The Memory of Running (29 page)

Bethany and Jeff had talked around their honeymoon. Bahamas, Bermuda, even Europe. In the
end they drove up to North Conway, New Hampshire, to the Level Wind Lodge, where they
would hike and plan and get used to being married. I was relieved they chose to stay in
New England. Bethany was a New Englander, and, really, Jeff was, too. Its just a feeling
that you have a place to fit in, even if its a little harsh in an accepting kind of way.

At the end of the reception, they both changed into regular clothes and kissed and hugged
everyone and drove off from the front of the Agawam Hunt Country Club in Jeff s new
Fairlane with cans tied to the back. I have never seen my pop so attentive to Mom as they
watched the car roll onto Taunton Avenue and up to 195. He held her tight with his big
pitching arm while he waved with his glove hand. He was crying. Hard.

I walked back into the club and had a screwdriver at the bar, and then I went out to Mom
and Pop, who still stood there. Theyre gonna be great. I mean, I feel good, I said.

My pop squeezed Mom. Oh, yeah, he said.

My bananas and doughnuts kicked in after a few miles of my walk to Lippit, and I talked
out loud to Norma, and to Mom and Pop and Bethany. There was a warm breeze and a salty
kind of smell, and I could feel my sadness and, I guess, despair blowing off of me. People
that you love can lift you and confuse you. Understanding them doesnt seem so important
when theyre inside your head. Thats why love should be easy. I guess it is. I just dont
know.

It was surprising how very clear Norma was to me. I mean, the physical Norma. I must have
taken these snapshots in my head, be- cause I could see her exactly how she was on my
porch the night I left for Shad Factory. Her tight red hair, big round eyes. The way her
smile was like cotton and how soft her face became when she spoke about Bethany. But I
remembered the anger and the grip of her beautiful long fingers on her wheels.

Norma, I said, and I smiled. Hey, Norma, I said again to myself.

A small, hard, flat-faced Spanish man about my age was working on a car on the side of the
Lippit Exxon station.

Kid said I could get my tires fixed around here. S’, he said, not looking up from the
engine. I got two flats. He didnt say anything. He grunted as he pulled

up on his wrench. I dont have any money. He looked up at me. Im not a bum or anything. Im
on this trip from Rhode Island,

and I spent all my money on hot dogs like a stupe, but I got this nice saddlebag and
stuff, and Ill give it to you if you can fix my tires.

He raised his head and laid the wrench on a greasy towel draped on the car radiator. That
saddlebag?

Yes.

What stuff ?

I got a nice alpaca sweater and a pair of sneaks Ive never used, and

Size? Ten. Ten? Yes. And some pants and socks. Cmon, he said.

I followed him to the back of the station. He unhooked the sad- dlebags and handed them to
me. Then he flipped my bike onto a long, waist-high vise. While he stripped off the ruined
tires, I looked around his shop. Skateboards hung neatly against a plywood wall. Each one
more colorful than the next, with peculiarly particular de- signs and angles. All of them
said
????
across the toe part. Most of the bikes were used, but they were polished and equipped with
new wheels.

I like your shop, I said. I like it, too, he said with no inflection. Are you Luis? No. He
walked to a metal cabinet and pulled out two new racing tires,

still in their plastic bags. He started on the back wheel. Rhode Is- land, huh?

Yes. All the way? I took some trains in New York and a truck a little in Arizona. Rhode
Island, he said, shaking his head. Yes. He moved to the front rim of my very beautiful
bike. Thats not

a real island, though, is it? No, I said. This is a good bike. Kids like mountain bikes
around here, but if

you go on the roads . . . good, good bike. Im gonna tune it up, too.

Thanks.

He inflated both tires, then straightened the front wheel to line it up with the back.
This pull to the right?

A little, maybe. Wont now. Thanks. He put a thin spread of clear jelly over the chain.
Teflon, he

said. Wow.

And graphite. They got everything. They got it all. You know, road dust wont even stick to
it now.

