The Memory of Running (27 page)

Walter killed . . . The words just came, and I couldnt swallow them back.

No, no, the essence . . . the essence is that Walter was only a cat- alyst. Walter loosed
the malady. It was the malady itself, whatever it may have been, that took Father home.
Now Walter, alone in the rectory, the room in shambles, the vessels strewn all over,
realizes what has happened. Father lying there as if in a nightmare. As if Wal- ter had
awakened to an even worse horror. Father. Dear God.

Philip gripped the wheel and shook slightly. He reached for his cigarettes but could not
get one out of the package. I took the pack, drew a smoke, and lit it. The first smoke Id
tasted since the wake. It tasted bad. I handed it to him. He took his small puff and held
it against the wheel.

Walter ran into the church, as Ive re-created it, grabbed a cush- ion from one of the
pews, and rushed back up the stairs to the rec- tory. The cushion was found lovingly under
Fathers head. That is an incontrovertible fact.

He puffed again with purpose. Cushion, he said with smoke. Rain had begun to fall on us. A
steady light rain. More thunder

cracked above us, but I missed the sparks of lightning. Walter fled the church, ran across
the open Iowa field, to our home. He ran to Fathers study, tore the lock from the gun
cabinet where the Wolsey men all kept their shotguns. Grouse and partridge. Pheasant, too.
He frantically loaded his own, pressed both barrels

against his eyes, and flew this world with Father. Lightning flashed. This time I saw it.
Philip stubbed out the

smoke. He seemed embarrassed. I ponder, you see. Thats so hard. Hard is this desert. Hard
is this head here, he said, tapping the

side of his head. This old black head. We rode on. We rode out of the rain and left the
snap of thunder

behind us. Ten miles later I said, Bethany killed Uncle Counts dog, Wiggy. She grabbed
that sweet thing and put him into a freezer.

Philip glanced over to me. Thats hard, he said. I never told anybody about that. Thank
you, he said, for telling me.

I couldnt sleep. I put on my clothes and went downstairs. I went through the small rooms
and into our kitchen. Mom had left the oven light on. I got a beer from the refrigerator
and drank it standing by the open fridge. Then I got out two more beers and sat at the
kitchen table. Because this was the night before Bethanys marriage to Jeff Greene, Mom had
wanted me to sleep in my old room.

I dont know, Mom, I said. Ive got my own apartment and everything.

Well, it would be just for tonight.

I could come over first thing in the morning. Mom really wanted me to stay the night,
though, and I admit I wanted that, too. It was going to be our last actual night as just
the four of us. Also, I hated my apartment.

I drank the two beers quickly, then put the three cans into the trash. It was 3:40 in the
morning. I made myself a screwdriver and stood in the low light by the sink window,
sipping it. Bethanys wed- ding day was going to dawn wet and cold. I looked across to
Norma Mulveys window. There was a light coming out from behind the venetian blind, but no
movement or shadows that I could see. I lit a cigarette and smoked it between sips of the
screwdriver. I heard steps on our stairwell, so I emptied the screwdriver into the sink,
swirled the glass, and filled it with water. Bethany entered the kitchen yawn- ing. She
went to the refrigerator and rummaged for food.

Youre up early, she said. Couldnt sleep. I figured. So you all excited and things? Im very
happy.

Hes a great guy. Jeff is great.

I dont like that a girl must change her name, Bethany said, pulling back from the fridge
with mayonnaise, lettuce, and a tomato.

I dont know. I shrugged. Now I was getting sleepy. Want one? she asked me as she got a
knife and some bread. Im fine, I said. Thank you. I mean, how would you like to have to
give up your name? I guess itd be okay. Thats because you dont have to. I meant, if I had
to, it would be okay. She finished putting the mayo and lettuce and tomato on Sun-

beam bread, shook on some salt and pepper, and squeezed it shut with a top piece of bread.

I dont like having to change my name. I might do something about that. Bethany Greene. Say
it out loud for me.

It was the morning of her wedding day, and so I said it. Bethany Greene.

Again. Bethany Greene. She took a little bite of sandwich. The lettuce crunched across the

room. I dont mind that, I guess. Its nice.

I guess. She ate a little more, and I listened to her lettuce. Is Norma watching? she
asked. I dont know. She watches you. You know that, dont you, Hook? I shrugged and sat at
the table. Shes coming to the wedding. I invited her. Will you dance

with her? Sure, I said. Shes afraid, you know. She thinks you hate her because shes in a

wheelchair. Thats . . .

Im not making it up. She thinks thats why you never see her and why you didnt write to
her. After you were hurt, she came over like she does, rolled down the drive, and just sat
out there crying. Shed read about it in the paper. When we heard her and went out, she
stopped crying long enough to tell us that, no matter what, youd still be Smithy and that
bodies dont count.

