AT 29 (38 page)

At the end of another half mile he was no longer able to bend his cranky leg. Instead, he skipped along, putting his weight on his left leg while using the injured one to maintain his balance. His thigh pulsed with pain, but, surprisingly, he felt himself gaining a second wind. He used this new energy to skip forward, not as fast as before, but in two more miles his travails would be over.

The last mile was packed with spectators. Jimmy skipped haphazardly, looking mildly humorous to those who did not recognize his condition. The youngsters in the crowd tugged at their parents and pointed at the funny man shuffling his way among the stronger bodies. Jimmy was now in acute pain. Oddly, the sweat that had tormented his eyes was gone. His face was dry and his vision blurred. His mouth, too, was dry, his tongue swollen as he moved it about seeking moisture. He found it hard to concentrate. He dropped his chin to his chest, searching through the haze for his feet. It was all he could do to bring them into view. He tried to lift his head to the sky, but his neck felt heavy and uncooperative.

He advanced slowly, weaving left and right in such confusion that other runners were forced to take a wide angle in order to pass. Then a dull snap at the center of his thigh buckled his leg and sent him sprawling. He broke his fall with both arms, feeling little, overwhelmed by exhaustion. He thought he heard muffled oohs from the onlookers, but it seemed far away. The asphalt was hot from the sunlight, seeming less bright than it should. His right leg would not move, but he still had a little strength in his arms. He used
them to pull his good leg straight then pushed with all he had to bring himself to a sitting position. The effort made him lightheaded. Stars danced before his eyes.

“You need help?” A teen stopped and looked down.

Jimmy only vaguely heard the question. Before he could respond, another figure came to his side, speaking in a familiar voice.

“It's okay, son. I'll help this fella. You keep goin'.” The teen moved on. A cup of water was held out.

“George,” Jimmy whispered, “What are you doing here?”

“Tell ya later. Drink up.” Jimmy downed the water..

“Something's wrong with my leg.”

“Charlie horse?”

“It gave out. I can't put any weight on it.”

George ran his hand along Jimmy's thigh. He put pressure at several points. Jimmy winced. “You got three whopper knots. When's the last time you had water?”

“I can't remember, but it doesn't matter. I'm done for the day.”

“No you ain't. I didn't take a bus up here to the boondocks just to see you quit.”

Jimmy shook his head. “I can't.”

“No more quittin', boy!” George's voice was stern. Jimmy frowned. “Don't go makin' faces. You can put your arm over my shoulder and we'll walk it.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Rules say I have to cross the line on my own.”

“Then that's what you're gonna do.”

“I'll be falling every two seconds.”

“I'll be pickin' you up. You gotta finish what you started, as dumb as this thing is. Just stay here whilst I get more water.”

George hurried into the crowd. After a minute, he returned with two cups in his hands. Jimmy took the first cup and splashed the water over his head. Then he took the second and drank, this time letting the liquid refresh his mouth before it slid down his throat.

“Better?” George asked, a calmer smile on his face.

“Better. Help me up.”

He heaved himself to a crouch. George's strength did the rest, enabling Jimmy to stand although his right leg remained curled at the knee. He tried to straighten it, grunting in pain. The knots in his thigh would not yield. His foot hung in the air.

“When this is over you're gonna need a massage to get them knots out.”

Jimmy rested his arm on George's shoulder. “How much farther?”

“A half mile, maybe a little more.”

“All I can do is hop.”

“Who cares?”

Jimmy shook his head in disgust as he lifted his arm and made the first tentative effort to move his body forward. A smattering of applause came up from the crowd. He didn't realize it was intended for him until George nudged him.

“You hear that? Nothin' better'n a guy pickin' himself up.”

He hopped for ten yards. George stayed by his side, ready to catch him if he started to fall.

“Try fightin' off the spasms.”

“I don't think I can.”

“Yeah, you can.”

He kept on a few yards at a time. George hovered close as ten more runners passed on either side. His meager progress seemed hopeless, but he didn't have the will to fight George. He fixed his sight on the telephone poles, making each one his goal then focusing on the next. George walked at his side, occasionally giving encouragement, but mostly staying silent as he carefully watched. After thirty minutes the path that veered left to the finish line came into view. Jimmy let out a shout causing George to chuckle.

