The Memory of Running (17 page)

What do you mean, we made a mistake? You told me to scare this creep off.

I didnt tell you to hit him.

This is how we scare creeps off, and so help me God, on the graves of my mother and
father, I never laid a hand on him.

I threw up again and pitched forward onto an American Beauty rose.

I let Pop take pictures. Me. Me in my uniform. Me with my Purple Heart. Me and Mom, Me and
Pop. Then Me, Mom, and Pop with the camera timer on. Then we went onto the back porch, and
I asked them where my sister was. Its not important that you know this. But I knew she was
gone, and I had to ask, because I had to lead them to talk. I know it all sounds like I
think Im so damn important, leading Mom and Pop, but I feel and felt as common as always.
They needed the tears. I sat opposite them in our old chaise lounge while my parents wept.

I think they wept that I was all right, too. I was part of it, I know, because Mom saw me
with my shirt off before I went to bed, and she cried again. Whats wrong with a man who
lets his mother see him and all his new holes? I could have run headfirst into a door-
knob. I could have poked one of my eyes. I disgust myself. My poor mom. Me. But on the
porch they cried the tears of loss and release. I walked over and sort of stooped down so
I could hug them both at the same time. I could touch Mom and Pop. I didnt feel bad about
touching them the way I did about other people. Bethany could touch me, too, of course,
because I loved her. Love her.

My pop stood up and brushed his tears away. He didnt cry much.

Gone, he said, looking past me out into the dark backyard. She took the money she saved
from her job with the church and packed up and left.

Shell come home soon, Mom said. She will, I said. My pop kept looking out through the
porch screen, and Mom sat

crying into her hands. This was before my lagers, my pretzels. I stood skinny and unsure.
I didnt have the legs for my family. She

was gone. Such a beautiful, such a beautiful, beautiful girl, Pop said.

You could hear her singing in her room, and you would just not believe . . .

We were there in the September night. Bugs hit at the screen, swarmed near the lights.

She will come back, Mom said. She will, Mom, I said. Mom and Pop had come out to
Fitzsimmons Hospital in Denver

when I first was flown there. Bethany came, too. I think the time in Denver, as far at
least as her looks, was Bethanys best period. The guys in my ward could only stare. I was
so proud of her. She wore a different kilt each time she visited. I felt so bad for Mom
and Pop. I felt so damn bad. Stupid, really. On top of Bethanys voice, I had to go pee in
that swamp and get slaughtered like that. Then this really handsome kid next to me, who
had been wounded in the chest, too, and who looked a whole lot healthier than me, had the
bullets shift near his heart or something and just died with a huge groan, and with my pop
and mom standing right there. They didnt need that.

I stayed in Denver for four months and then flew to Providence and our porch.

Three months now. About, Pop said. Has it been three months? Mom asked. About. Somewhere
crickets rubbed their legs together. I was happy at

least that that night our backyard crackled into the night and left si- lence behind. We
sat and listened to the evening. I thought about Norma, and I had a feeling she was
watching. I will never under- stand, really, why the Ides left our little Norma there. It
seems too easy to put it on Bethany. To say we didnt have any more to give or be for
anyone else, even our Norma behind venetian blinds, is not enough. I will never understand.

Uncle Count had a heart attack, Mom said. Another one? I asked. Too much meat, Pop said.

We stopped talking for a while, and then I said, to be saying some- thing, How many is
this?

This was number twenty-eight, Mom said. Twenty-eight, I said. They count all the little
ones, Pop said. They count all the tiny

ones. It wasnt twenty-eight big ones. Mom nodded. Eight big ones. Or nine, my pop said.
Crickets.

I had walked back up the porch stairs and into the house under my own power, although I
dont remember it at all. I went upstairs to the guest bedroom, a large blue room with
Indian pictures all over it, and got into a bed. I dont remember doing that either. It was
night out- side when I woke up. Bugs were working loud, and because I lay still, only
moving my eyes a little, they seemed even louder than they actually were. I listened to
the bugs. I heard the buzzsawing mosqui- toes. I heard the whap and bang of the moths on
the screens trying for the table lamp someone had switched on. I wanted to switch it off
and save them.

I had to pee, but I lay there a long time and thought about it, and thought maybe the urge
to let go of the water would just go away, but it didnt.

Kidneys, I said.

The bedroom had its own bathroom. I pulled my bed covers down and stood. Oddly, I didnt
feel all that bad. Nana used to tell us whenever we got sick that there was nothing wrong
with us a good nights sleep couldnt fix. I had made it into the bathroom and was standing
over the toilet when I realized that I was naked. For the first time, I remembered the
doctor. I felt sorry for her. A person could go blind, seeing me naked. I peed.

I peed in spurts, and each spurt brought a terrific pinch of pain, but my pee was pee, and
even though I looked closely for the blood that had seeped into my pee at Father Bennys, I
didnt see any.

I smiled to myself, and then I laughed, and then I said out loud that the big blond cop
Tommy couldnt punch worth a shit. Al- though he could. And he did.

