The Memory of Running (12 page)

On Tuesday I rode an hour before the sun had technically come up. I stopped for breakfast
at a diner that promised country brown eggs, and I had them poached. Poached eggs are a
treat, because they dont back up on you like fried eggs and they have a form on the toast
that makes them look like a face. It was like breakfast at Moms. There were truck drivers
and guys in suits, and just everybody was friendly. I used the bathroom and took a sort of
sink shower and felt really good. Like usual, after I woke up and rode and walked a
little, the pain and stiffness in my body seemed to go away.

I pushed pretty hard for another couple of hourshard for me anyway. I mean, I still walked
up the hills and coasted when I had the opportunity. I picked Route 10 from my little road
guide, and at Florham Park, New Jersey, picked up 510. After a while you get into a bike
trance and dont have to think too much about pedaling. At least, because I was going so
slow, I didnt, and I could look around at where I was. This was new for me. The whole idea
of a place, I mean. And away from the big interstate road systemwhich you couldnt use if
you didnt have an engineNew Jersey was, I sup- pose, gorgeous. In Rhode Island the words
New Jersey were inter- changeable with dog shit, but its amazing to see how many perfect
farms and groves and forests there are. And the rivers and streams are great. Around
Ralston I walked my bike off the road and sat by the Raritan River. Beautiful. I had a
couple of bananas and splashed some of that good water over my face and hair. I had a
beard com- ing up, and the cool water stayed around my stubble, taking away the itch.
Every stop has a purpose. I was learning, I suppose, about refreshment.

I stopped at a small sporting goods store with a sign in the window that said under new
management and treated myself to a ground cloth, a waterproof sleeping bag, a small tent,
and a knapsack to keep

the stuff in. The new owners, a young guy and his wife, came out to look at my bike and
measured me for my bag and made a real effort to get me good, lightweight supplies.

Youre getting a lot of sun, the wife said as I paid her. Yes. She reached behind her to a
counter hat rack and took down a

modified baseball cap with a sunglass visor. These are new. Maximum protection. Ill take
it. One size fits all.

Ill take it.

When the sun got a little low, I pulled off the road and into a field. There were some
mosquitoes, but it wasnt too bad, because the day was cooling toward night, but I made
another little promise to myself to get repellent. Then I drank a bottled water, had
another banana and a juice orange, and read a little more Iggy.

The book was a western, but it really wasnt a western in that the cowboy part was not as
important as him starting to feel good about his place in the world. The world of the Old
West.

I read about fifteen pages, slowly, still getting into reading shape. Iggy never knew his
father, who abandoned his mother when he was freed after the Civil War. Iggys mother was a
kind but powerful woman named Esther Booklook. She had gotten her last name from her
father, who got it from his father, who got it from the nine-year- old daughter of a
plantation owner because he liked to look at books. Iggy didnt like the name Booklook.
Nothing against his mother, but he changed his last name to Hannibal after the hero from
Carthage, because his mother used to tell stories about Hannibal to her children and told
them they were related to him. Iggy changed his name in 1878, the year he headed west. He
was fourteen, and I felt my reading headache coming on. I spread out my gear, every- thing
except the tent, and after an apple I slept the sleep of the just.

By Wednesday afternoon I had zigzagged onto Route 645 to 614,
131

cut through the deep valley of the Musconetcong Mountains, and crossed the Delaware River
into Pennsylvania. Here is what I discov- ered over a tuna sandwich: Even walking uphill
and not killing my- self on the straightaways, I could make between fifty and seventy
miles a day. It had to do with consistency.

I picked up Penn. 212 down to Quakertown, and ten miles later, outside Pennsburg, I had
the Quaker Meat Loaf Special at the Quaker Restaurant. The baked potato was still in its
foil, and the iced coffee was really perked and not freeze-dried. I wasnt a great diner
man. I had become a volume guy, I guess, what with Burger King and those big hoagies they
make in a second. Uncle Count had the dual aptitude for mass food of quality. He could
sitand I am not kidding, and I dont use this oftenI swear to God, he could sit in a
restaurant and sniff and tell not only what was choicest among the foodstuffs but also
what had been prepared in great quantities. I was understanding my uncle. A little anyway.
For me, though, the slice of meat loaf and the baked potato were plenty. What is it?
Medical? The more you do, the less you need? I dont get it. I had Jell-O with grapes, too.

