The Memory of Running (4 page)

Polly Sutter was a small, brown-haired woman, around forty, with two black moles on her
temple the size of quarters. She wore a long black jacket that hung almost as low as her
black pleated skirt. She smelled exactly like a Camel cigarette.

Hows it going? she said, nodding a condolence as though she knew what I was going to say.

Okay. Good crowd last night? Good showing? Went well? This was the second and last viewing
of Mom and Pop at the fu-

neral home of Polly and Dick Sutter. They were brother and sister, offspring of the late
Richard Sutter, original owner of Sutter Rest, and grandchildren of Bob Sutter, who had
written a book about Virginia ham, called Salt, Keep Meat Fresh Without Ice. Polly had had
a date the first viewing night and was anxious for news.

It was fine, I said. Tonight? Many? I dont know. Life, she said, lighting a cigarette with
the last spark of her pre-

vious one, life is a funny thing. We go through ups and downs, win- ters and summers, but
somewhere, sometimes, its good. I want you to think about all those good times.

Polly coughed, a juicy rumble deep inside.

Jesus, God. She coughed again and looked at her cigarette. I got to stop this.

I looked at Polly and wondered if Dick would fix his sister up when it was her time. I
wondered if Dick and Polly had fixed up their father.

Aunt Paula and the Count stood next to me at the foot of Mom and Pop, and we shook hands
with the people as they filed past. Most of them were friends from school or Masons or
church or baseball,

but there were some enemies, too, like Mr. Mayeo who kept a ken- nel of yapping mutts, and
Mr. Viera with his accordion, and even the horrible Liz Fox who bumped Mom from Altar
Guild to Hymnal Distribution. Everybody came. Everybody comes when you die. Old Jimmy
Boylston came.

Jimmy had played with my pop in the early days. He was much older than his teammates, but
he had grit, Pop said. You had to re- spect him. Jimmy lived with his sons family now and
was a tremen- dous burden. He wore a baseball uniform all day, cleats included, and on
many occasions, when he felt he had taken a sufficient lead and the pitcher had let his
concentration wane, Jimmy Boylston stole kitchen. If you were Jimmys son, Jimmy Jr., or
his sons wife, you would not find the run and slide funny. Baseball was life and death to
Jimmy Boylston. It was everything.

What would happen was that Jimmy would be in the TV room watching his soap operas, and
something would set him off. Hed slowly get up, take a lead, and crouch. Now, if you
caught him in the crouch, he could be talked back to his recliner in front of the TV. But
if he had the time to set, you were screwed. When he used to steal for the old Providence
Steamrollers, and even later with Pops Socony club, he was quiet as a mouse until he
exploded for second. Hed let out a ferocious Yaaaaa! that lasted for fifty or sixty feet.
Old age had robbed Jimmy of his speed, stripped that ballsy head- first, lightning plunge
from his arsenal, but time had not eroded the electric Yaaaaa! From the TV room, through
the living room, and onto the off-white center tile of the kitchen, time turned in on
itself.

Aw, fuck. Well, goddamn it. Now, shit, stammered Jimmy, squeezing my hand with both of
his. His gray uniform had thin red stripes. It was baggy and worn but newly laundered. He
wore his pants high and his red socks high, too. His head seemed to swim in the blue
Steamroller cap.

Goddamn it to shit. Fuck, he explained softly.

Thanks for coming, Jimmy. This is my Aunt Paula and Uncle Count.

Jesus, huh? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He nodded comfortingly. Jimmy scraped at the rug with his
cleats. Dad just had to come, Jimmy Jr. said behind him. Were so

sorry about your folks. Fuck. Shit. Fuck, Jimmy agreed solemnly. Cmon, Dad. At least,
Jimmy said, at least, at least, at least. One good thing.

One good thing! Jimmys eyes welled, and he set his jaw. At least those fucking Boston Red
Sox wont be breaking your fathers heart anymore.

Youre right, Jimmy. Well . . . He paused and drew a deep, wheezing breath. Fuck. Jimmy and
Jimmy Jr. moved on, past Mom and Pop. He looked

wonderful in his chess gray home uniform. He didnt take his hat off, but that was okay. He
had permission. The big steal was coming soon, and he knew it right down to his cleats.
Hed meet Mr. Grim Reaper feetfirst at blazing speed, with those sharpened cleats about
chest high. Like my pop said, you just had to respect him.