I needed to brush my teeth, so I looked in Carls medicine cabinet for a guest toothbrush
like Mom used to have around. I couldnt find one, and I squeezed some toothpaste onto my
finger and rubbed my

teeth good. In Carls medicine cabinet was a large box of Epsom salts. Epsom salts works.
It helps you. I started a hot bath and poured the whole box in.

Epsom salts, I said. It really helps you. I soaked for fifteen or twenty minutes, and I
did little stretches and shoulder shrugs to keep myself clear and loose. I feel childish
in a hot tub. I keep expecting Mom or Nana to come in and wash my hair and give me those
hard rubs on my back with a facecloth. I closed my eyes and smiled stu- pidly to myself,
but I would be four again if I could have those heavy rubs.

Youre awake.

I put both hands over my private parts and sat up in the tub. The doctor had come into the
bathroom. She hadnt even knocked or anything.

Did you urinate okay? she asked. I nodded. Blood? Discoloration? Uh-uh.

Oh, thats good. Oh, that is so, so good.

She knelt down on the bathroom rug, put her hands on the rim of the tub, and leaned in
close to me.

Im Donna Trivitch, Dr. Trivitch from the ER, and I am so em- barrassed and so ashamed and
so sorry about everything.

Im Smithy Ide.

When Carl told me how he hit you and how he took you to the hospital and you ended up
taking care of him . . . well, I am just so . . . sorry.

I dont have any clothes on. Just a sec. Dr. Trivitch left the bathroom and came back a
minute later car-

rying a red terry-cloth bathrobe and a towel. Ill leave these right here. This is Carls. I
have to go down to

Carl now.

How is he?

Carls going to die tonight. Im going to be here all night with him.

She wasnt teary or solemn or anything. I wanted to get out of the tub, but not with her
standing there.

We went to school together, she said. I noticed how tired she looked and probably older
than she really was, but it was a sweet face, and I would call it pretty. She had on chino
pants and a plain white T-shirt. Her breasts were smallish, and I dont mean that in a way
that evaluates themits just that I do notice breasts. Smallish, but Id bet very pretty.
Red-brown hair, tall.

Dr. Trivitch started to leave the bathroom but turned back.

I had the wildest crush on Carl, and maybe I still do. Hes very gay. Im pretty dumb, huh?

I used to think . . . I used to think I loved my sister, and now shes dead.

Dr. Trivitch looked at me with an empty face and left the bath- room. I dried off, put on
Carls red robe, and went down quietly to the kitchen. In the bookshelf corner, Carl lay on
his side and Donna Trivitch lay with him. She rubbed his back and sang a song I didnt
know. Carls eyes were open. He lifted his hand a touch and tried to speak, but only a wet
mumble came. She put her hand over his.

I know. I know, Carl. I know.

The Young Peoples Fellowship at Grace Church gave me a service award because I got
wounded, and they displayed my Purple Heart in the chapel entrance on Westminster Street.
After the award I stood with the rector while people shook my hand. It was nice of them to
do this, but I hated it very much. My pop circulated among the kids with a small notepad,
asking questions about Bethany. This was not her group. They were much younger than my
sister, and I tried to tell Pop that, but the detective work was part of him now and
stayed a part. On that last visit to Maine, Pop brought up his Bethany File, and a day
never went by when he didnt add to it.

That Carlson girl knows something, Pop said on the ride home. She kept staring down at her
feet. Its a giveaway. She knows something.

I dont know, I said. Well, Im telling you. Pop followed every lead, real and imagined. I
stayed around the

house, still recovering. I had a little limp. I was taking some vodka for it. One night I
was drinking some vodka at the kitchen tableMom and Pop had gone up to bed, so I guess it
was around twelve or oneand the phone rang.

Hello, I said.

I always sound sort of anxious on the telephone, or sort of like Im out to please
everyone. Its one of those subservient hellos that really say Ill do anything for you, but
of course I dont really feel that way and I wont do anything for you.

Hello. Hello.

I could hear something on the other end like teeth sliding over other teeth. It wasnt
loud, but it was a grating noise, enough to make me wrinkle up my face.

I cant hear you, I said.

The teeth noise stopped, and there was nothing. Hello? Nothing. I cant hear you. Maybe its
a bad connection. Ill hang up, and

you can call back. Fuck, something rasped. I . . . F-U-U-U-U-C-K, fuck! something
screamed. I dont . . . I . . . They killed. They fucking . . . fuck. Fuuuuck. It was the
voice of an old man. Like an old man would sound

yelling at you. Older than that. A very old man with a cheese grater of a voice.

Who killed . . . ? THEY KILLED YOU! THEY KILLED YOU! Bethany? All those holes. I knew
theyd kill you. The old man screamed into the phone from some deep part of

Bethanys stomach. F-U-U-U-U-C-K! They didnt kill me, Bethany. Im here. Hooks here. Where

are you? Sometimes Im all dirty. Where are you? Mom . . . and . . . and Pop Say Im away.
We know youre away. We want you to come home. Fat-ass. Watch out. I waited. The old voice
coughed and faded. I waited longer, my

heart rumbling into my ear. Hook? The voice was soft. Bethany again. Im here, Bethany.
Where are you? Oh, Hook, Im all disgusting. Im all dirty and disgusting. We love you,
Bethany. Where are you? Ill come get you. We

miss you.

