchairs, and these things I do make me . . . make me nec- essary.
Im a necessary person. Woman. And if you think I wait by the phone, if I have to wait by
the phone because you call and then you dont call and dont call and there are ... there
are ... and ... bicycles and . . . and . . .

(I hear the phone fall on the table or desk, and I hear crying over it. I wait, but the
tears are away and steady. Im that skinny kid in the kitchen window all over again. Im the
thing that just stopped going over. I wait, and shes back.)

Norma: And Im . . . Im crying about something that doesnt concern you. I have a life, you
know. I have friends. I could have gone . . . could have gone to that Red Sox game . . .
but . . . but . . . I have this big responsibility. Bea raised me, and now Im taking care
because Im crucial. Because Im a crucial, necessary person. And you think that you can
call and dont call because Normas always, al- ways . . . here.

(I listen to her sniffles, because she doesnt put the receiver on the desk. I listen to
her and wait.)

Me: Norma?

Norma: Uh-huh.

Me: Im in a Howard Johnsons. I treated myself because I needed a shower and I had to get
organized.

(I am hearing a real quiet, even miles away, hundreds of miles, Norma pushes the quiet
from East Providence to Gettysburg.)

Me: Im in Gettysburg. Norma: Youre in Pennsylvania? Its a lot on a bike. Me: Howard
Johnsons. Mostly Ive slept in fields. I got a little tent

and sleeping bag and stuff. I saw a whole herd of deer. Some of them had babies.

(I try a phony laugh. Norma is quiet for a moment.)

Norma: Los Angeles is too far. Ive looked at a map. Goddard said this week will count as
your vacation.

Me: You know what I do at Goddard, Norma? I walk up and down this aisle next to a long
table and I make sure the hands of SEAL Sam face inward. Are right. I never thought about
my job.

Norma: I never feel sorry for myself. Me: I dont . . . Norma: Even in the morning, when it
takes all the energy in the

world to get up and get going, I never feel sorry for myself. Because they fall down, I
know, they one day cant get themselves up early, then later cant get up until ten, then
eleven, and all the time saying how hard it is with the chair and . . . and . . . and you
have to be . . . you . . . I dont . . .

(I wait, but she doesnt finish. Her breathing may be angry, may have tears, Im not sure.
But, Jesus Christ, I wished I had gone over every day. I wished I had played dolls or
puppets or anything this necessary little girl wanted. Bethany looks in my second-floor
win- dow and shakes her head. I turn my face to the wall.)

Me: Gettysburg . . . is beautiful. Im going to leave tomorrow. I stayed another day and
walked around the battlefields. I tried . . . I tried to imagine, like Mom was always
trying to get us to use our imagination, and . . .

Norma: You have a wonderful imagination. (I am the phone quiet this time, because Norma is
wrong.) Me: Anyway . . . I imagined what it would be like to be one of

those men. Norma: You dont have to imagine, Smithy. They almost killed you. Me: Well . . .
Norma: You were shot. Me: I thought about how minty the fields smelled, and the big sas-

safras trees have a kind of root beer smell. I mean, fighting and all these good smells.
And I took a huge tuna-fish sandwich with me and leaned against this rock in the middle of
a field where thirty-five thousand men died in fifteen minutes. I thought how I never
wanted anything bad enough to hurt someone.

Norma: I have. Me: I dont know. Norma: I just told you. I made myself, Smithy. I am a
sophisticated,

useful woman. But I think theres something Id be uncivilized for. (I wait but cant ask. I
hear some rain against the window.) Me: Its raining outside, Norma. Im glad I stayed. Its
just that all

the dead menI never thought about it. (A heavy rain, and I imagine the boys all soaked and
muddy and

chapped.) I never told anybody. I mean, Mom and Pop, and now Im old Norma: Youre not! Me:
but, Norma, I didnt really mind being hurt in the army,

because I was so afraid all the time. I was a big coward in the army. I never . . . I
never told my pop, anybodyI . . . cried sometimes just being . . . away.

(I think in the quiet. I never thought about it before. Thats why those big pickled eggs
and hard pretzels work at night. Thats what the tall glasses of beer do. They take me away
from that skinny boy. They take me so far away.)

Norma: I cry, too.

(Lightning, thunder.)

But I dont feel sorry for myself. Im sorry I said that about not calling. You dont have to
call. I dont feel sorry for me, you dont feel sorry for me. I just . . . I just wanted you
to know Im strong. I do. I make it. I go on.