After about an hour and a half, I took a break. Count had started telling little jokes to
his friends, and while me and Aunt Paula were shooting people through the line with just a
couple of words, Count stood there like a buddha, holding on to their hands and not
letting go until he finished. Hed lean forward, pretend to look around to make sure no one
was watching, then let out one of his classics.

There were these two fags. . . . These fags got into a cab. . . . There was this fag
priest. . . . Two fags were in a bar. . . . Four fags were on a boat. . . . Train full of
fags going to a convention. . . .

Count carried something like 300 pounds on his five-foot-eight body. Im a slob, okay, 279
pounds, five-eleven, cant breathe half the time, a belly with a separate life and
everything, but next to Count I was slim. Not slim, okay, but just another fat guy. Count
was a higher order of porker. Hed crossed the line that says forget holding in your belly,
forget buying smaller clothes, forget everything, baby, and be proud. Count would set
those two little feet on the ground, and you knew he wasnt going anywhere. My pop would
always laugh and tell Mom that Count would outlive him. He never believed it, though,
never. Now Count was seventy-one, 300 pounds, pure New York cheesecake blood, and standing
over my pop telling jokes.

Im coming? I thought I was going! Ha, ha, ha. I thought it was a corkscrew! Ha, ha, ha.
Us? We came on the train! Ha, ha, ha. I walked past Polly Sutter out a side door and into
the parking lot.

The East Providence air was damp but cool, with just a hint of the Rumford Chemical Works
one town over. I lit a cigarette, opened the Buicks door, and took a quart of Narragansett
Lager out of the small cooler Id brought. It was very cold, and I drank it right out of
the bottle. I finished it quickly, unscrewed another quart, and lit an- other cigarette. I
took another long swallow of Rhode Islands fine lager beer and sat back. Its hard
sometimes to think. The cigarette is just a lightness now. My pop said he smoked for the
taste. Theres a lightness for me, then a little sting, but really no taste to it. I like a
lot of beer. Or if not a lot of beer, then beer with maybe some bour- bon. I had some
small airplane bottles of Ten High I bought on sale at Roses liquor store. I kept them
under the Buicks seat. I dont think a person should drink and drive, and of course say no
to drugs. I opened one of the airplane bottles and drank it. Sipped it, really, I sip the
bourbon. Beer is more or less drunk; bourbon gets sipped. I sipped it all down, and then I
sipped a couple more.

You know how things get quiet when its an odd time? Thats what it was in the parking lot.
It was a quiet that was a thing all by it-

self. I remember the night I got so hurt in the army. Me and this Puerto Rican kid were
sitting on a stump at the edge of this swampy place where the company commander had
insisted our platoon set up for the night. It was loud, like the bugs had drums and horns.
Loud enough that even if you could have fallen asleepand we never slept out there at
nightbut even if you could have, you couldnt. So I had to pee and started to pee in such a
way that it went into the swampy water, andthis is truethe bugs and the things that were
crawling around all over the swamp, not just where we were, went quiet. That exact same
quiet that was, like I said, a thing, a solid thing.

The Puerto Rican kids name was Orlando Cepeda, same as the baseball player. He got shot
dead right away, no time for crying or anything. What happened was they heard me peeing.
They picked it up, and they all just started firing everything in the general direction of
my pee. I got seven different kinds of slugs of the sixteen the doc- tor took from my
thigh and my butt and my chest. I get nervous when it goes very quiet. Its hard to
explain, but if I had to sum it up, Id say that when it gets very quiet, I always feel
like Ive done some- thing bad.

I put the cigarette out and screwed on the Gansett lid. Id have to pee soon, but I knew I
could use Polly and her brothers toilet. That quiet kept coming like a wave. I stepped
away from the Buick and looked at Aunt Paula and Count through the window. People kept
coming. People kept up the funeral line. My collar was tight, my thoughts werent clear,
and my mouth got so dry. My mouth gets so dry sometimes.

Smithy, she called, and it scared me. I swung around slowly to where Bethany held a pose
in the farthest corner of the parking lot. Her black hair blew gently in the night air.
Her arms above her head and fingers splayed to the first stars.

Smithy, she called again. Im here. Hooks here.

Im behind you.

