The Memory of Running (23 page)

Aunt Paula gave the wedding shower for Bethany. It was at her house in East Greenwich, and
Uncle Count had the homestead standing tall. He had the neighborhood kids working on the
yard and bushes ten full hours on Saturday, while he rubbed down the brass fixtures
inside. Uncle Count loved brass. He had a brass wedding ring. Hon- est to God. Uncle Count
had worked out all the arrangements with Aunt Paula. Because he wasnt invited to the
shower, because he was a man, he would confine himself to the general areas of the house
and yard. That way the Count would be able to carry out his unoffi- cial duties as family
host, while still allowing a thin separation of men and women.

Hello, sweetheart, he would say in his inimitable style to every female who rang the front
doorbell, whether he knew her or not.

You look yummy. You look good enough to eat. Listen, there were these two homos in
Belgium. . . .

About twenty-five women, ranging in age from twenty (our neighbor Adella, who was
retarded) to eighty-two (Ethel Sunman from church), were greeted in like fashion.

Baby, youre the greatest. Va-va-voom. Tell me its a mirage. and

Couple of queens go to a bar. . . . Five queer guys are shooting baskets. . . . I got
nothing against homos, but eighty-five of them are on

a bus. . . . When they all were finally gathered around my sister in the living

room, Count did a silent head count.

Twenty-five, counting you, Paula. Thats everybody. Thanks, Count. There was a football
stadium filled with fags. Iowa. Cornfields

and everything, but this one big stadium, and this guy who was not a fag wanders into the
place. He buys a hot dog. . . . The girls all smiled politely as the master of ceremonies
presented his exit routine; then they turned back into the room and my beautiful,
beautiful sis- ter. It was late May and unseasonably warm, and the girls all sported
casual spring ensembles. They all looked lovely, especially Bethany, who, as Mom said, had
a radiance about her. She wore a peasants dress of light blue and a kind of Indian band
around her head. The band was red and beaded and went with her eyes. I could see that Jeff
Greene must have thought hed struck gold. She was such an honest- to-God nice human being,
99 percent of the time.

Paula and Counts beagle, Wiggy, jumped around in the pile of gift wrap and gave little-guy
barks every time one of the girls crin- kled up the paper. He would jump from lap to lap
and end up on Bethanys, who sat on the floor surrounded by her stuff. She put a big blue
ribbon around his neck, and everybody called him Blue- Ribbon-Winner Wiggy.

My sister got sweaters and soap and lingerie. Rhode Island didnt have the dirty lingerie,
the naughty kind, where you could see nip- ples and things, but they had these short
little satiny, shiny nighties that were very sexy, and this is what Bethany got. I prefer
the dirty kind, but I never knew anybody who would go with it, except maybe Dr. Georgina
Glass, and by then I never wanted to see her again, dressed or partly clothed in one of
those blackish net things that let almost everything out with her large breasts squeezed
against the little silky squares of net all sweaty and sexy and everything. I mean. You
know. Maybe. I dont know.

Aunt Paula was a fantastic cook who loved to experiment with food. In Uncle Count she had
the most appreciative and encourag-

ing partner a great cook could have. She would sit in the TV room while he watched a show,
and she would read her cookbooks. Every now and then, shed say, Im thinking of trying
something new. How does a sirloin steak, lightly seasoned with pepper and garlic, braised
only slightly, then simmered for a few minutes in a mild chili sauce, which is then served
over the accompanying rice, sound? Count would turn to her, make a bold gesture of turning
off the TV, stand, and say, You make me happy, baby. Va-va-voom. It was common ground. It
was a meeting of the minds. As long as Aunt Paula used her kitchen utensils like magic
wands, she would never, ever be taken for granted.

For my sisters shower, Aunt Paula turned to Francis Gerard, whose previous cookbooks had
been among her favorites and whose latest one, Fun, Food, and Fantasy, she absolutely
loved. From its pages she chose a unique luncheon consommŽ (aux profiteroles), saddle of
lamb (Prince Orloff ), sautŽed tomatoes, a delicate dish of flageolets, and a Gruy�re
soufflŽ. She even had Mogen David wine, which was sweet and which was Counts favorite,
even though he was confined to a dif- ferent part of the house. The girls thought this was
the fanciest, nicest luncheon they had ever hadexcept for Ethel Sunman, who fell asleep
and missed it.