Me: I know you do, Norma. I know. Im very sorry I never came over. After a while it got
too hard. I mean . . .

Norma: I looked through the windows. I hated Pop and Mom too, but when I saw Bethany
sometime, I looked away. I guess I wouldnt have come over for Bethany. Her eyes . . .

Me: I know. (Her anger tightens my hands on the phone.) Norma: You dont know. You dont
know anything. You dont

come over, thats all. You thought my legs are all there is. Me: I dont . . . Norma: You
want to hang up. You never call me like you dont

come over, and I love you. (I am so disgusting. My stomach oozes over my shorts, and I

standas if I can escape myself. My body aches, my fat chins, my empty hairless head. A
dog. An old mutt wishing he were dead. I can- not speak. Now I am sorry for her, in her
necessary, useful, and cru- cial life. I think of the dead here, and I am so utterly
ashamed. All that good life gone, and mine still going. My fat ass, my huge belly, my
battlefield sogged down with Marlboro butts and Gansett.)

Me: Its raining hard now.

Norma: I got to go. Listen, what I said was something called trans- position. I transposed
because I was thinking about someone else. That happens. Its not you. Not you.

(I wait for a while. Cowards dont think of things to say. Cowards wait. I hear it all the
way here, and its a click, made with her finger.)

Its an offer of sorts, Dr. Glenn Golden said to us, from behind his mahogany desk. Its an
offer of release. Your release. And its given with love. Thats the way I would view it, if
Bethany were my daughter. Or my sister.

Glenn Golden lounged back in his swivel chair and watched us absorb his assessment. He
watched us the way he watched his voice- hearing, sign-seeking, compulsion-heaped
patients. I watched my pop. His neck veins were pulsing against the starched white shirt.

What are you saying? Pop asked quietly. I think she loves you all very much, said Glenn.
We know she loves us. You dont have to tell us she loves us. We

want to get her back so we can take care of her. Mom started crying. Pop put his arm
around her. I sat against the

back wall in a sticky leather chair. The army loomed. I was missing work at the fish
market. No Shad Factory.

In any delusionary state, a patient often formulates some type of bizarre plan to make
everything right. To be a cure-all, if you will, for any problems they may have caused,
past or present. Most likely Bethany has such a plan.

What about her voice? I asked, looking at my feet.

Dr. Golden turned to me in my back corner and sighed the sigh of a man the voice has
hidden from.

Bethanys problems are certainly complex, involving both emo- tional stress and some
imbalance, but her actions are in the range of compulsive, thats compulsive behaviors, and
the idea of some inner thinga voice, whateverguiding her is, Im sorry, absurd.

Look, my father said, all were trying to do is a little detective work. Shes been gone now
more than two weeks. Were frantic. You can see were frantic. If theres anything you can
tell us that might help . . .

I dont have a clue. Glenn Golden shrugged, and that shithead told the truth.

We went home. Pop went back to the maps, and I spread my Raleigh search out past Kent
Heights all the way to the Riverside plat. The army was less than a month away, but then
it wasnt like college or anything. It was just put all your clothes in that Goodwill bin
and cough, so I really didnt need to prepare, I guess.

Ide action had turned to sorrow. We ate pretty quiet, and we all went to bed early. People
who saw us then will never know how fast me and my pop were or how Mom was in the middle
of our family. People who saw us then agreed my sister had killed us. Now thats absurd,
Dr. Golden. I remember lying in my bed reading The Nick Adams Stories, because Nick could
throw a beautiful fly and tied his own. I got as far as this story about Nick going with
his father to de- liver an Indian couples baby. The Indian woman cried so much in
childbirth, and the Indian man felt so sorry for her he killed himself. I couldnt read any
more. Sad story just to be sad, and, of course, in- cluding a doctor.

Two days after visiting Golden, we got a letter from Rockville, Rhode Island, which is
next to Hope Valley and my old Boy Scout camp. It was a very nice letter from a girl named
Priscilla, who ex- plained that she had gotten our address from the front of Bethanys
overnight bag. Priscilla told, to whom it may concern, that she was a member of a group
dedicated to living life in peace and abiding friendship with the world of man and nature.
Man, it seemed, had overdone its part of the balance, and that was why there was the
Vietnam War. At least I think thats what she said. Bethany had heard about them through
Grace Episcopal Churchs Young Peoples Fel- lowship, which supported anything that was
disgusted with America of the 1960s. Priscilla wrote that while Bethany had been a real
asset to the Peoples Way (their group), it now appeared that some disturb- ing little
trends had developed in my sister that included screaming

at herself in a voice that seemed not of this earth and pulling out her hair. Priscilla
gave their address in huge block letters.

