The Memory of Running (22 page)

The weeks following Bethanys engagement to Jeff Greene were happy ones for the Ides and, I
have to say, especially for Mom. It was so sweet to see her sitting at the kitchen table
with my sister, plan- ning and laughing and even talking about her own wedding, al- though
it had been sort of different, as Pop was getting ready to ship out for the war and they
didnt even have a honeymoonbut, of course, a brides memories are always shining. I think.
I hope so.

Bethany and Jeff s plans were roughly this:

A June 11 wedding in an ecumenical setting with one of the Epis- copal priests from Grace
Church and Jeff s rabbi, who he hadnt seen since he was thirteen but who he liked. They
were going to honey- moon for one week in Nags Head, North Carolina, on the beach and then
live in Attleboro, where Bethany could work at the Bennys Home and Auto with Jeff, until
they felt the time was right for little Greenes.

This was the sort of news I loved. There was order to it. I mean, you knew the old ABCs of
what was happening, and the chance of you getting all screwed up was pretty limited. You
make the plans, write it down, easy. Mrs. Alivera, who was a friend of Moms from the
neighborhood, took Moms wedding dress and altered it to ex- actly the style and fit
Bethany wanted. So that was perfect, too. Moms only daughter would be married in her
heirloom, fixed up though it may be. It was a good time. It was one of the really good
times. Getting ready and all.

Roger eased my bike into the back of his pickup, and Kenny hopped into the middle of the
front seat.

Well be back fiveish, Roger said to his wife, Kate. You drive safe. I will. Kate kissed me
on the cheek and gave a hard hug that lasted as

long as a little prayer. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you, Kate. And Roger and
Kenny. Thanks for everything. Roger and I got into the truck, crossed Bachelor Creek, and
rolled

out of Creede toward Durango. I had stayed with Kenny and his folks for two days. They
wanted to do something nice for me be- cause of getting Kenny out of the storm. It was all
a little embarrass- ing, that I would be rewarded for doing what a human being should do,
but I suppose it was good for them to say a loud thank-you.

The storm had lasted into the night, slowing down, then driving forward, so that by early
morning twenty-six inches of snow had fallen, and the drifts on either side of the tent
formed a natural sound barrier.

Kenny was sleepingsnoring, reallywhen I pushed out from the tent opening. The snow seemed
packed, and my hands got wet from the water content. It was a heavy snow, and there was
great dif- ficulty in reaching the top, but I did, one hand first, then the other, until
slowly I had created a sort of tunnel opening. I stood. The snow in drift came easily to
my waist. For a moment the reflection of the first light blinded me, and I had to close my
eyes until the sensa- tion of red went away. When I opened them again, I saw one of those
sights almost too beautiful to be real. A valley as utterly white as a cotton ball and
through it a zigzag of river so blue it seemed to be ink. It was warm, and I was sweating
under the heavy clothes I had put on. Then I heard the engines. I looked to the road, but
no

plows had been through to open the valley. The engines grew louder. I concentrated on the
sound, but in the valley it bounced off trees and hills and seemed to come from
everywhere. I looked out over an amazingly loud field of white.

I saw them all at the same time. Three skimobiles, white and or- ange, zooming in a wide
parallel through the valley. One on the road, one in the center of the field, and one on
the ridge above the river. I waved and shouted. They all got to me at about the same time.
There was a pretty young woman and a fat-faced redheaded guy both wearing green police
jackets, and a man with a red check- ered jacket and camouflage pants. Red Check was
frantic.

Seen a kid? Seen a kid? he screamed as he drove up. In the tent! I yelled over the engine.
What tent? the redheaded cop asked. I looked at the snow behind me. The tent was totally
buried. In there, I said, pointing to the hole I had crawled out of. Red

Check dove in headfirst and emerged pulling my sleeping bag with Kenny inside it.

The policewoman stepped through the waist-high snow to Kenny. The other policeman kept his
eyes on me.

How long you had the boy? Im not sure. You know . . . how long did it snow? Dont be a
wise-ass. Answer the question. Im not sure how long he was in the tent. Whered you take
him from? Whered you get him? Whatd you

do to the boy? You know how when you get so angry it kind of gets beyond

anger and you want to kill the thing that makes you angry? I dont get like that. I drop
them. Its as if I cant see them or hear them any- more. Especially after Dr. Georgina
Glass. I turned away and looked at Kenny, his little head looking at the other two, his
living, un- frozen, going-on little head.

Answer me, shithead!

I high-stepped to Kenny and the others. Red Check was crying, and it was relief I heard in
his sobs. I spoke to the young woman in the police uniform.

