The Memory of Running (16 page)

Just the sheet, he said quietly.

I pulled the two blankets all the way down and covered him with the sheet.

Would you get me some water? Kitchen is there.

The kitchen was open, set off by peach-colored tile. I thought how Mom would have loved
the kitchen. A big butcher-block table with knives on the side and oak stools around it,
and a gas range and grill right in the center of the room. I found a glass and filled it
with tap water.

Carl leaned up and took the water. He had a tiny drink, then set the glass on his night
table. He took some Vaseline and smeared it all over his lips.

All the things, all things, and still I hate most the dry lips, the dry and the cracked
lips.

He lay back down, his bony head sinking almost out of sight into a blue feather pillow.

I built, he said, drifting. It smells wonderful, I said stupidly. I watched him until I
knew he was sleeping. Then I turned on a

small table lamp and switched off the glass fixture overhead. I went to the bathroom,
peed, and checked my cuts. I walked into the kitchen and got a nice drink of water. I
realized that probably I should have been hungry, but I suppose that the accident and
flying through the air pretty well finished my hunger for the day. I just wanted to sleep.
The phone rang, and I picked it up next to the refrigerator.

Carls house, I said. A womans voice. Clipped. Impatient. Where is he? Hes sleeping. Did he
take his medicine? He was in the bathroom a long time. He has to take his medicine
tomorrow, and I wasnt kidding

about the fluids and the protein. I wasnt kidding when I listened to you. I had done it
again in my stupid way. I had taken words away from

her. I never try to do that, but it happens. Look . . . uh . . . whats the name? Smithy
Ide. Look, lets put it out there, okay? Youre some sort of derelict,

right? Im sorry if that sounds insensitive, but really, all in all, thats tough fucking
shit. Im Carls physician, and Im not about to let some scumbag cocksucker rob that dear
man blind. You understand? Now, hes had one treatment at the hospital, and Im coming out
to- morrow, and take this to the bank, Mr. Smith or whatever the fuck you call yourself:
If hes not comfortable, with plenty of fluids and protein in him, Ill ream you a new
asshole. Got it?

Yes, maam, I said. And she hung up.

So anyway, I peed into the swampy water. What was stupid was not the actual peeing,
really, because who knew that all the critters in the swamp would go quiet and all the
guns would start firing? Youd have to be a mind reader to know that in advance. No, what
was incredi- bly stupid was that I didnt take enough care. It happened in the tenth month,
and you only had to stay for eleven months. When you get short, that means you dont have
long to stay, so the closer youre getting to home, the more caring youre supposed to be.
If I didnt explain it right, thats my fault, but its completely true.

Like I said, that nice boy, Orlando Cepeda, who was standing be- hind me when I peed, got
shot dead. One clean bullet. Just a little wound, too, which was odd. Clean. Clear. Now, I
got hit a million timesbig rips, dirty and all thatbut I suppose I was lucky. As a matter
of fact, Im pretty sure only luck can explain it. And Bill But- ler. But its lucky he was
there, too. He looked at Orlando Cepeda and spit. Then he squeezed my morphine pack into
my left arm, Or- landos morphine pack into my right arm, and his own into my belly. I
watched him do it. I watched myself. I saw Bethany above the swamp.

Hooks here, I said, drooling. You gonna die? Bill asked. I dont know. Okay.

Hooks here.

I dont remember anything else, except Bethanys floating up to tree level. She was dressed
casual in one of her kilts, and she looked like every Sears ad in the world. Young and
happy in a silent, arm- raised pose, floating above.

Then I was in Japan. I dont remember anything else. I woke up in Japan seven weeks later.
And it seemed I went from Bethany at tree

level to the U.S. hospital outside of Tokyo in a minute. No dreams. I had a tube for
breathing and one for peeing. I remembered peeing. I remembered Orlando Cepeda.

I was bad in the hospital. I was feeling very sorry for myself, and when I found out that
everyone else felt sorry for me and wasnt go- ing to get mad at me no matter what, I
started to say cruel things and do cruel things.

I said: I hate this fucking food. I peed myself, and it was your fault. Youre a fat slob
for a doctor. I hate this fucking hospital. I turned over my bedpan on purpose . . .
twice. I gave the finger

to the Catholic chaplain, a nice white-haired chaplain in uniform, who surely didnt
deserve it.