Pennsylvania is also beautiful. Big hills, though. Just when I fig- ured I was going to
average that 50 or so miles, I got beaten up by the hills. I had estimated that from
Durham, where I entered Penn- sylvania, to Wayne Heights, where I would get into the tip
of Mary- land, was less than two hundred miles and I could do it in three or four days,
but even though the weather was nice and dry I didnt get to Gettysburg, which was forty or
so miles from Maryland, until Sunday.

I checked into a Howard Johnsons and parked the Raleigh in my room. It was pretty
earlythree in the afternoon, I thinkand as much as I wanted a shower and a bed, I wanted
to do everything on my mental list first. I crossed the street to a shopping center and
bought some shaving supplies and fruit and bottled water. Back in- side the room, I laid
out my new purchases on the TV set. I spread

the sleeping bag over the clothes rack and generally laid out the rest of my stuff to dry.
I wanted a beer and a cigarette. I dont know why. Probably because hotel rooms always
required an activity. Television, cigarettes, beer. I sat there and looked at my stuff all
around the little blue room, and it was very comforting to be there with my bike and my
stuff. I thought I would eat an orange, maybe, and then stretch out on the bed for a while
before I found a good place to eat. I was very tired, and the bed and pillows looked
perfect. I fell asleep in the chair thinking about them.

In 1966 three things happened that I would call events, in the sense that you couldnt
under any circumstances forget them. I got drafted; Charlie Love, trying to score from
third base, got struck by lightning; and my sister, Bethany, disappeared again.

Most of the kids I graduated with went to college or business school. They went, really,
because their parents were afraid of the Russians. Thats the short reason. When the Soviet
Union flew Sput- nik, it looked as though they were doing better than we were in the brain
department, and somehow we had to catch up or theyd kill us. Thats how I understood it
anyway.

East Providence roared into action. First they separated the kids by how smart they were.
They formed divisions, and all the divisions together were called ROXY SUMAC-GL. If you
were an acceler- ated person, you were placed in R and O, and it was hoped youd go to Ivy
League schools and lose your accent. X, Y, and S were, I guess, college preparatory; U, M,
A, and C were business stuff about being secretaries and typists; and G and L were shop,
auto mechanics. The R and O divisions were kept pretty separate from the other kids and
were given special lunchtimes and up-to-date science labs and stuff. The divisions all
dressed different, too, with chinos and plaid shirts fa- vored by the accelerates and
college preps, blue and gray by the busi- ness kids, and blue jeans and leather jackets by
the mondos in auto shop.

We all knew, but werent supposed to say, that our school now had four groups arranged by
letters. We had very smart, pretty smart, could learn to hold a job, dumb. I was in pretty
smart, but I should have been in dumb. I got Cs, and no college wanted me, even
Springfield College in Massachusetts, where they train gym teachers and people who work at
the Y and they had classes in the fundamen- tals of badminton. College did not want me.
Mom thought I should

go to junior college, and I was thinking about it when I got my no- tice to go into the
army. But Im not complaining. If I wanted to go to college and study bowling or table
tennis, I should have applied myself better in high school. I didnt. You get what you
deserve.

Sometimes, I mean. Sometimes you get what you deserve. Charlie Lovemy pops shortstop and
leadoff hitter who unloaded oil with Pop and had the locker next to hisdid not get what he
deserved. He deserved more.

A month before I got my draft notice, Pops team made the Met- ropolitan Rhode Island
Playoffs. This was huge. Everybody sus- pected that this might be Pops last year, and the
Socony Red Soxs slow start in April, where they stood sixth in their division, put him
into a real slump. He gave up nine homers, he made three errors in the field, and for the
first time in twenty-one years with the Sox, his average dipped below .300.