He put a little drop of solvent on each brake mechanism and took my bicycle from the vise.
Like new. Better than new.

I handed him the saddlebag. He opened it up and took out the items one by one and laid
them on the floor. Then he went to the metal cabinet and rummaged for a minute. He pulled
out a dirty red saddlebag that had been patched with what looked like an old piece of blue
jean. He brushed off the dust and tossed it to me.

Just the new saddlebag. You keep the other shit. I got little feet.

I didnt know what to say, so I knelt down and started pushing my stuff into the new old
saddlebag.

Luis was my baby. I stopped and looked up at him. Not, you know, baby. Thirteen. Big boy.
On the back of a

pickup fooling around, you know, thirteen. They werent going fast or nothing, and theyre
good kids and Luis goes off the back. Its heads. You cant hit heads.

He shrugged and looked over my head and lit a cigarette. I would call him wiry and hard,
but when I thought he was as old as me, I was wrong. Or maybe it was the bikes and the
skateboards. He seemed young, hard face and all. A dry wind spurted onto us and stopped.

My sister was named Bethany.

He looked down at me and didnt seem surprised.

She was a beautiful girl. A woman. Only shenot all the time or anything, but sometimesshe
heard this voice, and then it was awful.

The buttons on the old saddlebag were missing, so we tied it to- gether and onto the bike
with clothesline rope.

Im so sorry about Luis, I said, before I pedaled away. Im sorry, too. I nodded and left
him walking toward the car engine. I checked

my map and figured I was somewhere around Fontana. I would go down to Valley Boulevard,
and fifty miles later I would pick my way into Venice. I looked over to the bike man and
wanted to say some- thing more about Luis and maybe make him feel better. I didnt, though.
I guess you bump into people, and its all about how they bounce off you.

I rode easy on my amazing bike, and without thinking I said, Now I lay me down to sleep. I
pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

And then I said out loud, I said that for Luis.

We knew this: Mr. and Mrs. Jeff Greene drove up and around Boston, took the

turnpike to Concord, New Hampshire. At Meredith they cut a cor- ner of Lake Winnipesaukee
and took 16 the rest of the way north to North Conway. The weather was glorious (Jeffs
word). The Level Wind Lodge was perched on a ledge of granite overlooking Echo Lake. It
was a Victorian house full of squares and points that a young couple had painted white and
turned into a hotel. It was very homey, which was why Bethany had chosen it from the many
brochures she had sent for. From the front porch, you could see Mount Washington, the
highest peak east of the Mississippi and a mountain Jeff had hiked up with the Boy Scouts.
All around the lodge were trails for exploring. The food was particularly excellent. Jeff
has told us that Mrs. Thatcher, who was the owner along with her husband, Mr. Thatcher,
cooked traditional New England Colo- nial style but added a special touch of European
Nouveau. He has told us they both enjoyed Mrs. Thatchers food very much. They had corned
beef one night, with potatoes and cabbage and carrots, all boiled the way its supposed to
be, only it was served with a hot curry sauce and a cool chutney. Thats what Jeff meant by
the Nouveau touch. It was important for Jeff to tell us this, and so when he sat at our
kitchen table and told us what he knew, we listened hard, be- cause we knew it was
important to him. Mom even wrote down a recipe that Jeff had on a piece of paper written
by Mrs. Thatcher. Im going to put it here because of Jeff. Its called:

Mrs.Thatchers Pork Chops and Sweet Potatoes

(serves 4)
4 sweet potatoes Flour

1
Ú
2
cup orange juice 4 pork chops Lemon juice Lemon rind (grated) Butter

Dry mustard (tsp.)
1
Ú
2
cup currant jelly Paprika (tsp.)

Heat the oven to 350¡. Boil the potatoes. Dip the chops in flour and brown. Arrange chops
and potatoes in baking dish. Cover with sauce made from boiling other ingredients. Cook 15
minutes.

We never ate it, because Mom never cooked it, but it is a very spe- cial and clear memory
that Jeff Greene had of his honeymoon.