Its going to rain tomorrow, I said, looking out the window.

Norma said its whats in your spirit thats important. I thought that was amazing. Do you
think Ive stopped being crazy?

I was feeling like I had to pee. Narragansett. Do you think, Hook? Cmon, Bethany. I think
Ive stopped, is all. I really and truly dont believe Im

crazy anymore. I dont have a sense that something bad is going to happen. I talk easier,
more honestly with the shrinks at Bradley. I talk to Jeff. I feel awfully confident. Im
confident things are going to be great. I think Im going to be a good wife and a good
mother.

I think youll be a great wife and a mother.

My sisters eyes were wide, and the water blue of them was light enough to be gray. I had
never seen gray eyes before. She seemed smaller, also, than I had ever seen her. A dog
barked in the backyard of one of the houses behind us. A yap of a bark.

But Im worried about you, Hook. Im not worried that Im crazy, that Im going to be crazy.
Now Im worried about you.

I laughed. Im serious, she said. Dont worry about me. Can I tell you something, Hook? Can
I? Sure. I think youre turning into a fucking fat-ass slob. Also, I think

youre drunk a lot. I think youre drunk right now. I looked out the window, and I was sorry
I had thrown my screw-

driver away. I thought to myself that tomorrow I would be an usher

at her wedding, under the direct command of Best Man Dave Stone, and my sister had just
called me a fucking fat-ass slob. I got up.

Im tired. Now youre all mad. No Im not. See, Im not worried about me, Im worried about
you. I thought her eyes had gone back to light blue, but maybe not. I

sensed chemistry, though. I had this feeling of somewhere a mad sci- entist fooling around
with his beakers and vials, and he had me strapped to a chair, and there was nothing I
could do.

Dont be mad. Im not. I told you. She took another bite of lettuce and tomato sandwich and
spoke

between chews. I just love you and I think youre at an important crossroads in your life.
I think you want to break out, get a better job, fall in love. I dont see you working on
those things. I see you blow- ing up like a balloon and drinking, and you dont really have
any friends. Thats sad.

I have friends. Cmon. Name one. Cmon. I didnt want to stay in the kitchen and talk about
myself, but we

were all under one roof the way Mom wanted us, and that included kitchens, or at least
thats the way I figured it. I lit a smoke.

The rehearsal was nice, wasnt it? she said.

We had a walk-through of the ceremony at church and then went over to Asquinos Restaurant
for dinner. There were toasts and an ac- cordion player and antipasto and spaghetti with
sausage and peppers.

It went great. I cant wait to see you in your tux. It will be a great wedding. What do you
think of that guy Dave Stone? Jeffs best man?

Sharon says hes a pig.

Sharon Thibodeau was Bethanys maid of honor. She was from Warwick, Rhode Island, and, like
the rest of the girls in the wed- ding, was a friend from Grace Church. Except for some
mild poses in church choir, my sister had never displayed to her church friends the
horrible things the voice demanded. School was a different story. I liked the church girls
better anyway.

I dont know, I said.

You always say that. I dont know. I dont know. Thats what Im talking about. Its time you
knew. Jesus Christ!

Cmon.

He told Sharon a dirty joke. He told her a joke about two people fucking. It almost made
Sharon cry.

I dont . . . care about him. Im only gonna see him one more time. Sharons not gonna see
him again. Whats the big deal?

Norma loves you. Huh? Norma Mulvey. That amazing person. That amazingly spectacu-

lar human being. Norma loves you. Shes alone. What are you going to do? Are you going to
be a pig? A big drunk slob? What? Are you going to love Norma?

What are you talking about? I havent seen Norma. . . . She doesnt . . . stop, just stop.

I asked her to be in my wedding, but she just cried and said shed ruin it.

I turned away from her and looked out over the sink. I thought I saw the blind flicker on
Normas window. Bethany came from the corner of the table and put her arms around my
shoulders and put her chin under my right ear.

I just love you, Hook. I love you more than anything in the whole world. Even when Im
crazy, I think good things about you and hope good things happen to you. Remember how youd
look for me? Remember how you found me once under the water tower and you let me ride the
bike back and you ran beside? Thats why

Im afraid. Im afraid youve stopped running, and I dont want you to. I want you to stay a
runner. I want you to remember running.

Normas blinds opened, and suddenly she was there, sitting tall in a red flannel nightie.
Bethany waved to her and blew her a big kiss, and then they were both crying, and then the
rain fell.