Hippie commune, Pop said, folding the letter and putting it in his shirt pocket.

Hippies? Mom asked. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Call Golden. Glenn Golden was irritated when
he got on the phone. It was

early afternoon, and he wanted to get away for some golf. Golden, said my pop. We know
where she is. Who? Bethany. Bethany Ide.

Oh . . . thats wonderful. Can you bring her in, say . . . a week from tomorrow?

A week from Listen, Im not calling to make a goddamn ap- pointment. I want to know what do
we do? What? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Well, first of all you dont yell at me, whined Golden.

Pop took a deep breath, and I watched his hand roll into a hard fist, then relax. Right.
Sorry. What?

Do you know what state shes in? Rhode Island. Mental state. Shes talking to herself. Shes
pulling out her hair. Agitated, then?

My pop would have liked to kill him. Another deep breath. An- other fist clench. Yes.
Agitated.

Agitated. Agitated. Its strange, this hair-pulling stuff. I had a boy once who used to
pluck out his eyebrows in a rage. Bizarre.

Look, Dr. Golden, I was hoping you could go with us. This is the longest shes been gone.
She obviously hasnt been taking her medicine.

Go with you?

Yes? Go with you to actually retrieve her? Yes, retrieve. This is, Im going to say,
irregular. Yes. Highly irregular. Actually going with you . . . well . . . Im going

to have to look at my schedule, and the ... well ... I mean, you arent actually thinking
of a . . . uh . . . forcible retrieval?

Pop let the phone hang by his side and rubbed his eyes. He raised it to talk but at the
last second hung up. He dialed Bradley Hospital and told them hed be bringing Bethany in
as soon as he could. At least Bradley was a constant. A real starting point. Or stopping
point. Then we all got into the car and drove to Rockville.

Rockvilles next to Yawgoog, I said, wanting to say something. Pop nodded. Mom turned
around and smiled.

Rockville, on the border of Connecticut, was not much more than a post office and a
cluster of old houses. At one time there was a rope-and-twine factory, but it burned down,
so of course nobody really worked in Rockville. My pop pulled in front of the post office
and walked in.

Im looking for the hippies, he said to a woman in a blue, official- looking hat.

Hippies? Well, theres three sets of them. The Peoples Way. Know what they did? They think
they could put nutrients into

the soil by putting their own poop into it. Im not kidding. Their own poop! I wouldnt eat
one of their squashes if my life depended on it.

Where?

End of that road. Old Methodist church they live in, dirty buggers.

We drove down to the church and parked. Pop helped Mother out of the car; then the three
of us walked past an unattended vegetable

stand that sold oversize zucchini and summer squash, and into the old white church. Most
of the pews, except four or five rows, had been removed, and five lines of folding metal
beds had taken their place. Each line had seven beds, and each bed was neatly made up with
a different color blanket and had a suitcase under it. There were no crosses inside or
anything to do with the Methodist Churchinstead a large quilt showing many different kinds
of vegetables on a white background hung against a stained-glass window behind what once
was the Protestant altar.

Vegetable is Lord, a confident, priestly voice said behind us.

We turned around, and there was this young man, a little fat and short, with long, bushy
red hair caked down his neck. He had on a white pair of coveralls that were pretty played
out. I guess I had ex- pected robes.

Hi, welcome. Im Thomas. Thomas walked forward and shook all our hands. Im Thomas for
Thomas Jefferson. What weve done is take

names that we can associate with the time when the country was working toward an
agricultural standard. Whats your name?

We told him our names. Neat, he said. Do you want to buy some vegetables? No thanks, Pop
said. Were looking for someone. Thomas smiled all-knowingly. He sighed heavily and
motioned to

one of the pews. Please, sit. We did. Thomas confidently ascended three stairs that led to
the

sermon podium. He put both hands on it and leaned back onto his right leg.

In . . . 1751 a man from Germany by the name of Casper Muller and a hardy band of
agro-dreamers left Europe to establish in this fair land a new, nitrogen-rich,
self-encapsulating ethnic enclave in com- plete accord with concepts of Pennsylvania
Dutchdom.

Passion, weather, barbarismall combined to deprive the soil of these heroes, but instead
the heroes prevailed. We owe so muchso

very muchto them. This is the mantle the Peoples Way has taken up. A process by which we
put a portion of our actual selves back into the earth.

Jesus, Pop sighed.