The party broke up slowly, and there were lots of tears and kisses. Mom probably held
Bethanys hand as one by one the girls filed past her tall and wonderful child. When it was
all clear, Count came into his TV room with his tray of leftovers, and Mom, Paula, and
Bethany cleaned up.

It was always nice at Paulas. Count was unique and funny and, really, I guess, a very kind
man. He could be blunt and sort of odd in a usually inappropriate way, but, as my pop
always said, That guy would give you the shirt off his back. And he would. After a while
everybody kissed good-bye, and Mom and Bethany drove back to East Providence.

Count had two more servings of the lamb and questioned Aunt Paula extensively about this
guy Prince Orloff; then they watched TV. It wasnt for about two hours that something in
the back of Counts head told him that wherever Wiggy was, he was being aw-

fully quiet.

The guy who shot me found my great bike after all. We put it in Rogers workroom, and he
and Kenny polished it and oiled it. I ate lots of vegetables and rice and juice stuff,
while my things dried in the high mountain sun. I spent a whole afternoon watching Kate at
her loom and talking about my sister and folks and Norma. Its true that Im a man who has a
hard time talking about anything, but it was easy with Kate, and I found myself saying my
feelings in ways I never had been able to before. Like Bethany. God knows I loved my
sister, but in some ways, probably because I never really stood up to her voice, I hated
her a little, too. Hate is hard to admit. Somehow, with Kate building a rug in the middle
of that sunny room, it seemed at least all right to know it. Somehow.

Kate called Norma again that night and told me she thought they could be real friends.
Good friends. I thought so, too. In some silly way, I thought I had done this really
wonderful thing for Norma. At least I was glad to have helped friendship.

So Roger and Kenny drove me and my bike and stuff to Durango. It was a pretty day, sun and
clouds and chilly, but I was dressed for the weather, even prepared a little. I felt
encouraged when I looked at my road map. I had come more miles than I had left to Los
Angeles. Just knowing that made me feel great. And vegetables also. Roger taught me
stretching exercises, which I added to my vitamins and ba- nanas and spring water and
other things I was learning about. I had a new book, too. Kate had given it to me and said
it was an appropri- ate book for me. It was called Suzanne of the Aspens. It was a fat
book, and I hoped I would like it.

I said good-bye to Roger and Kenny and pedaled across the San Juan River down toward New
Mexico. My route would take me through the Navajo Reservation. Kate told me that the
reservation is the size of New England. Now, thats large. Almost too large for me

to think about. I like things, or Im finding out Im liking things, better when I see all
their little parts first. Thats good. I knew that if I saw some of the little parts, Id
understand better, and understand- ing has been a problem area for me.

By nightfall I had gone sixty-five miles, which, considering I got a late start out of
Durango, was pretty good. In those sixty-five miles, the country changed completely. It
was as if you came off a moun- tain and at the bottom of the mountain was a desert. It
just spread out there in the semiflatness. Wind cut out of nowhere. I pulled off the road,
lifted my bike over a fence, and walked in maybe fifty yards from the road. Far enough
that the whiz of trucks and cars wouldnt rattle my sleep. I staked out the tent and pushed
my saddlebags inside. I spread out the sleeping bag. After I had a quick supper of cold
rice and beans, water, and of course a banana, I snuggled into my bag and began Suzanne of
the Aspens by flashlight.

This was the true story of Suzanne Bowen who left Boston, Mas- sachusetts, with her
husband, Captain John Bowen, who had fought in the Civil War, and her young son, John Jr.,
and had gone across the country on horse and foot and wagon to settle in California. When
they got to the Rocky Mountains, Captain John got very sick. The three of them were forced
to leave their wagon train, because the other travelers were concerned it might be
smallpox. That night, with no one around, in the middle of nowhere, Captain John died. His
symptoms were a sore throat. If only theyd had penicillin, every- thing would be all
right. The next morning Suzanne and John Jr. buried the captain, then started back to
where the wagon train had gone. But by nightfall not only were they lost but John Jr. was
terri- bly sick, too. When he died in the morning, I closed up the book and shut off my
flashlight.

