The Memory of Running (15 page)

Bill Butler was the only personbesides my family, the doctors, and NormaId told about
Bethany. My Aunt Paula knew, of course, and Count and Bea and our priest at Grace
Episcopal, but I never talked to them about her. I mean, I wasnt ashamed, but a person
couldnt explain itand even if a person could explain it, it would probably come out as
some kind of apology or something. I didnt have to apologize for my sister.

Bill never got much mail, so one day while I was reading a letter from my sister, one of
the few she sent, he sat down next to me.

Good news? Just my sister. She fine? I guess. Pretty?

Oh, yeah. What she say? It was raining outside our tent, and I remember how much it felt

like Boy Scout camp. That was the war to me. I didnt get it. I just didnt know. Small,
muddy ponds formed in Alpha Base, and streams flowed under our plywood floorboards.

My sister writes sort of strange. What? Bill lit a cigarette and gave me one. Marlboros.
Marlboro Country.

I took a drag and looked back at the letter. Well, Bethany, thats my sister, she says she
knows a lot of secrets,

and one of them is that when her voice tells her to scratch and claw at her face or pull
out her hair, its a stage she must go through to get to a better Bethany. Also she knows
where God lives, and sometimes at church she knows she could float around if she wanted
to, but she doesnt want to scare anybody.

Bill nodded and inhaled.

She says my folks are good but my pop is always watching her, and one day she might take a
steak knife and cut her own head off. She says hell stop watching then. Also, she thinks
Im going to die over here.

Bill inhaled again. I got two sisters. I got Tanya and I got Dorothy. Tanya is black, and
Dorothy is brown. Same daddy, too. Tanya got a mouth. Girl can throw it. Yap, yap, yap.
Dorothy like a mouse.

They pretty? Tanya fine. Dorothy shit. She nice, though. Thats good, too, I said. We
finished our cigarettes silently, thirty

seconds of smoky breath. The rain continued. Bill took out two more Marlboros and gave me
one.

She crazy, then?

Out of our tent flap, across the mesh rubber walkway that con- nected us all, in a white
prom gown, stood Bethany in her pose. It was one of the first times I had seen her clear.
She stood in the rain but stood dry. Her smile, her hair, her eyes bounced sun where there
was no sun.

Yes, I said.

Bill nodded and didnt say anything else. After a while he got up and lay down on his bed.
I just kept watching the rain until Bethany was gone.

He came around the edge of the front fender and stood, both hands on the hood, looking at
me. At my bike. He was crying.

Oh, he said. Oh, no.

I was sitting with my legs out and Im sure the dumbest look on my face the man had ever
seen. I swayed from side to side.

Raleigh, I said. I cant get to it, he said. If I got to it, I couldnt pick it up. Some
birds swirled over us, and I could see, maybe, mist on an-

other field, in the shape of a cloud. We were silent. I could feel blood under my hands
that held me sitting.

Bike, I said finally. He looked past me to the pieces of my maroon childhood. No more
bike. Are you going to die? Bill Butler had asked me the same thing when they shot me. I
was

pretty sure I was, but I didnt. No.

Can you get in my car? Can I get in your car? We both waited, and he came clear, slowly.
Bone-thin arms leaned

flat against the car. Baggy jeans and a gray sweatshirt that covered him like a tent.
Long, fine brown hair hung sweaty to his ears, and where no beard covered his milk-colored
face, I saw large, square red blotches that looked ready to give way to spurts of blood.
This is what I thought while we looked at each other: I thought how odd the lake in Maine
ran in currents cool and warm. Mom counting by twos when I held my breath and clung
underwater to rocks. I thought about a huge rock only inches from the surface and my pop
and Bethany and me swimming out with yellow buoys and tying them fast to the underside of
the rock so the motorboats wouldnt

crash into it. The red canoe. The mother ducks showing off their ba- bies, begging for
food in the breeze of the late-summer afternoon.

His crying took me back from Maine.

I am so sorry, he said still leaning on the hood of the pickup. It was blue. No, it was
green. It was a green pickup.

You have to get to my truck. I dont think I can let go of it. Im sick. Im very sick.

You look sick, I said. My Raleigh . . . The bike is gone. My bike, my bananas. That good,
clear spring water in the good,

clear plastic bottles. You have to get in my truck. Your green truck? Yes. The sun hung
utterly red, a red ball with yellow fringe, inches

above the tall sunflowers. Come to my truck on your hands and knees. I held my hands up to
him and the corner of the pickup. Blood,

I said. Oh, God! he sobbed. Hands and knees, hands and knees. I rolled onto my hands and
knees and faced the truck like a

bloodhound. Cmon now. Cmon now. You can do it. I could do it. I didnt feel any pain. I
remembered flying, but not

landing. Hands and knees. Hands and knees. My paws left their bloody prints. Some cars
slowed but did not stop. He pushed him- self, a shuffle at a time, hands on the metal, to
the passenger side and opened the door.

Jesus, he gasped in exhaustion.