I miss you. I miss my room. Where are you? The light in Moms kitchen seemed dull. It might
have been the

vodka. Where? I asked again. Providence. Im at church. Im across the street now at a tele-

phone booth, but now Im going to go to church. The connection held, but I heard the
receiver hit against the base

of the phone booth and knew she had dropped it. I grabbed Pops keys to the old Ford. Drove
down past Woodys

gas station and took 95 over the Old George Washington Bridge into Providence. No cars
were at the church this time of night, and I parked directly in front of the main
entrance. Across the street and to my left was the phone booth she had called from, and
the receiver still hung free. I limped around the front of the car and up the con- crete
stairs. The heavy, ornate wooden doors were locked. Like the jerk that I am, I pounded on
them a little and shouted her name.

I limped to the Westminster Chapel entrance, and it was open, even this late. Occasionally
the sexton would have to drive some old bum out of the back pews, where hed be trying to
bed down for the night, but mostly then, in the late sixties, doors could still be open
without asking for something awful to happen.

I walked into the church, past the side chapel, and stopped in front of the choir stalls.

Bethany?

I stood very still. A dim light fell on the main altar, and moon- light peeked in through
the beautiful stained-glass windows. Grace Churchs windows on the moon side of the
building depicted Christs seven last words. They seemed eerie in the semidarkness.

Im so happy you called, Bethany. I missed you so much.

I walked up to the choir stalls and began to look up and down each row. I started with the
soprano row, of course.

Im limping a little. See how Im limping? Bethany? See? But all thats wrong is the limp,
and its going away. Pretty soon I wont even be limping. Thats all.

I thought I saw something at the end of the baritone row, but it turned out to be a stack
of hymnals. I took one and carried it up the ten steps to the marble sermon mount.

All my friends . . . all those other soldiers you saw in Denver? They all thought you were
so beautiful. I mean it. Bethany?

My favorite thought, still, about Grace Church, was how I felt when I looked over the old
church with its columns and arches and carvings, from up here on the marble sermon mount.
I used to sneak up here after choir practice when no one was around. You could just feel
you had things to say standing here. Important words for all the congregation. And they
would listen and even sometimes nod their heads and turn to their wives and things when
you said something that could particularly make everything clear for them. Of course, I
never had anything to say. Clear anyway.

Remember . . . remember how Dr. Homer would take so long to get up here and how he would
get himself angry during his ser- mons and start yelling? Remember, Bethany?

I listened. My head hurt.

And no matter how loud old Dr. Homer kept yelling and shout- ing and how loud he kept
banging on the podium, Pop would go right on snoring.

And Mom would poke him. Bethany? Oh, Hook, and then wed go get doughnuts to bring home, and

wed throw the ball with Pop. Bethany. My eyes strained in the direction of her voice. I
saw her under the

stained glass of Jesus being fed a sponge of vinegar by the centurion. She was by the
baptismal font. No. No. She was in the baptismal

font. I walked down the stairs to the church floor and over to her. She sat on the edge of
the font, and she was splashing water over herself. Slowly.

Im being baptized. Im baptizing myself. Im going to be all right now. Right? Hook? Im
going to be all right? I can be Bethany?

Yes, I said.

I wanted to look away, but I wanted to look at her, too. That was how I was with her, and
she knew it, and I knew she knew it, and if there was one thing right now, thinking so
hard about my sister, one thing I would change, I would never, ever let myself want to
look away.

Bethany solemnly dripped water onto the top of her head. Her mouth was open enough so I
could see that several teeth were miss- ing in front, and her lips were cut and scabby.
Her nose seemed puffy, as if shed been punched, her eyes unclear and set somehow deeper
than before.

I baptize thee Bethany Adele Ide, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost.

She looked at me, and for a moment I thought her eyes were shin- ing. Amen, I said,
wanting to do anything for my beaten Bethany, scrunched and squatting on the marble
baptismal.

Amen, she said. Thats all I know about how they baptize. Do you think thats enough, Hook?

I stepped to her. I think thats beautiful, Bethany. Cmon.

I picked her off the baptismal and set her down on the ground. She wasnt wearing shoes,
and she smelled of urine and shit and dampness. I hugged her, and she squeezed me so tight
and for so long I thought she might have gone into a pose, but she released her grip and
looked at me.

I want to die now, Hook. I think thats best.

I started crying. I never cried in-country, but her words tumbled, like those small
rolling slugs that hit me sideways and ran around in-

side me. Only hers were hot. Hers were hotter. The only thing I wanted right then was for
her never to talk again. I took her hand, and we walked out of the cold stone church onto
Westminster Street. It had begun to drizzle, but it felt good. I put Bethany into the car,
then walked around to the drivers side. I turned and for a second or two stared at the
phone hanging in the red booth across the street. I walked over, hung it up; then I drove
my Bethany di- rectly to Bradley Hospital.