Aunt Paula called Mom a few days after the shower. Wiggy had not returned. Uncle Count was
inconsolable. She took the call in the den. Pop, Jeff Greene, Bethany, and me were in the
living room watch- ing the Red Sox. The Yankees were at Fenway, and they were a

hated team, and my pop was the biggest Yankee hater of all. Concentrate, he would mutter
to every Bosox batter. Bethany sat curled up with Jeff on the couch. We got to get a

new catcher, Pop, she said with determination. Give the kid a chance, Pop said, waving her
off. Hes thirty-five years old. Thats not old, chimed in Jeff. Bethany patted his hand. It
is for a catcher, sweetie. Mom had finished her phone conversation and came back to the

Red Sox. Find Wiggy? Pop asked, his eyes glued to Harry Peterson and

his full count. Hes run off. Poor Count. The Yankees called time with two out and the full
count going.

The manager dragged his ass to the mound. Mom looked over to Bethany. He was there when we
were open-

ing gifts, wasnt he? Who?

Wiggy. Oh, yeah. He was jumping all around in the paper. Well, hes just run off. Probably
a girl dog, Jeff said. Jumping all around like that. Jumping on my presents. I looked at
Bethany then, but she just smiled and pointed to the

TV. Here we go, she said.

Two days later I made Gallup, New Mexico. I would have done it sooner, but the ride was a
true crows flight. Those few miles in New Mexico were the most peaceful of my trip. The
air was sweet with sage (as Kate said it would be), and the cool, sunny air became like
fuel. I had gone through Farmington and saw this thing on the hori- zon. The man who
cooked my poached eggs at El Pollos restaurant told me it was Shiprock. It looked like a
ship, and the eggs were ex- cellent. At the tiny town of Naschitti, I met a Navajo who was
just sitting by the side of the road. We had a banana together and some of my water.

Im Smithy, I said. Good banana, he said. Whats your name? Ronald. I knew a Navajo in the
army. I knew some white guys in the marines. I remembered the Navajo in the army. His name
was Jesse, and he

thought the training was absolutely stupid. When our drill sergeant would scream at us and
wed all jump up, Jesse would take his time. It wasnt defiance either. It was a sort of
denial.

Later on, on the road to Gallup, some guys who looked like Nava- jos ran me off the road
and into a ditch. I wasnt hurt or anything, but I kept thinking how strange a human being
can be. They can be Jesse, or Ronald, or they can drive trucks and try to scare youor,
like that policeman, shoot you.

But this did not get in the way of how wonderful the feeling of New Mexico was, and after
three nights on the zigzaggy road, I rolled my bike into the Gallup bus station and slept
on a warm bench. No one bothered me.

Early the next morning, I ate my last banana and drank my last

bottle of water. I sat on my bench and counted my change. There was a little more than
twenty-four dollars. So there it is, I remember thinking. Twenty-five dollars, a bike, and
my stuff. I cannot describe to you how perfectly wonderful I felt all over as I pushed out
of the bus station and into the very early New Mexico sun. Across the street in a parking
lot, three trucks, old pickups, were unloading goods for a farmers market. There were half
a dozen long tables set up, and the men unloaded, and the women arranged a display of
food. Some little kids ran around the trucks and under the tables. I walked the bike
across the street and bought a large cup of Mexican coffee. One of the women put a
cinnamon stick in it and handed me a puffy piece of dough covered in powdered sugar. It
cost a dollar and was wonderful. I leaned against one of the trucks, ate my dough, and
watched the kids run around.

They left yet? a voice called.

I looked past the kids at two men. They stood straddling tall En- glish racing bikes and
wore fancy headgear and tight-fitting uniforms of blue and black.

Huh? I asked brilliantly. The road club. They gone yet? There they are, the other one
said, pointing to another lot. I

turned and saw perhaps three hundred bicycles and their riders milling around a platform
truck.

Were not late. Great! Cmon.

The two men pedaled off. I swallowed my coffee and watched them.

He turned and yelled back at me, Cmon.

I got on my bike and followed. All of the men and women, and it seemed equally divided,
had on beautiful tight outfits of various col- ors and designs. It was obvious that they
were all from different teams or clubs. They all seemed to be different ages too. I
spotted what looked like a young family with their grandparents. A large banner over the
truck read
?????? ???? ???? ??? ?????? ???????? ???? ??

??? ??????
. A pretty little teenage girl in a purple suit came up to me with a clipboard in her hand.

Its twenty dollars for the three nights, room and board. Gallup to Winslow, Winslow to
Williams, Williams to Kingman. Kingman is technically the desert.

Twenty dollars? I said.

Seswan Bikes are picking up room and board. Were responsible for the two rescue vans that
are going to be with us. Thats the twenty.

Im not with a team or anything.