One morning at breakfast, when he was getting ready to go to the oil plant, he said, You
know what it could be? It could be that a ballplayer should just play ball. This working,
I dont know. What does this working all the time have to do with being a ballplayer?

Bethany had had an excellent summer, and the Ides were basking in the false confidence we
clung to. She was lifeguarding at the Crestwood Country Club and had an Indian tan. She
buttered her toast and listened to Pop.

Getting the old stick around . . . well, I think all the lifting and pulling of the oil
hoses, my swing just seems a step off. I dont know.

Pop drank some coffee, and we were all pretty quiet. We were a family that had placed a
pretty high premium on Pops natural swing, and now he was baffled.

I just dont know. Bethany didnt look up from her toast. You got a hitch, Pop, thats for
sure. Course, this new stance

makes it hard for me to tell.

What new stance? Pop said, putting his coffee down. Its Pops same old stance, I laughed.
Nope. Bethany, Mom said, your fathers stance is the same one he had

in American Legion ball. Eat your toast. Bethany got up and took one of Pops bats out of
the umbrella

basket. Heres Pops stance. Right? Right? Yeah, I said, getting bored. Now you take your
stance, Pop. Cmon . . . I whined.

Pop shrugged and took the bat from Bethany and got into his stance. Bethany stayed in hers.

Thats my stance, he said. Thats it, Mom said admiringly. No, said Bethany, thats not your
stance. Im doing your stance.

See, my front heel is off the ground, and your front heel is flat. Moms hand covered her
mouth. I stared in astonishment. Pop

about fainted. Right, he said. Yes, yes, yes. That night, against the Pawtucket Penguins,
Pop started in left

field. He hit a homer, a triple, a double, and a single for the cycle, and even though
going into the ninth they were down 43, we all felt that a win was in the cardsespecially
since Charlie Love sin- gled, then stole second with one out. Charlie Love was a compli-
cated man for East Providence. He was short and a little fatin the hips and butt, I
meanbut he had pretty good speed for a man in his forties. He was balding like one of
those monks, so he never took off his baseball cap, and he always had his uniform
laundered before each game. He also was the only bachelor on the club, and although
Charlie would tell a continuous line of dirty stories about his many girlfriends, it was
pretty clear that Charlie was very womanly. I guess, effeminate. One game I remember in
particular, because it was the only game that a downright free-for-all broke out, was
against that

Irish mob, the Riverside Rollers. They were a lousy team, but, God, could they get on a
player. This one night they were on Charlie hard. He hit a home run and played excellent
shortstop for the Sox, and after a second base hit, one of the Rollers yelled Fag, and
then they all started yelling about the little fag, homo, fruitcake, and mak- ing sucking
sounds. After ten minutes of this stuff, my pop called time and asked the coach of the
Rollers to have his guys knock it off be- cause there were kids around, but the coach, who
had been drinking Gansetts all night and was probably not much of a strategist anyway,
gave Pop the finger, which Pop took and bent back to the coachs wrist. This cleared the
benches, and these old guys stood there bomb- ing each other with punches.

So anyway, Charlies on second and looking for a sacrifice or a hit to score, and Pop steps
up. Something was going to happen, you could feel it. He took a strike. Then three balls.
The pitcher had given Pop all the respect he possibly could, but everybody knew what was
comingthree and one. Pop cracked that fastball and sent it to deepest center. Back, back,
looked like it was going, but the center fielder caught it backpedaling and hit his cutoff
man. Charlie had tagged up the instant the ball entered the glove and sprinted toward
third. The cutoff man whirled and fired for home, which by now Charlie Love was charging
for like a steam engine.

Now, its important not to forget that this was the Metropolitan Playoffs and Pop had got
his heel up thanks to my sister. It was in- evitable that this afternoon would get burned
into memory even without that one lonely dark cloud in an otherwise sunny sky. I can see
them all, another of my clear memories, standing tense and screaming for Charlie to slide.
I can see him go into his crouch and start to spring out, as if it were in slow motion and
I was watching it again and again.