So I was bad, but it took my mind off of myself for a while. Norma says she wrote every
day to me, but I dont remember that. I got some letters from her, but I dont remember
them. Of course, now I wish I had them so I could read them over and over in the fields
and places.

After another six weeks, they put me in a wheelchair and airlifted about two hundred of us
to Fitzsimmons Army Hospital in Denver. Before we left for the airport, I looked out the
bus window at the Tokyo hospital and saw the chaplain. He wore camo fatigues and held his
Bible. He looked exhausted. I guess its really an impossible job. He saw me, too. He gave
me the finger.

In the morning I could hear rain pelting the red metal roof. I rolled onto my back, but
the cut above my shoulder blades put me back onto my side. I had fallen asleep in one of
the stuffed square chairs in the center of the big room and somehow made my way to the
floor, where I spent the night. I looked over to the bookcase cor- ner. Carl was still
asleepor at least amazingly still.

It was day outside, and some of that gray light spilled onto my head from a large bay
window. As I became more awakeand it was hard, because I slept solid and didnt even dreamI
could sense an ache that pinched all over me like a lot of tiny pins. My hands and arms
were black and blue. I looked at my chest and my stomach and the rest of me, curled,
swollen, and discolored. Using the square chairs, I stood, feeling as if I were balanced
on a ball. It was a high- wire shuffle to the bathroom, where I ran a hot-hot bath and
soaked in it until at least the little pins disappeared. My shorts had a big hole in the
thigh part and the heel of my Father Benny sneaks had been ripped clean off. I pulled on
my clothes and my paper shirt. I took four more aspirin.

When I pushed open the bookshelves and walked out of the bath- room, Carl was sitting up
in bed. He had brushed his damp hair back with a brush from his night table. Even in his
illness, he looked young, almost like a child. I felt embarrassed in my green paper shirt.

Youre all messed up, he said quietly, pushing out the words in a kind of puff.

I dont know. You are. God. Look at what I did. No, no. I shouldnt have been stopped there.
You were on the grass. You were twenty feet off the road. Carl

raised his arms and dropped them. His fingers were pink skeleton fingers. I was out of it
at the hospital.

Thats okay. Im out of it. Even my doctor says Im out of it. I remembered something about
the doctor but not much. Pony-

tail. Protein. Food. Food, I said. Check the fridge. Theres food. Id eat. I made things I
could make. I could make scrambled eggs and toast

and tea and pour apple juice. I cant drink apple juice, Carl said when I put the tray on
his lap.

I drink it and actually piss it out as apple juice. Right away. Im out of it.

I pushed one of the square chairs over and ate, too. Eggs have a lot of protein, but for
some reason I only ate a little.

Good, he said, chewing. He put some egg on the corner of his toast and said it again. Good.

We were quiet while he ate. My family was quiet while we ate, too. Some families have loud
meals, and food is only a part of the loudness. My family was quiet with food. Respectful,
really. Almost as if our meal was a ceremony we had just learned and were trying to get it
right.

After a while Carl laid his utensils down and leaned his head back. He made a little
gurgle sound and closed his eyes.

Finished? I asked. He nodded slowly, and I took his tray back into the kitchen. Its
raining, I said, wanting to say something. Oh, it rains, he puffed. It rains and rains. I
brought Carl a fresh glass of water and sat back down in the big

square chair I had pushed over to the side of his bed. The aspirin and the eggs helped me.
The aches were less.

Carl sipped the water and then laid his head back down again. He closed his eyes and was
very still. He is the only person who ever re- minded me of my sisters poses. Nothing
moved. When he spoke

like this, his head back, his eyes fastened, the puffs of words barely moved his lips.

I am the capable dreamer, he said out into the room. In high school, my yearbookCarl
Everett Greenleaf, swimming 2-3, cross- country 1-2-3, chorus 1-2-3it said, Carl is our
capable dreamer. That was in 75. And it was true.

The gray light had become a blaze of bright sun through the bay window and the small row
of glass above the bookcase, but the rain oddly continued on the roof.

I want to talk out loud. I want to say things, but its not fair. I al- most killed you.