No teams. These are all clubs. Independents can go, too. Its not a contest or anything.
You could be a club of one.

Okay, I said stupidly. I say stupidly, because Im old and a little fat and Im going. I
took out my money and counted out twenty dollars.

Youre number 307, she said officially, pinning the paper number to the back of my
sweatshirt.

Thanks. So what do you want me to call your club? I told you Im not in a club. Yeah, but
now youre a club of one. What should I call it? I thought for a second, but I couldnt come
up with anything

original. Norma, I said. Club Norma, she said, writing it down. Then she walked off

into the crowd of people and wheels. Suddenly I had an awful feel- ing. What if where I
had paid twenty dollars to go wasnt where I needed to go? I now had five dollars in my
saddlebags. I took out my road map and looked for Kingman. I heard someone testing the
speakers on the truck.

Testing. Testing. Can yall hear me okay? Kingman. Damn. I couldnt find it. How about
Winslow? Im Bob Eastman, president of the Gallup Road Club, and I

want to welcome yall to our big event. Gallup Road Club and Seswan Bicycles Ride to the
Desert.

It was so frustrating. I mean, Ive been a Boy Scout. It was as- tounding how I couldnt
find where I was on a map.

Every year we have more and more folks joining us on the beau- tiful route, and this year
we have more than three hundred. I kid you not. Three hundred.

Winslow! There it is. And theres Kingman. Perfect. Right through most of Arizona and just
above Los Angeles. I began to stretch out my poor old body.

Now, everything is clearly marked, and weve got spotters along the route, and youll find
the hundred twenty-five miles to Winslow a flat ride. Dont race. Its not a race. Theres
the Rocky Mountain Roadsters, and theyll be taking off first, but dont try to keep up, be-
cause theyre training for the nationals. Just try a steady pace. Make sure to get your
official Can yall see what Im holding up? This is the official Seswan Bicycle Lunch Pack.
Fits on the frame. Comes with sandwiches and juice and energy bar. Its free, so get the
pack before you head out. And remember, safety, safety, safety. See yall in Winslow.

Some of the riders didnt listen to Bob Eastman. They grabbed the Seswan Lunch Packs and
pedaled madly after the Rocky Moun- tain team, but most everyone else set a reasonable
pace through the high desert air. The lunch pack wrapped nicely around the bar of my bike
and attached with Velcro. I pushed off from the parking lot into the main body of bikers
and, after a few miles of getting used to rid- ing in a crowd, let my mind drift over
everything. Thats really the best way to do it. It sort of lets your thoughts do the
biking, and your body with its little aches and stuff sort of becomes detached. Sometimes,
not always, but sometimes, if my thoughts are free enough and truly take me away, my body
becomes almost a portion of the bike itself. Its weird and nice.

People passed me, I passed people. My good bike sat sweet on the road. Three very pretty
girls, maybe twenty-five or so, passed, then slowed a bit, and I fell into a similar pace.
It was nice, thinking away, and also watching their round little bottoms sitting so
strongly on those leather seats. They wore blue-and-gold uniforms and they were numbers
78, 79, and 80. I could have watched them for twenty miles. I did. We passed into Arizona
at Lupton, traveling in a happy, raggedy line down through the great reservation. Some of
the riders were getting tired by now, perhaps having misjudged the ride. There were trucks
trailing behind, of course, so no one would get stranded out here. I felt bad for the
riders who had pulled over. I remembered what the seven-mile ride to Shad Factory had done
to me. I was glad, though, that the three friends with the nice little bottoms seemed
strong.

After a couple of hours, one of the rescue trucks casually passed us, and I saw my sister,
first on the top of it, in her spectacular pose, then looking out from the back window.
She was waving to me and smiling, and her hair had been braided. I didnt want to lose this
vi- sion of Bethany, so I increased my speed slightly and pulled away from the pretty
bottoms. For the next hour or so, I followed my sis- ter closely and admired her beautiful
stillness, even if it was in my mind. Finally, as we entered the Petrified Forest at
Adamans, Ari- zona, she turned skyward, changed into a lonely cloud, then disap- peared
into blue.

I stopped a little off the road to have my Seswan lunch, added a banana to it, and headed
out again at an easy pace. Id had to change into my shorts and red T-shirt, because even
though there was a little brace to the air, the ride was hard work and my temperature was
warming up. Thats the thing that has happened to me. When Im getting something, hot or
cold or whatever, Im aware of it. I never was before. Its okay to be aware.