On the third evening, after a dinner of haddock with cucumber mayonnaise, Jeff and Bethany
sat on the porch and watched the first stars twinkle over the Presidential Mountain Range.
They held hands, and Jeff felt a contentment he had never known. He was so happy to be on
that porch with my wonderful sister that for the first time in a long time, he wasnt
worried about the auto shop or his fu- ture. Bethany shivered a little, so Jeff went
inside to get something to put around her shoulders. When he came back out on the porch,
Bethany was gone.

Just like that, he said, over and over, just like that.

Jeff called for her, then looked around the lodge, and finally alerted the Thatchers to
the possibility that Bethany was missing. By morning the police had been called, and
around noon Jeff called my pop, who called me at Goddard.

Hello?

Smithy? Is it Bethany? Come home. Pop had gone to Woodys Gas Station and gotten a road map
of

New England. He had it spread across the kitchen table by the time I arrived from work.

Your mothers by the phone in the den. Look here.

Pop took a red crayon and made a large circle around North Con- way, New Hampshire. The
red circle also took in parts of Maine. He looked up at me, standing there in my uniform
jumpsuit.

Are you thinking what Im thinking? he said. I was thinking about Bethany. What happened?
She walked off. Its got her again. Jeff called about twelve this

afternoon. She walked off last night. From here? I said, pointing inside Pops circle. Look
close here. Heres North Conway, East Conway, Kearsarge,

and little tiny Echo Lake, where the Level Wind Lodge is. But look in Maine. Look how
close Bridgton is. Thats Highland Lake. Thats our summer lake.

You think she went to Bridgton, Pop? I dont know, but its a lead. Mom packed us a lunch,
and Pop threw some of his stuff into a

small blue American Tourister suitcase. It was decided that Mom had better hold down the
fort and be close to the phone. After stopping by my terrible apartment in Pawtucket for
some clothing, we drove up to the Level Wind Lodge, alternating the driving duties.

Pop wasnt a small-talking kind of man, and so for the most part it was a quiet drive,
except for a couple of minutes before we ate the lunch Mom had made for us, when my pop
said, You ask your- self . . . I mean, its only natural, I guess, you grow older and
wonder at the steps you took along the way. But your mother and I . . . so hard ... what
do you do? How ... I dont know. How does a man know what to do? Your perfect daughter,
beautiful, dear child, and

then the years all pile up. Ill tell you this much that it took getting to be an old fart
to learn, Ill tell you this much: Its been rain on the base paths. . . . Its been a
headfirst dive into muddy second. I wish to Christ I never was born.

I was riding passenger, so I gave him half a bologna and cheese and coffee from the
thermos. I ate the other half and shared the cof- fee. We took 495 around Boston, then 93
into New Hampshire. I switched to driver, and we shared another of Moms bologna and
cheeses.

I didnt mean that about wishing I was never born. I wouldnt have had you guys then. You
and Bethany.

I know, Pop, I said. He didnt hear me. He turned his crying head to the side.

San Gabriel was hot. I was tuned for a different end of October, for some chill, for some
damp. It was stale and windless and hot. I pulled off onto the sidewalk of Valley
Boulevard and took off my sweats, down to a blue T-shirt and baggy running shorts. My
socks felt wet, and I took them off, too, and aired out the dogs, I finished the last
banana and bottled water. I sat on the curb between two cars and en- joyed the food.

When I rode again, I followed Valley into Mission Road and, like a miracle, came onto the
fat beginning of Sunset Boulevard. Again, its amazing to be a man doing a boys ride or
something. I only know there is no way on earth that Smithy Ide could go where he was
going, to Venice, to Cheng Ho Funeral Home, any other way. The two thin tires took more
than my disappearing body to Bethany. It took whatever me was. Not new or old, but just
me. I knew I would be able to see her, and I knew she would let me.

At first my ride was easy and secure and reassured. I told myself over and over that there
was no hurry. Starting so early had given me a jump, and even with the two flats, I could
be in Venice by four or five. But my pace picked up when Bethany passed me on the back of
a low and sleek Mercedes-Benz. She smiled and laughed and called my name.