I was on my bike, and I pulled off for a nap by the river. When I woke up, it was snowing,
so even though I thought it was stupid, I set up my tent. Now Im glad I did, because it
got worse and worse, and then I heard Kenny. I was just lucky to even get him. He was
wearing these summer clothes, and they were wet, so I got him into the bag, and I got my
warm stuff on. We were lucky.

Whats that son of a bitch saying? the other policeman roared from ten feet away.

Thank you! Thank you! cried Red Check. Hes a lucky boy, the young woman said. I asked that
pervert a question! I asked him a goddamn ques-

tion! screamed the other one over the roar of his skimobile. Kenny says you saved him.
Thank you, the weeping Red Check

said again. The young woman smiled at me. She tried to take a step forward

but stumbled and began to fall. I reached for her quickly, for her waist to stop her from
tumbling into the tent, and the fat-faced, red- headed guy shot me.

With Bethanys wedding about a month away, Jeff Greene was spending an awful lot of time at
our little house in East Providence. May was a great time in Rhode Island. Everything
pretty much blooms and blossoms, and people take walks, and old Italian men sit in their
tiny backyardsstuff like that. It was an easy time, and the Ides felt easy.

One of those evenings I remember, I came over from my apart- ment near Goddard Toys for
dinner. Mom had made codfish cakes and boiled potatoes and a salad with ice cubes in it.
It was European, I guess, to put ice cubes on your lettuce and cucumbers, but it was
wonderful. After dinner Bethany and Mom stayed giggling in the kitchen, cleaning up, and
me, Jeff Greene, and my pop went into the parlor to watch Curt Gowdy call a Red Sox game.
I never knew for sure, but I think Jeff hated baseball. Hated the whole activity, but he
knew we believed it could save you, so hed watch and sort of try to get excited.

Around the fourth inning, with Cleveland up at bat, I heard something in the driveway, or
thought I did. I got up and peered through the venetian blinds, but I couldnt see what it
was, so I went out to the back porch. Some light was coming off the porch, and right
before the light went black, on the edge of the asphalt drive, sat Norma in her chair. She
looked up at me with such pain and loss I cant even see it in my minds eye, because it was
so terrible. For a few seconds I just stared as if I were captured by her agony. She
reached for her back wheels and pulled out of the throw of light. I could only see her
feet and the sparkle of chair.

Hi, Norma, I said, as if I didnt have years to be ashamed of. As if I hadnt seen her face.
Seen her eyes.

She said nothing at first. Silence that starts awkward, then moves to self-conscious, and
finally lays out like another defeat.

They didnt kill you, she said, when I couldnt stand our pause a second longer.

Im fine. Im a dog, she said. Im a dog and a cat and a rat. Im nothing. There is courage a
manwell, anybodyshould show. A resolve.

A goodness. A heroism that puts away all the things youre unsure about and sends you off
the porch, arms out, heart open, holding, embracing. I remember 1972 as the year of my
cowardice. I said nothing. I let her sorrow float through me.

Im . . . Im nothing, Smithy, she said again.

I knew she was crying because of her breathing and sniffling. Quietly, absolutely, and
alone.

Nothing, she cried again, even softer.

Bethany nearly pushed me down, shoving past me to the screen door. She rushed down the
steps and flung her arms around Norma. Mom was behind her, and the two held her
completely, as if holding a child against a storm.

What is it? Pop said, coming out onto the porch. Its Norma, I said quietly. Its Norma? Its
my Norma? And Pop was there, with them, an

almost total hold of Ide. Even Jeff Greene oddly walked down the steps to be with them and
away from the Sox.

I stood in the porch door. For the first time, I felt air escaping through my wounds. I
felt altered. I felt changed. I was something else, and I remained it a long time, and I
saw it reflected in Normas stainless chair as surely as in her eyes, just out of the light.

Red Check was named Roger, and he was Kennys father. The bullet had grazed my neck, turned
me around, and sent me into the snow- filled Upper Rio Grande. It was rivers again. Rivers
and bullets and the crazy people that weve all become. Not me. I really and truly thought,
as I bobbed up from the icy trout pool, that no matter what, I would never, ever live a
suspicious life. A silly life, sure. Ridiculous, maybe, but not looking for lousy things
everywhere. I mean it.

The river was high and rising quickly with the fast-melting snow. I swirled dazed in a
crystal whirlpool, then was wedged hard under the overhanging bank. I remember seeing
Roger then, only we were out of the water and lying in the snow and shouting and engines
and then Bethany. Our backyard. She might have been twelve or thir- teen, and she had had
her hair cut boy-short for the summer. She was walking on her hands, and her legs were
straight up and down. Norma and I sat at a picnic bench, although I dont remember a pic-
nic bench in any of our yards.