By late afternoon several trucks began to pass, carrying riders and

their bikes who had fallen out. I saw the grandparents and one of the kids. It would be
hard for a grandparent, I guess. By five oclock I passed a sign saying
??????? ? ?????
, and twenty minutes later I fol- lowed big makeshift signs to the Winslow Fairgrounds,
where the Arizona National Guard had set up tents for the event. There were maybe sixty
people already there. I looked around for 78, 79, and 80 but didnt see them. I parked my
bike in a rack, checked my tires because part of the deal here was that if your tires
failed, old Seswan Bicycles would fix themthen got in line for a big spaghetti dinner. I
took my dinner alone by my bike, then carried my saddlebags and sleeping bag over to one
of the rows of army cots.

What do I do? I asked an official-looking older woman in a blue dress.

Are you a participant? Yes, I am. Im number 307. Okay. Its coed. First come, first served.
Rest facilities are on ei-

ther side of the tent. I put my stuff on one of the cots and went to a restroom. They

had two trailers set up on each side of the tent. Men and women. I was glad the restrooms
were not coed. I washed up in a sink bath and paper-toweled off. I was getting good at a
sink bath. I walked back to my cot, grabbed my sweatsuit, and returned to the restroom to
put it on. It would be cold, and I wanted to remember to do the things I needed to do to
make myself the most comfortable. Being clean was one. The sweats were another.

When I got back to my cot, the tent had still not filled up very noticeably. It was a good
time to lay out my things and repack them. Kate had a great idea for keeping my socks and
underwear dry. She bought these big plastic food bags, and what I did was put my clothes
in the bags. I put on clean, dry socks and put the old ones in my dirty-sock bag. I was
getting efficient. That was something Mom and Pop admired in people and something I never
got the hang of until

I broke it all down to a bike and saddlebag. I stretched out on the cot using my sleeping
bag for a pillow. It was time for Suzanne of the Aspens.

So young John Bowen died too, just like his father, the captain, and so, for the second
time in three days, Suzanne Bowen had to bury a loved one. It was clear from the very
pretty and precise way that Rosa- lind Clarkson, who wrote the big book, described this
burial scene, that it drove poor delicate Suzanne Bowen of Boston absolutely crazy. She
sprawled over the grave of her boy and froze up and could not move, so great was her
sorrow. For several days and bitter-cold nights, Suzanne lay over her son talking at the
mound of dirt, as though she could bring him back by the sheer force of her wish to see
him again, running and playing the way he did in the fields and woods around Boston. But
finally, with the wagon horses starving and thirsty, she raised her head and realized that
John Jr. was not coming back. She led the horses to a grassy hill and let them graze and
drink from a pond. She wanted to just die, because her family had died, but something in-
side her that she never knew was there made her begin to do the things she would need to
do to live out in that hard and beautiful part of the Colorado Rockies.

She hitched up the horses and rode until she came to a gentle rise nestled against a
larger hill where below, a small stream rolled down to the valley. She brought her wagon
up snug against a large rock on the rise and placed rocks on the wooden spokes to stop
them from rolling and began to prepare for some way to get through the winter.

Good book?

I hadnt noticed the tent filling up or that 78, 79, and 80 were spreading out their things
on the adjacent cots. They all had sweaty dark hair. Two were very hard-looking and
athletic. They were shorter than the third one, who was also a little softer-looking. It
was this one who asked about the book.

I think it is, but Ive just started it, really. Cool, she said.

They looked pretty tired. Exhausted, maybe. Riding in the cold takes something out of you,
although I had to admit I felt great, with a belly full of spaghetti and all. They picked
up their bathroom stuff and some clothes and walked off, chatting away. I liked that these
three girls were friends and were doing something odd, with hun- dreds of other odd
people. About halfway through the tent, the one that had asked me about the book, 80,
turned and waved to me as if she knew Id be watching.

Anyway, Suzanne Bowen anchored her wagon and then made a crude but effective corral out of
dead branches and wood she found on the ground. She assembled the Franklin stove her
husband had brought with them for California, and she bent its pipes out the front opening
of the covered wagon so the wagon wouldnt burn. She col- lected a huge stack of firewood
and even planned how she would ra- tion food for herself to get through this winter, which
was obviously almost upon her. Suzanne did not have any idea why she did all this, because
she had such a longing to be with her husband and her boy, yet something inside her, deep
inside her, insisted on what she called saving grace.