Other families have come to claim their children, and the Peo- ple of the Way understand
the fears and uncertainties, but please understand that our love and attachments are
strong also, and we will struggle passionately to retain any member of our circle.

Wheres Bethany? Pop said evenly. Bethany? Out back. Ill help you get her stuff into your
car. We left Thomas Jefferson at Bethanys bed, pushing her belong-

ings into a blue suitcase, and walked through the kitchen into the backyard. The growing
field of the Peoples Way extended right up against the back steps and looked as if it had
been turned by hand. It was late afternoon, and the field was in shade, but the smell was
un- mistakable and one I didnt smell again until the army. Two small for- eign cars were
parked under a tree, and grass grew up underneath them. Several men and women whacked at
the ground with hoes and rakes; still others were hanging wash on a line. I didnt see my
sister. A girl bounced over to us.

Hi, Im Countess Minelli. I brought oregano to this country in 1784.

I could see her breasts point up against a mans denim work shirt. They were not large, but
I imagined they were lovely. They were as happy as she was.

Were looking for Bethany Ide, Mom said sweetly.

Bethany is Princess Wincek. She was a Narragansett Indian who taught the first Europeans
how to roast corn in its own husk. At first they thought it was too bitter. I think corn
is bitter.

She had a huge smile that looked like it hurt to stretch her mouth that much. When she
shifted weight from her left to her right leg, small hips pointed against her baggy pants
and her pretty breasts shifted, left to right.

Well, we would like to see her, Mom said.

Countess Minelli turned and walked into the field. We followed, carefully watching where
we stepped. We passed several outbuildings that looked unused and ready to fall down. Old
grapevines com- pletely covered one. Countess Minelli stopped and pointed to the far side
of the field, where rows of tomatoes stood staked with sticks. There was a scarecrow in
the middle of this portion of field, and Princess Wincek was the scarecrow. She wore a
long summer dress that seemed more brown than blue, and her hair fell only on the right
side of her headthe rest was bald and scabby where she had torn at it. Her face also had
the familiar scars of a few summers ago. Her pose was purely Bethany-perfect, with the
left arm up and slanted and fingers splayed up to God. A small breeze puffed dirt at her
feet and ruffled the cotton dress but did not touch her stillness.

Dear Christ, my pop said.

We did not run to her across the shit-filled field. We stepped like people not in a hurry
to get where we had to go.

It wasnt that we didnt want to comfort her, to tell her it was again all right, but,
really, like everyone who traces their steps and so themselves, we moved slowly, hoping to
somehow awake. So re- peat, then, is pain. A sort of SEAL Sam assembly line that never
shuts down and just sucks out your life. We stood around her, and Mom and Pop began cooing
to her between their tears. I had never seen Bethany rip herself so utterly and completely
before. For a sec- ond I could see her beneath the scabs and empty patches, where her
amazing hair had been, and her half-open eyes seemed only re- flected, like a sunken moon
under the blue ocean.

She had stiffened into her pose and didnt hear my parents. Sun had hardened and seared her
wounds. Her quiet, like quiet will, filled the awful field. I watched her behind Pop. I
studied her and in study- ing became removed from the subject. This is really the only way
to push off the world of the people you love and save yourself. She stayed stiff and
burned.

Mom kept whispering cheerily about her friends and church, and Pop talked baseball. She
didnt move. That deep inside stillness, the perfect stillness her voice demanded, formed
her against the staked tomatoes. Staked herself. Standing so close to him then, I could
not imagine my pop ever having thrown the no-hitter in 53 or hit those four home runs
against the Warwick Despots in 61. All that he was filled the small space between himself
and his darling Bethany. I might have hated her right then. I guess Im not sure.

Its no good, Bethany, I said. I can see the air going in and out of your nose. I can see
your nostrils going.

Shhhh! Mom whispered angrily.

Its true, Mom. Look. Everything else is perfect, but thats not. Not her nose. Its no good.
She might as well quit it now. Its no good, Bethany.

The only thing that my folks could see was that I was not with them. I did not coo with
them. I did not whisper a life lie with them.

Why dont you wait in the car, Pop said. Pop, shes Right, Bethany sighed from the deepest
part of her chest.

Youre right. Youre right. Youre right. I reached up and brought her extended arm down onto
my shoul-

der, and I kissed her disfigured cheek. I want! she cried. I want . . . I want . . . I
scooped her up, one scarecrow picking up another, and began

walking back to the church and our car. I want . . . I know, Bethany. I know. We took her
back to Bradley Hospital in the morning. Pop