Hooks here! I shouted, and pushed my bike harder onto the flat plain of Sunset at West
Hollywood.

I ran a red light, another. I glided smoothly away from restaurants and office buildings,
past huge homes and hotels. At the mouth of Coldwater Canyon, I heard brakes squeal in my
wake. I was flying. Ahead, Bethany smiled and shouted and leaped in her wedding dress from
car to car.

Hooks here! I screamed, the dry air pinching my hairy face. I rode that last part of
Sunset like a cartoon. I still imagine a line of

fire behind me. Miles and miles of speed and shouts. And then I was standing against a
rail, in a long, thin parking lot, looking out at the ocean. I had never seen a beach so
wide and so empty. A tall man in a three-piece suit leaned stomach first against the rail
and worked a kite out over the beach and over the highway. He worked it with string in
both hands, and, really, you could say he was piloting it.

Is that Venice? I said, pointing down to the beach. That? Yes. No.

The kite soared almost straight up, then stopped and swerved to the left. It was red, but
it was so high I couldnt tell if there was a de- sign on it.

See that cement road on the beach? I looked. Okay. Get on the road. Its a bike road.
Joggers. Go left, and that goes

into Venice. In ten minutes I was walking my bike down the bike road. A cool

breeze came off the Pacific. I didnt care. I took my T-shirt off and let the sun hit me. I
had not walked on a beach since I could remem- ber. I started an easy pedal.

I moved my heart around, because now I was afraid. Looking back, I was more than likely
afraid of an ending, because an ending usually meant a beginning. But it was a real fear,
and so I pedaled slow and moved my heartbeat as completely as I could.

I have never been in a place like where the bike road came to. I re- member it, and Im
pretty sure most of what I remember was real. Of course, I understood my vision of Bethany
for what it was. She was in Pops baseball uniform and walked a little ahead of me, point-
ing with delicate fingers at the street bands and jugglers and mimes and dancers and
speakers and weightlifters and people getting out- door massages from a seven-foot blond
man in a Superman suit. Be- hind a basketball court, I found a mens room. I looked at
myself in

the mirror. I needed a sink bath and to neaten my beard. I walked to my bike and took a
towel and shaving supplies back into the bath- room. There is something so nice about
water, thats all. I fixed my- self, rolled the razor neatly in the towel, and walked back
to my bike. Or where my bike had been.

Hey! I shouted. Hey! My bike! I looked around in every di- rection and ran to the main
bike road.

Anybody seen my bike?

I waited as if somebody was going to say something, but nobody did. I saw a tall, thin
black girl looking at me.

Somebody . . . somebody stole my bike.

She smiled at me, and I guess I smiled at her. Want your hair in a ponytail? Beads and
wire?

A ponytail? Free, cause somebody stole your bike. Somebody steals bikes and theres
ponytails. I dont get it. Okay, I said. Sit. I sat in a short directors chair she had set
on the sand just off the

bike road. She combed my hair back. I...donthavealotof hair. I looked down. She had a
hand-painted sign stuck in the sand. It

said
???? ????? ?? ??????.
What color beads? she asked. Red? You think? Reds nice. Shabba went to work and hummed a
little song, and every now

and then somebody went by and shouted to her and laughed, and she shouted, too, and
laughed. In a few minutes, I had a small ponytail and red beads. She held a hand mirror
off to the side so I could see.

Thats nice, I said.

Cause somebody stole your bike. Lots of people, though. Most dont steal.

Most people are really nice, I said. Most people are the best, she said, with a wonderful
smile. Do you know where the colonnades are? She pointed. You see the old tile roof ?
Uh-huh. Colonnades. I moved through the crowd and across a tiny walkway, and then I

was standing in front of a circular roadway with the old building fac- ing me. I pulled my
T-shirt back on. I could smell chicken some- where, and the chicken was frying. And then I
could smell the Pacific Ocean and things that were in it. And then I walked across the
roadway and behind the colonnade.