I crawled into the cab of the pickup, lay on my side, then pushed up to a sitting
position. He closed the door. In the time he took to work his way around the hood to the
drivers side, the sun had gone

down completely. He pulled himself in, and we moved away from my Raleigh.

Clarion Mercy Hospital, he said.

Five minutes later he said, The Mennonites administer Clarion Mercy Hospital. I go there
sometimes.

I put my hands on the dashboard. I held myself that way. As long as you sit up, you cant
die.

Breasts, I said sort of casually. Titties, she said, but afterward pointing pussy. And how
sorry, of course, and embarrassed. Pickerel.

The sick and skinny man stepped on the gas.

We pulled onto the half circle drive of the emergency-room en- trance. He got out of the
pickup and made his way, in slow motion, to the passenger side.

Im coming, he gasped, dont worry.

He had just put his hand on the door handle when two uniformed emergency medical workers,
a black man and a huge woman in or- ange and green, firmly eased him into a wheelchair.

He tried to speak, but the woman pivoted the wheelchair and be- gan to push him up a ramp
toward double doors.

Well get him comfortable. The black man nodded at me reassuringly.

I nodded back.

I watched them disappear through the light blue doors. I glanced about me. My eyes were
cold, and I could feel the blood hardening on my arm and my back. I took a good, deep
breath and fell asleep.

I thought of Faye Dunaway, and I dreamed Norma watched us in the barrels.

Im sorry, Norma, I said, opening my eyes. Listen, you have to move this. You cant block
this entrance. My eyes darted about until I found the black attendant leaning in

the drivers window. You have to move this.

I slid over, turned the ignition, and pulled around into Parking Lot B. I didnt see
Parking Lot A.

I had no idea how long Id been asleep. Not long, I guess, but the moon was out and
three-quarters bright, the way it is in the country. I got out of the truck and walked to
the emergency room. There was no one at the admitting desk, so I went into the mens room.
I had a headache, and my balls hurt. I pulled my shirt over my head. The blood down my arm
came from a slice just below the back of my neck. I wet a paper towel, two towels, and
washed it down. I washed my arms. The caked blood ran blackish. My ass was pretty cut,
small cuts, but my underwear was soaked with blood. I threw them in the trash and washed
myself with more towels. I put my shorts back on without undies. I washed the black-red
parts of my legs. I turned my blue T-shirt inside out, but it was ruined, so I threw it
away. I left the mens room in shorts and sneaks. I like underwear. I do not feel great
without that support, and the dark brown shorts, even with the strings tightened, felt as
if they could slip off in a second.

There were a few people in the waiting room. A little girl crying, an old man with his arm
in a sling made of what looked like a really used handkerchief, a young black guy holding
his head. There still wasnt anybody at the admitting desk. I went into one of the
examining rooms, but no one was there either. Every cabinet in the room had been marked in
huge red letters. heart. trauma. wounds. I opened wounds. I took some white cream marked
antibacterial and rubbed it onto my back slice, my arm cuts, and my ass, then covered them
with huge Band-Aids. I found some aspirin, too. I took four, then put on a long green
paper shirt and walked back to admitting.

The huge woman emergency worker in the green-and-orange uniform was walking by. She
recognized me from the pickup. She linked her muscular arm with mine, and I walked with
her down the blue corridor.

Carls in number six. What weve done is got some fluid going,

sugar and water. B1 shot, for what its worth. Carl has to be better aware of secondary
infections. He hasnt taken his AZT. You know its not fair of Carl to have it and not take
it. Theres people all over the world waiting for it.

We walked into number six. This was where everybody had gone. There was a female doctor
with a blond ponytail and horn-rimmed glasses, and a tall male doctor with a gray
ponytail. Four nurses crowded in beside the gurney where Carl lay. One of them gave me a
mask.

Carl! Now, Jesus Christ! the male doctor shouted.

Look, the lady doctor said to me, weve got about a half hour more here; then he can go
home, but Im going to want to talk to both of you. Wait in the waiting room.

The huge woman gently pulled me out of Carls room and pushed me into the waiting area. I
sat in the corner on a red molded plastic chair and fell asleep. I started to dream a good
Norma dream, but it didnt go anywhere, because some little boy with a gash over his nose
stuck his thumb in my ear.

Jarrod, get your damned little thumb out of there! an old woman yelled.

Ear, he said. Jarrod! I didnt know what to say. I didnt want Jarrod to get in trouble,

and I didnt want the old lady to get all mad. Balls, I said reasonably. As long as he
doesnt whack my balls.

They hurt. I smiled. I felt stupid, but again, like Bill Butler had told me, keep

talking and dont die. It was a lot longer than half an hour before they pushed the wheel-

chair, with Carl in it, down the blue corridor to the waiting room. The lady doctor walked
alongside and spoke as she went. Bethany drifted on the other side, her arm punched up,
her wonderful eyes half

closed. Behind her lips the tiniest teeth. She left me when the doctor called out.

One problem child ready to go home.