My pop had on his baseball uniform, and Mom had made the big tuna-salad sandwiches that
were, of course, much, much better than my pop would make, because he never had the
patience to break up the clumps of tuna and cut the onion into small pieces or mix the
mayo smoothly into one nice spread. Norma had her arms around me and was dressed like a
six-year-old, except with way-too-big bib overalls, but I didnt push her away or anything.
I have always felt bad about the ten-year-old me. I was pretty mean to Norma. I guess,
when I think about it, there wasnt much niceness to go around after Bethany had taken it
all.

They put me in an ambulance that drove behind a county snow- plow. They took me to a small
medical center in Creede. The wound, it turned out, was just a nick, but I had a little
shock from

the force of it whizzing so close. They gave me a couple of Tylenols and cleaned and
dressed the wound.

Kennys father and the lady policeman stayed while the doctor worked on me. I was
embarrassed. Kennys dad, Roger, was embar- rassed for all his crying over Kenny. The lady
was embarrassed because her partner had shot me. We were all just embarrassed. Here I was,
back in the hospital, in a paper dress, with my ass all hanging out.

Your blood pressure is great for a big guy, the doctor said.

In East Providence at last years Goddard blood-pressure screening test, where you got an
extra hours pay if you participated, my blood pressure was 170 over 115.

The doctor removed the blood pressure strap from my biceps. Its a hundred over sixty-five.
If its good, its lots of bananas, I said, going stupid again. We walked out of the
hospital, the four of us, and rode to Roger

and Kennys house. What about my stuff ? Brianthats the officer who . . . Brian is getting
all of that. The

snowmobiles, too, the policewoman said. But my bike . . . Well get your bike, dont worry,
Roger said. We came to a low gray house with a blue-shingled roof, set on a

rise over an old silver mine. It was easy to see that whoever had built this place
originally had something to do with the mine. A zigzag set of wooden stairs made its way
to the opening of the shaft.

Want me to come in? the policewoman asked. You dont have to, Marjorie. Thanks. Sorry about
. . . Hey, its your kid, you got a right. A tall, round-faced, very pretty woman came
running from the

house and scooped up Kenny in strong arms. Her long, curly hair fell onto her shoulders in
brown and gray. She had on khaki slacks and a blue-jean shirt. She wore beads that looked
like Kenny had made them for her in school. Roger had called from the hospital to say

wed found the boy. From what Id heard in the ambulance, she had gone with another search
party in another direction. Her relief was sweet to see. She squeezed Kenny and cried.
Crying is good. The idea of a little boy in that snow by that river is, I guess,
unbearable. She put him down, walked over to me, took my hand, and led me into the
kitchen. She sat me at the table, a long oak table, old, with lots of wonderful meals in
its past, and ladled squash barley soup into my bowl.

Im Kate, she said.

Hi, I said, slurping my soup. Eating with other people will al- ways trouble me. I am not
a comfortable man. Even in the army, when my body said I never ate enough, I always felt I
was being watched and that I was eating too much or not eating right. Later on, when I
actually didnt eat right and food and I collided, it became impossible to eat with people.
I felt comfortable at Kates table. And I felt good. I sipped in some barley, some tender
yellow squash.

Mmm. Were vegetarians, Kate said. Although sometimes Ill eat some meat, Roger said. Roger
doesnt eat much meat. We like Kenny to see we eat

healthy. See that we can grow strong on legumes and veggies and really good breads.

I like bread! yelled Kenny.

We went quiet for a minute. They watched me dip my bread into Kates amazing vegetable
soup, and I didnt care. But I wanted them to be comfortable, and I knew they were not, and
I knew why.

This is the best soup I have ever eaten. Kate looked embarrassed. I looked up at Roger and
smiled. He smiled back. Kennys a really brave kid. He did everything right. Remember,

Kenny? Kenny smiled and started to yell. My name is KENNY! MY

NAME IS KENNY!

He kept saying that in the snowstorm until I got to him. We cant thank you en You dont
have to thank me, I said, interrupting Kate. Its good

for me. Its a good feeling. Look . . . uhh . . . look, at the hospital I guess you saw me
with my shirt off, and I was in the field with a bike, and maybe you think Im a bum or
something or

We dont. No . . . But its okay if you thought that. I might think that, but Im . . .

Im not homeless or a bum or anything. I want you to know all the holes I got were from the
war

Vietnam? asked Kate.

Yeah. No big deal, but Im not ... you know ... like, look, I know what we could do. I
would be so thankful if youd do this. Would you call Norma? Shes my friend.

Shes your friend?