I started to turn, then turned back to Bethany. But Bethany had become the little maple
tree in the farthest corner and her black hair blowing, only night leaves. Its true. It
happens. I have followed her down rivers and seen her on hospital ceilings. Its the
clearness of it that bothers me, and yet its the clearness that doesnt. I see her. I see
her arms and fingers and heavy hair, but its a ghost thats young and true. Sometimes I
watch myself ride my Raleigh to her. Sometimes I watch my own tears in the dark.

Smithy?

I turned around. The wheelchair flashed under the light from the funeral home. Norma
Mulvey sat with a look of defiance. She had grown into her eyes. They were still pale
green but no longer domi- nated her face, which was lightly freckled. Her red hair was cut
short and tight against her head. Norma looked young. Ever see a young person and want to
hold your stomach in? I held it in, but it had its life to live, and would live it.

Im Norma Mulvey, she said, both hands on her large back wheels.

I know. Im sorry, Smithy. I know. Beas in there, Norma said, gesturing to the funeral
home. She

always called Bea Bea, even when she was a kid. I remembered that.

Beas paying her respects, but I didnt want to see Mom and Pop in coffins. That okay?

Sure. Im going to light a cigarette, okay? I wont explode, she laughed. I meant, you know,
smoking and people, sometimes . . . I was kidding. I know.

Norma rolled over to a blue van parked sideways across two park- ing spots.

This is mine, she said tapping the drivers-side door. Little lever here opens the door,
another lever sends an elevator gizmo down and sets me up to drive. Operate the gas and
brakes manually. Manu- ally Im in good shape. I lift weights. I have good cardiovascular.
I really do.

Thats great, I said, the way I say almost everythingstupidly. I just wanted you to know.
Norma looked pretty when she was talking. When she talked, she

didnt look defiant. I guess a person whos in a wheelchair gets an at- titude. I guess the
attitude is defiance.

I do drafting freelance, she said, looking at her van. Got a fac- simile machine, computer
linkups, tilt tablethe works. Do some magazine layouts, some Providence Journal, but
mostly, because they can rely on the steadiness of my line, I work on architectural blue-
prints. Its a skill, you know. Im very, very good.

I . . .

And because I never see you, I just wanted you to know how it is. I dont want you to think
I roll around Beas house doing nothing. Mostly my days are work. I pay all the bills, I
take care of my mother. Not the other way around. I have an exercise system set up so I
can get a good cardiovascular workout.

Norma still hadnt looked at me. Her arms and shoulders appeared strong, and she satits
truetall in her chair. She had a chesty voice that sounded full and hard. I could feel the
bourbon warming me. I started to sweat and needed to pee.

You get my letters? Letters? I asked stupidly. I wrote you at the hospital. The hospital
was twenty-four years ago. I wrote you every day. I sent good thoughts.

I remember.

Then how come you never came over to see me? How come? Stupid question. Never mind. Im
sorry. Im so sorry about Mom and Pop. They were so good. They used to hold hands. Id look
out the window, and they held hands. It was awfully nice. And it wasnt easy for them.
Bethany was so beautiful and so nice. But it was hard for them. Do you know where she is
now?

We dont know. I mean, I dont know.

Just gone, Norma said. She would tap on my window, and when I opened it, she would blow me
kisses. Or shed do a pose. Sometimes shed hold the pose too long. Remember?

I remember, I said, not so stupidly.

She was so beautiful, but it was hard for Mom and Pop. How would a person know what to do
when you love someone and they hurt themselves? Im clean, too. I dont know, I dont know if
youve known people who cant move around with their legs. Sometimes you think they cant
keep themselves clean. Ive got systems for everything. Clean. Very, very mobile. I take
care of Bea, you know. There really isnt anything I cant do. You havent changed.

I moved one hand to my chest. It slid unconsciously to the ridge above my stomach. Down
below, the enormous avalanche of guts suspended over my strained belt defying gravity and
other laws. My free hand passed unobstructed through the several strands of graying brown
hair on my head. I was drunk, but I was used to it.

I mean, she said as if correcting herself, you look great. I . . . I got to go back in
now, Norma. My aunt and uncle . . . Oh, yes, yes, youd better. Im so sorry. They were
really won-

derful, wonderful people. I walked back into the funeral home. I was numbed from the