“Yep, finish this crazy contest and you get a steak dinner.”

Jimmy hustled on, knowing the end was near. George went ahead, looking into the wooded area where the finish line was waiting. Then he hurried back.

“I'm goin' down there to watch you come in.” He patted Jimmy's back. “Doin' good, doin' good!”

It was another fifty feet down the well-worn path. Jimmy was weak from the day's demands. His leg resumed its spasms, but he knew he would finish. His time wouldn't be what he hoped, but he no longer cared. Finishing didn't seem to matter either, except to George for whatever his reasons. The real end had finally materialized in Jimmy's mind. The years of booze and escape were behind him. Returning home to Chillingham and then coming back here to Vermont while facing himself each step of the way, that was the real goal symbolized by the day's efforts. He hopped down the path with renewed purpose, tumbling once before he finally dragged his balky leg across the line. A nurse waited beside George. A soon as Jimmy crossed she helped him to a first aid tent where she massaged his knots away.

They decided to dispense with the notion of going out for dinner. Both men were exhausted; Jimmy from the competition, George from his advanced age and the long bus ride early that morning. George went in search of takeout pizza and beer. He should have been back on the bus home to Liston, but Jimmy insisted he stay. In the middle of the night a front dropped from Canada, ushering the long day's heat and humidity across New Hampshire and Maine and out to sea.

He awoke at mid-morning. George was watching television, waiting for him to rouse. They spent a half hour putting the previous day's gear in order then tossed it all into the trunk of the Saab. George attached the Centurion to the rack while Jimmy went to the front desk to checkout. Neither man felt the need to rush. It was a gorgeous Sunday morning in Vermont.

They ate breakfast at a sidewalk café on Church Street, only steps from the second floor former Poor Richard's Pub. The Sunday Burlington Free Press listed the triathletes, including a breakdown of times for each leg of the race. The top finisher was a Swede, Bennick Bergdahl. Jimmy marveled at his time, 4:01:22. In spite of his balky leg, he was satisfied with his own finish, 6:49:37. He vowed never to do it again.

When they rolled onto Interstate 89 Jimmy sped south as fast as he thought possible without earning the attention of a state trooper. They chatted about the race for the first half hour. George heaped praise on Jimmy for finishing. Then they fell silent for much of the ride from Montpelier to White River Junction. When the highway crossed the Connecticut River into New Hampshire, George spoke again.

“Sure been a long time since I seen a Kendall boy competin'.”

“It wasn't a competition, just a test of my physical conditioning.”

“Yep.” George seemed to be thinking about something more, but a mile passed before he spoke again. “Us talkin' these coupla months, I got to thinkin'.”

“About what?”

“Germany. Maybe look up my wife.”

“That could be risky.”

“You mean maybe she won't wanna see me?”

“It's been a long time. Maybe she isn't there or perhaps she met someone else.”

“I suppose. I'm just thinkin' right now.”

“What will you do in the meantime?”

“I don't wanna live in Liston no more, Florida's lookin' good. I got a coupla bucks and my pension from the Army. Figure I can make a go of it down there where it's warm, go back and settle down for good if findin' her don't work out. I got some money on a red Chevy Impala. Ain't had a car since I left Florida the first time.”

An idea came to Jimmy. “Would you be interested in doing some work for me?”

George turned his head. “What d'ya have in mind?”

“My house in Chillingham, it needs general repairs, cleaning and painting. You could stay there. I'll pay you and buy whatever supplies you need.”

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.”

George looked out the window, considering the offer. “Why ain't you doin' it?”

“I'm going back to New York.”

“So you're gonna try again?”

“I wrote a new song.”

George stayed silent for a moment then said, “I gotta pickup the Chevy. You got a garage?”

Jimmy laughed. “Yes.”

They sealed the deal with a handshake then rode on without further chat. George seemed deep in thought. Jimmy assumed he was thinking about his wife or maybe wrestling with his decision about Florida. He felt some empathy for his friend. After several miles George took a deep breath, still staring straight ahead.