It would be nice to call Norma. Shed love to talk to somebody. Shed tell you about me, and
I guess I want you to know. I dont know why, but I want you to know.

Kate brought the phone to me, and I dialed Normas number.

I stopped before I finished the whole number and looked at Kate. Dont tell Norma he shot
me.

That idiot! Roger said, clenching his fist. Okay? Dont tell her? I finished Normas number
and handed the phone to Kate, who

took the receiver into a corner of the kitchen. I couldnt hear the conversation, but every
now and then Kate

would look over to me and then turn back into the corner. I went with Roger, and he showed
me the rest of his home and told me about his family. Roger and Kate had been married for
twenty-five yearsand for fifteen of those years, while his business in Oklahoma City was
growing, his family was not. They couldnt have a baby. They tried everything and finally
adopted Kenny. Thats why they

moved to this little town in the mountains. To give Kenny every chance to be closer to
real life. Thats what Roger said, how he put it. Real life.

I loved that some people could talk to other people like that. I was bursting that Roger
would include me in the telling of his story.

They didnt know what they would do or how they would make a living, but they knew they had
to come here. Now Roger is a roofer and jack-of-all-trades, and Kate has gone back to her
weaving. Kate made rugs.

And were gonna have another kid, Roger said in the living room.

Thats great, I said. A Hispanic kid or something. We told them we dont care. Kates rugs
were everywhere, and a closed-in porch held a pile of

material and a large loom. Kates really an artist, Roger said. Her rugs are beautiful.
They are. Roger had done over the house himself. One room at a time. It

was originally built for the wife of prospector George Ryan of Den- ver, who discovered
silver in this slope. He married a Denver teacher in 1881 and moved her here. She became a
famous hostess, and he became more and more of a nutty millionaire miner, who liked to
sleep in the tunnels. Sometimes hed stay in the tunnels for days at a time. Once he was
gone for a month, and when he came up to ground level, his skin was white as a sheet, but
he had mined a thou- sand pounds of silver. Sometime in the night, he murdered his wife,
put the silver back in the mine, and disappeared. Now Roger and Kate live here, and Kenny,
and pretty soon their new child, whatever kind doesnt matter.

Im still looking for his silver, Roger said seriously.

When we had circled back to the kitchen, Kates conversation with Norma had turned tearful.
But they were the good kind of

tears, at which I was becoming an expert, and I knew that Norma had them, too.

. . . but he reached out and caught him. He caught him as if he were falling off a cliff.
He put him in the tent, and now weve got him back. . . . Uh-huh . . . oh, he is. . . .
Yes, I know you do. . . . Im going to put him on, because Im going to start all blubbering
again.... Remember, its definite ... as soon as you can.... Bye, honey. . . .

Kate held the receiver out to me, then put her arms around Roger. Poor Bethany, she said.

Who? I felt Norma in my hand. Is that possible? Hello, Norma? Smithy. Oh, Smithy. I want
to hold you. I want to be there with

Kate and you and everybody. You saved that little boy. It really wasnt I . . . told Kate
all about Bethany. Are you mad? I wanted you to, Norma, thats why I asked her to call. I
kinda

look like a bum, and I You dont! You couldnt! Youre beautiful. Im not beautiful, but Im
not a bum or anything. See, Ive got a

beard, and my hair is kind of long where I have hair, and Im on a bike and things.

I told Kate you were beautiful. I told her Im in a chair and what I do, and I told her
about Bethany and Mom and Pop and why youre riding your bike, and she told me things.

Why am I on the bike, Norma?

I felt her silence. I imagined her giving me the quiet, and knowing the quiet also.
Through the kitchen window, snow gleamed, and I had to stop myself from worrying about my
bike. I suppose what Mom always said was true. Everything is relative. She said it, and
now I got it. Other people worry about big things, I worry about my bike. Or something.

I think youre on a quest.

There were still gold leaves on the aspen. Up on a ridge, I saw some horsemen in a line.

You think Im on a quest?

I know it sounds silly, but every now and then great men have gone on quests to find
answers to the big questions. There have been books written about men who search the whole
world for answers.

But what if I dont know the question? You know the question. The horsemen drifted over a
ridge and out of sight. Bethany

leaped from the top of the aspens. She turned once on the tallest tree and followed the
horsemen.

I love you, Smithy. Im tired all of a sudden. I want to come out. I want to take care of
you. Im so tired. Jeez. Id better . . . Ill call you tomorrow. Ill dream about you,
Smithy. Bye, Norma. Tired. Oh, God, tired. Sleep, said my mom. Sleep, said my

nana. Bye, Smithy. My Smithy Ide.