Thats okay. You shouldnt have to listen to my shit. Im a good listener. Maybe Im better at
listening than anything

else. Carl might have smiled at that. He rolled his head a touch. I

dont feel sorry for myself. Thats one thing. Thats because I was raised a farm boy, right
down the road. The Greenleaf Dairy Farm. Farm boys dont feel sorry for themselves, even
the flitty ones, even the silly ones. Theres just no time. And I believe we are what God
made us, and thats that. My father is Carl Everett Greenleaf, too. Oh, hes a big man. A
respected man. But he knew who I was and more or less pushed away from me, although we
worked together and he would just whitewash the fences where other boys scribbled Carl the
Swish and Carls a fag. Mommy loves me, of course. Brother is an- gry at me. I think its
your obligationno, its your biologyto love and understand your family and to be kind and
just . . . nice to them. Im sad about my brother, because he would always throw the ball
with me in the yard. And he would play horseshoes with me. And I was his best man, and
then he talked to some people and stopped talking to me. But the truth is, its against
your biology not to love your brother no matter what.

I liked the cows. I liked the process of the cows. Its com- merce, but its life. Only farm
people know that. But I liked my gar- den best. It made sense. I had a vegetable stand all
late summer and fall. Squash, pumpkins, corn. Eggplants and tomatoes. Herbs. One year I
grew flats of African violets. Now that made sense. Flowers are understandable. Theyre in
the rhythm of the world, and the colors and textures are a gift. They simply give out to
the world. The next growing season, I raised my beds, altered my fertilizer, and planted
gloxinia, dahlias, pasqueflowers, primroses, fuchsia in hanging pots, and Im not
exaggerating to say I sold and sold and sold. Once, for the adventure of it, I arranged to
sell at a farmers market in New York. Id sold in Indianapolis, Dayton, Columbus. Youre a
gypsy, really. Youre a vagabond selling with your people. Farmers. My peo- ple are
farmers. This New York market was in Union Square, and I drove fourteen straight hours. It
was wonderful. Oh, God. Breads and jams and apples and cider and everything. And my
peonies and chrysanthemums and arrangements of white plum. Nice arrange- ments. Not
special or cutesy, but fine and nice. You let the flowers do the display. You cant add to
the grandeur of flowers, so dont try. Thats all. Dont try.

Here comes a browser in Union Square, and the browser became Renny Kurtz, who had a small
shop on Twenty-eighth Street. Thats New Yorks flower district. We talked and talked. He
bought muffins and coffee and brought them to my truck. We discussed composi- tions of
flowers. Of stalks and stems and petals and pods. We could have been talking classical
art, which the natural state of flowers was to us. Simpatico. Understanding. Conclusions.
We bought here, so close to the dairy, because Indiana is flower-friendly. Theres ash in
the soil. Theres volcanic power. We did well. We did so well. And things would frighten
Renny, because he wasnt a farm boy. He wasnt fearless like we are, but that was all right,
to be frightened. Hard weather. Storms. I would tell him that that is where soil comes
from. And its true. The soil smells like mint leaves in a storm. But

my bad luck, my sickness, frightened him most, and he became ashamed of being frightened
and finally couldnt move out of his fear. He would sit in the greenhouse and pretend to
cut flowers, but he was waiting for me to sleep. And it was okay. I wasnt mad. I wrote him
a note and made him an offer for his part, and one day he was gone. New York. I think, I
really think, that people who love each other should never let anything interfere with
that strange emo- tion. But Im not angry. Im sad. Im disappointed.

The rain had stopped. Strips of white sunlight cut into the room from everywhere.

Rains stopped, I said.

Its a general disappointment. A general sadness. Could I have some water?

I handed him his water.

I grow, is what I want to say. I sink my hands into our black soil, and I understand
variety. What is good for what. Nutrients. So Im a little sad. But did I say Im not angry?

Yes. Because Im not. I have to go to the bathroom. I helped Carl move his legs to the
floor. I never had felt anything

quite like that before. Even through the heavy plaid pajamas, it was as if I had plastic
pipe in my hand. I pulled him to his feet and led him to the bookcase/door of the
bathroom. While I waited for him, I filled his water glass and shook out his damp sheets.
He stayed in the bathroom about an hour.

You okay in there? Im okay. Okay. Runs.

Okay.

Carl got back in bed and fell immediately asleep. I neatened up his covers, then went into
the kitchen and called Norma.

Hello?

Its early. Its too early, isnt it? Smithy! Smithy! Smithy Ide! she hollered into the
phone. Its not too early? Norma was crying hard. I didnt know if they were the good kind

of cries or the bad kind. Im sorry I was mad. Im sorry I was mad. Im sorry I was mad. You
werent mad, Norma. When you called me, I was mad, and I was mad at you, and then

you didnt call me anymore. You didnt call me. I wanted Please call me. Oh, please call me.
Ill call, Norma, and I didnt not call because you were mad. Its

okay to be mad at me. She was quiet for a minute. East Providence paused and sniffled.