I think he became illuminated for a fraction of a second, but its the one thing thats not
clear, so perhaps he didnt. Before he could complete the slide and while he was still on
his feet, the lightning

found him. It popped into his head on entry and found the earth out of his left leg. The
bolt flipped his hat off and set it on fire and, for some reason, set his belt on fire,
too. He landed facedown in his slide position, two arms extended, but stopped about one
inch from home plate.

For a moment everyone was still, stunned by the electricity that leaped from that one
small cloud and struck Charlie out. The relay would have been late anyway. The cutoff man
threw wild, and the ball sailed over the catchers head and rested against the backstop.
The players and fans approached the prone, unmoving Charlie Love, al- most as if he still
had the electricity in him. Then Hy Cramer, the chiropractor, broke through the circle of
people and took charge.

Jesus, said Hy, kneeling by Charlies head. He reached over and picked up his hat by its
bill. Everyone looked at the flames. This goddamn hat is actually burning, marveled Hy.

My pop knelt down, too, and so did the catcher, who brushed the ball against Charlies
outstretched hand to seal the play.

Fried dead, said Hy.

That turned out to be Pops last game. I was drafted the next month, September, and told to
report in November. I got a little job frying clam cakes at Hortons Fish Market and fished
the Shad Fac- tory whenever I could. Then, in October, Bethany walked off.

I still say that, dont I? Notice that? She disappeared or she walked off. We all talked
like that, even to each other, because it tends to soften the actuality of it. And the
actuality of it is that her voice took her. I never spoke to Mom or Pop about my fearsthey
had enough of their own, and probably we all had the same ones but in August, about the
time when Charlie Love burned up, I was afraid that Bethanys voice was becoming bigger and
stronger than we were.

I came home from work around five and immediately sensed a feeling in the house of action.
The tension, the wait, was gone. Mom was on the phone to the police, to her friends, to
people at

church. Pop had his road atlas spread over the kitchen table and was making some marks
with a red crayon.

Maybe shes just with some friends. Maybe shes at the beach, I said.

Pop took a note out of his pocket and handed it to me. The pen- manship was crazy, and
most of the words were printed as a child might print them.

Gone, I am gone Babalask and gone The sun, shit, shit

I read the words and felt cold. I gave the note back to Pop.

This time well have to commit. This time, he uttered. My pop was mumbling to himself and
crying, but only a little.

I rode the Raleigh around Kent Heights and into Riverside, but I had a feeling she wasnt
close by. Her note upset me a lot. I would call her name and feel the anger in my voice.
Maybe anger wasnt the word. Maybe fear. Pop drove his usual route, and we linked up at
home around nine-fifteen. Mom told us a police cruiser stopped by, and there were no
leads. At times like this, the Ide kitchen was more a command central than a family room.

Pop leaned on the table and nodded at Moms news. It was a small room, our kitchen, like
all the rooms in our house, but that night we were small, too. We fit nicely. I even
remember a steady breeze through the window over the sink and Moms fine brown hair wav-
ing in it. I knew that Norma watched, too, behind those fluttering venetian blinds,
watched the movement in the kitchen and the long shadows we threw. I thought about Norma
that night and how we all had stopped going over, little by little, until for everybody it
was too late.

Okay. Im going to call Al Prisco at the plant and tell him I cant work for a few days.
Well get a good nights sleep, then start in Bar- rington. Did you try the water tower?

Yes, sir, I said. It was the only time I called my pop sir. Okay. All right. Lets get some
rest. Mom and Pop didnt sleep well. In the morning they looked old.

That was the look they had in Bethany searches. Old. After a while I managed to fall
asleep. I dreamed I was me but wasnt me, and when horrible things started happening to me,
I could watch it happen from some safe place. I was set on fire, and nobody helped me.
Even me watching from that safe place couldnt help. Or wouldnt help. And because it was my
darling sister who put a torch to me, what I watched were her eyes. It wasnt bad, because
I could see that they werent her eyes but almost purple, like the bottom of a lake, or a
bruise.

In the morning, and for three weeks of mornings, we got out of bed strong. By afternoon we
fell back hard under the weight of our own failure, until finally, when we found her, we
had no energy for each other.