My balls really ached. I remembered I had been hit and I had flown. I stood up and walked
over to Carl and the doctor.

Youve got your hands full, she chuckled. Seriously, though, if Carl didnt assure us you
could take good care of him, we wouldnt release him. He speaks very highly of you.

I looked at Carl. He looked away from me.

Lots, I mean lots, of liquids. Soup. Juice, soda, I dont care. And protein. Lots and lots.
She looked at me quietly. Are you all right?

Am I all right? Mr. . . . Smith . . . y. Smith.

Ide. Ide? Smith Ide. Smith Ide? Smithy Ide. Theres a y. Sorry. Are you all right? You look
. . . Carl looked at me. I knew I had to talk. Talk or die. My balls hurt. Thats all.
Theyre just . . . well . . . you know . . .

aching balls. Ive had bad balls . . . before . . . before your . . . see . . . your balls
get like an egg, ostrich egg, and even if air gets on them . . . its . . . I mean . . .
you know.

She looked at me, paused for a moment, and spoke to Carl. Wheres Renny?

Renny had to get back to New York. Just like that? The Big Apple. Top of the heap. God.

This is the way the world ends.

She looked at me again, then back to Carl. Let me admit you, Carl. Its time now, honey.

It probably took three-quarters of all his strength, but Carl wheeled away. No. Not here.
Not in a hospital. Im afraid enough. The doctor went and put her arms around him. Okay,
honey,

okay. Im here, you know. I know.

She stood up tall and looked back at me. You better take care, Mr. . . . Ide, Carl said.
Okay, I said.

I brought the truck around, but it wasnt easy. I tripped getting into the drivers side,
fell out completely onto the pavement, and couldnt get back on my feet. Finally I crawled
into position. The huge woman and the black man gently eased Carl into the passenger side,
and I pulled out into the Indiana moon.

Go left here . . . right here. We stay on this about ten miles. Im in Providence.

I took the left and right. Im from East Providence, Rhode Island.

Roger Williams thought of all his good luck when he named the Providence River and the
little town on it. I thought if I concen- trated and talked, Id be all right.

Roger Williams named Providence . . . Rhode Island.

Almost there. Theres a big mailbox . . . there. . . . Now turn onto the dirt road.

The headlights passed through trees into a large field of flowers. Across the road from
the flowers was a greenhouse in a Quonset hut design. A new log cabin, one of those nice
kits, stood in three levels by the greenhouse. It looked like the cover of a brochure. A
red metal roof looked pretty over yellowing logs.

Here. I parked the pickup next to the porch stairs.

Carl looked at the property. He didnt move. Could you step into the greenhouse? If you get
a warmish, clammy feeling, thats good. If it seems cold or too hot, Ill tell you what to
do.

I eased down to the ground. I could feel my feet. I was getting better. The greenhouse
gave me the warm, clammy skin he said, so I walked to the passenger side holding thumbs up
and opened the door.

Warmish, I said. Clammy.

I concentrated on not letting go of the feeling of feet underneath me. Carl concentrated,
too. He put both hands onto my shoulders and stepped slowly behind. We both edged up the
stairs, the railing becoming a life support. Carl fumbled at the lock, got the key in but
couldnt turn it. I turned it and stepped inside. He reached past the doorframe and
switched the lights on.

There was no hall in Carls house, only a gigantic, three-story open room and, in the back
of the room, an iron circular staircase leading to a landing and, on that, another
staircase to another land- ing. The room was oak and pine varnished clear, and it smelled
bet- ter than any room I had ever been in, like fresh wood shavings or new cedar. A large
glass light fixture of many different colors was sus- pended over a square arrangement of
stuffed chairs. A new-looking rough wood coffee table of, maybe, oak or, again, pine was
squarely in the center. A stone fireplace, also three stories, was the entire left side of
the house.

I looked at Carl, and he was admiring it also. I realized then that Carl wasnt an old man,
although he moved old. His skin was tight on his face, but it wasnt a wrinkled one. His
lips were dry. His eyes were green, so green that his light brown hair seemed kind of
green- ish, too.

I built this myself. I looked at him stupidly and said stupidly, You built this yourself.
Myself and Renny Kurtz. Designed. Built. Staired. Furnished.

Lived. Sixteen years.

It smells wonderful, I said, and its beautiful.

I moved downstairs two weeks ago. Two weeks ago I knew I wouldnt be able to climb the
stairs. There.

He shuffled toward a bed in the corner where two huge book- cases, filled with books,
connected.

Bathroom is behind the bookcase.

He pulled the case lightly, and it opened. He walked in and closed the case. I walked to
the arrangement of chairs and sat. I sat for about an hour; then I walked back to the
bookcase and asked the books, Are you all right?

Im all right. Runs.

I sat back down, and about fifteen or twenty minutes later, Carl came into the room.

He had on red plaid pajamas that were, of course, much too big. I got up and stood by the
bed like a servant. Only, I mean, you know, not like it was a bad thing. I pulled the
covers back, which were loosely made up, and he sat down and then lay out in his bed.