Me: Hi. Norma: Smithy! I love you. Me: I had to leave the bike group. I took a ride from a
truck driver

whose brother killed his father, then killed himself. Norma: What?! Me: Its the kind of
stuff Id have to put in a letter or tell you, but

the phone is hard. His name was Philip Wolsey. He said he liked the way you think.

Norma (happily): You told him about me? Me: Well . . . you know . . . I told him some
stuff. Norma: Why did you have to leave the bike group? Me: Well . . . I didnt really have
to leave, but I just thought it

would be best if I did. Norma: Why? (I will always be sorry I didnt tell Mom the truth
about my pop

when she was in the hospital. Who thinks like this at forty-three?) Me: Well . . . there
was a girl. . . . Chris . . . I mean . . . (Now here is a pause that is not quiet. There
is a change of wind

across the country, and the wires whirl above the ground and below.) She was with some
friends, and they ride on weekends and stuff,

and they run a day Norma: Shes beautiful, right? Tall? Pretty? No, shes got to be bet-

ter than pretty? Beautiful? Me: I dont know. . . . She was pretty, I guess. Norma: Hair?
Me: Uh . . . Norma: Short? Long? Curly? Me: Kind of up, you know . . . brown. Norma:
Brown? Great. Brown is wonderful for hair. And Ill bet

her skin is all tanned from being outside and getting all that exercise. Right? Right?

Me: Her skin was white. Norma: White? All-over white? Me: Norma, Im in Needles,
California, and I was Norma: Was her neck white? Me: Do you Norma: Huh? Was it? Me: Yes.
Norma: Arms. Me: Yes. Sure. She had white Norma: Tits? (Its like the wires tighten. Its as
if they could snap apart. We dont

speak for a long time. Every now and then, I hear other voices cross- ing us, racing to
other cities. I sit on the end of a bed and hold the phone with both hands. It is
afternoon, but I have pulled the curtain tight, and the room is black. I have the chills.
I shiver.)

Norma (softly): Did you say something? Me: I shivered. Im sick. I got a good old cold.
Norma: Did you take anything? Me: Im going to get stuff later. Norma: Where are you? Me:
Im at the Ramada Inn in Needles. California. The truck

driver paid for my room, and Im going to send him money. His name is Philip Wolsey. Hes on
his way to Las Vegas. Dog food.

Norma: Heres Needles. Im looking at it. Its on the border of Arizona. You made love to
Chris? Now you love Chris?

(I think, Jesus, Im so sick. When I cough, the room shakes. But I didnt say it.)

Me: Thats pretty stupid, Norma. Im not mad or anything, but that is a pretty stupid thing
to think. Im forty-three.

Norma: I was . . . I was worried. Me: Did you find anything out about

Norma: I got it right here. Just a sec. Im opening it. I folded it. Okay. What they do in
Los Angeles is, when they have long-term, you know . . . bodies to take care of until
people come for them, is, they subcontract them out to small funeral homes that have
refrigera- tor systems that meet state and city specifications. I spoke to a woman in the
coroners office who explained that while the city maintains a potters fieldthats a special
cemetery for . . . you know . . . indigentsbecause Pop had written to them, they try to
accommo- date the families as best they can. Bethany was subcontracted to the Cheng Ho
Funeral Home in Venice, California. I called the funeral home, and the lady who answered
the phone said its almost on the water, where Winwood and Pacific come together. Theres an
old colonnade, and Cheng Hos is directly behind the colonnade.

Me: Venice, California. Im in California now.

(I cough. A deep cough and painful, but it loosens my chest even as it rocks the room.)

Norma: Oh, Smithy . . .

Me: Im gonna go get some stuff. I owe Philip Wolsey fifty dollars on top of the room.

Norma: I wouldve sent . . . Me: I know, Norma. Norma: Get cough syrup. It will help you
sleep. Dont be mad at

me, Smithy. I know I dont have any right to tell you anythingjust dont stop calling me. I
love you. You dont have to love me. I think about you, I . . .

Me: I think about you, Norma. Im sick. Norma: I hate that youre sick. Dont be mad at me,
okay? Me: Im not. Norma: I just got scared when I thought you and Chris were in

bed together. (My sister sits at a small table across from the bed. She has on her

Black Watch kilt and a white blouse. She is fourteen, and the cheeks of her pretty face
are red. She looks at me so seriously.)

Me: Norma. Norma: Yes, Smithy. Me: Me and Chris . . . Norma: What? (My eyes burn hotter
than the truth, and Bethany has flown.) Me: Me and Chris were never, ever in bed. Okay?
Norma: Okay. (I write down the address and phone number of Cheng Ho Fu-

neral Home and shiver against a feeling that this ride has proved what I always knew. That
I am a fool, a dog, a cat.)