“I looked up Bucinski.” He looked at Jimmy, gauging his reaction then went on. “He wasn't hard to find, in the phonebook livin' in Methuen, still teachin'. I told him what you said about that last game.”

“How did he react?” Jimmy shifted in his seat behind the wheel, guarded.

“Surprised, I think, about me knowin'.”

“So he didn't deny what he did to me?”

“Yeah, well everybody's got somethin'. I asked him what happened.”

“I told you what happened.”

“Your side of the story.”

“There's no other side.” Irritation crept into Jimmy's voice. George took no notice.

“Right or wrong there's always two sides. I got to thinkin' ‘bout some of the stuff you used to do back when you was playin'. Every time one'a you kids come off the floor the rule was take the open seat next to coach so's he could explain what he wanted when he put ya back in. Remember?”

“Cardinal rule.”

“You always went straight to the end of the bench as far away from him as you could get.”

“Why are you dredging this up again?”

“Cuz it ain't over yet, not for you.”

“Tell me what he said.”

George ignored the demand. “Why did you keep it to yourself all these years?”

“What did he say to you?”

“Why did you come back to Liston?”

“Not because of Bucinski.” Jimmy stared at the road, watching the white lines glide by. He couldn't be sure what George knew, but he had an idea. Suddenly, he was tired; from the previous day, the months alone in the house in Chillingham, training in the cold days of winter and recalling all of the people he had known.

“We run him off.”

“Who?” Jimmy was relieved by the subject change.

“Brother Justice. I caught him with Sammy Wykoff. I ain't gonna describe what I saw. You can paint your own picture. I suspected him over the years with some of the other boys. You know the ones who was a little different, but this time with Sammy, it was right in front of me. I wasn't ignorin' it no more. I went to Brother Patrick and told'm what I seen. He listened, but I could see on his face he didn't know what to do. It'd kill Kendall if word got out, what with the power them Wykoffs and McGraths had in the city. Course the drug bust killed it anyway.”

“Brother Justice?”

“I'm gettin' there. I let it go a coupla days. I kept my eye on Sammy, makin' sure him and Brother didn't have no chance to go off alone somewhere. Then I got a hold a Bucinski and told'm what I wanted to do. He was all for it. Nobody liked Brother Justice. When it was all hatched out, I went back to Brother Patrick and put my plan to him like it
was a story I heard in the Army. Then I says to him, ‘If somethin' like that was to happen at Kendall do you think it would be the right thing to do?' He never said nothin', but he looked me in the eye. That's all I needed.

“Next night, I waited ‘til prayers was over and the brothers had all gone to their rooms. Bucinski showed up ‘bout ten. He had Antonelli with him. He stayed by his car whilst Antonelli and me went inside. I hid down the hall and Antonelli knocked on the door real quiet so's the other Brothers wouldn't hear. He lied a course, tellin' Brother Justice he needed some counselin' and askin' him if he'd come over to the chapel so's they could talk. Later, Antonelli said he thought Brother was suspicious, but he put on his collar and jacket and came out anyway. Once they was gone, I slipped into the room. No problem gettin' in. Bein' the janitor, I had a key. I found a suitcase in the closet and threw as much clothes and stuff in it as I could. Then I took it with me downstairs.

“By then, Brother Justice was standin' by Bucinski's car with the three of 'em lookin' at each other not sayin' nothin'. I threw the suitcase in the trunk and told him to get in the backseat. He acted like he didn't know what was goin' on, but he knew what I seen with him and Sammy. I said we was takin' him to the bus station. Didn't care where he went as long as it was at least five hundred miles away. And, he wasn't comin' back ever again. He said no, even tried to walk back to his room, but Bucinski blocked his way. It got tense, them bein' the same size and the Brother lookin' like he was ready to take a swing, but after a minute he gave in and got into the car. Bucinski and Antonelli got in on either side. It looked kinda odd, me in the front seat drivin', them three big guys crammed into the backseat bein' chauffeured. ‘Bout half way to the bus station he starts cryin' like a baby. Kept askin' for us to let him go. Said he never hurt no boys. Bucinski told him to shut up.