You have to call me. I do. I know. I been calling you in my mind. You have? Norma, I swear
to God. And its nice, its wonderful. Oh, Smithy. And Im in Indiana. Providence, Indiana.
No! Really! Were from East Providence, Rhode Island, and here I am

in Providence, Indiana. Here it is. Ive got it. Ive got my map out. Providence, Indiana.
Ive got it. Wow. Yesterday I had a beautiful ride, and guess where I was going to

sleep? You cant guess. A field.

What kind of field? Cornfield. Sunflower field. More sunflowers than you could imagine, and

every beautiful sunflower faced in the same direction. I was going to

park my Raleigh in from the road and make a space right there in the flowers to sleep, but
Carl Everett Greenleaf hit me with his pickup truck and broke my bike.

Smithy!

And hes awfully sick and sleeping in the other room, and I dont know. I just dont know.

Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Tell me again exactly what happened.

I told her. And the doctors wouldnt look at you? They were so busy. Carl is so sick. Ive
taken a hot bath and some

aspirins. They can upset your stomach. Yesterday a busload of kids went by and waved.
People are just

better than I thought. Sometimes theyre good. We were quiet again, like we get on the
phone, only this time it

was a nice quiet, a really hopeful kind of quiet. And I could see her as clearly as I saw
Bethany. Tall and powerful in her chair. A com- plete human being surrounded by the tools
of her life.

Smithy? Norma said after a while. Im still here, Norma. I meant what I said. I didnt mean
somebody else. I meant . . . I

meant you, me. Okay.

Okay.

I enjoy our quiet, our pauses, when theyre these kind. Im not great on the phone. I would
say that I have no phone skills. I always hold the receiver with both hands and lean my
body against some- thing, because Im sure, somewhere along in my conversation, therell be
bad news. Horrible news. This time I didnt feel this.

I got to go now, Norma, I got to watch Carl. Hes very sick.

Its terrible . . . but maybe not, maybe Im wrong. All I

Someone pulled the receiver out of my hand and slammed it onto the counter. Both of my
arms seemed to fly behind my back in one smooth motion, and I could feel plastic handcuff
strips tightening over my wrists. I was whirled around facing into the kitchen. The
doctor, the woman doctor who was at the hospital, was standing about ten feet away. A
policeman in a light green uniform stood to the side of me, tilting my handcuffed wrists
up so that it felt as if my shoulders would break up over my ears.

Norma, I was Stupid me. Shut up, the big blond cop ordered, raising my arms again. Oww!
Just a sample, pal. I warned you, the doctor said. I warned you not to take advan-

tage of the situation. What situation? The cop raised my arms so high I fell on my knees.
Tommy, dont hurt him. This doesnt hurt, he said. I went to school with Carl, she said
angrily. Carl has been a

friend of mine for twenty-five years. If you think Im going to allow some bum, some
fucking drifter, to clean him out

Cmon, asshole, the cop said ripping me to my feet. Youre hit- ting the road.

The cop pushed me to the door and the doctor walked into Carls library bedroom.

We stepped onto the porch, and he closed the door behind me. He kicked me hard in my ass,
and I lurched forward, lost my balance, and fell down the eight or ten steps to the walk.
Carl had done a nice job with his yard. The lawn was thick, and the variety of healthy-
looking trees was amazing. At the bottom of the stairs, my face bounced next to a pink
azalea, and I could imagine, at that inappro-

priate moment, a healthy Carl preparing the Indiana dirt for his plants.

The big cop pulled me to my feet almost gently and unsnapped the plastic handcuffs. I was
swaying a little, and the more I tried not to sway, the more I swayed.

Hope you enjoyed Providence, he said happily. Oh, by the way. . . .

Tommys kidney punch felt as if he had broken me in two fat pieces. I fell. I peed in my
pants. I got to my feet and tried to move to the end of the walk. I threw up.

Jesus, Tommy said disgustedly.

I fell again, got up, fell, got up. My head felt worse than when Carls truck hit me. I
could feel flows of things crashing up my neck, rolling to the front of my head.

Tommy, Tommy, wait, wait! Its a mistake! We made a terrible mistake! I just talked to Carl!

I turned, facing the porch. The doctor came onto the landing. She let out a breath I could
hear when she saw me. Tommy seemed nonchalant.