by Eric Walters
“I know, I know,” he said.
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“Not disappointed. I’m just saying it would be a big story. It’s like I said, the only thing the public likes better than building up a hero is tearing him down.”
“You’re wrong, people don’t want him to fail.”
“That’s true, they don’t want Terry to fail, but if he did they’d read every story about it. Bad news sells.”
“And if you found out something bad about Terry, you’d write about it?”
He shrugged. “If it was the truth. Truth is what the business is all about. I’d be obligated to write about it.”
“But what if you got your information wrong? Newspapers make mistakes all the time. I’m always reading those little apology things they print. What do you call those?”
“Retractions.”
“Yeah, retractions. It’s like there’s one of those in every paper I’ve ever read.”
“I thought you only read the comics and the sports section,” he said.
“I read other stuff, sometimes. What if you wrote something about Terry and you got it wrong, you made a mistake?”
“Then there’d be an apology the next day.”
“Have you ever made a mistake?” I paused. “I mean, with a story.” I hoped he got that dig.
“I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes…with stories and with life. I guess the important thing is to admit you were wrong and try to do better in the future.”
For a split second I thought I saw—or just really wanted to see—my father’s eyes glistening. Was he going to tell me he was sorry, was he going to apologize for leaving us…or had he just done that?
“We all make mistakes,” I said, breaking the silence. Maybe I’d just said “It’s okay” to him.
“You know, you can help make sure I don’t make mistakes with this story,” he said.
“I can?”
“Yes. I’d like you to read every article I write before I send it. The way you did with the first one. And if you see something you think is wrong, you tell me.”
“And you’ll change it?” I asked.
“And we’ll talk about it. If you can convince me it’s wrong then I’ll change it. But do you know what you can do that would be even more of a help?”
“What?”
“Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re spending a lot of time with Doug and Terry. You see and hear things that the rest of us don’t get to see and hear. They’re pretty guarded when they’re talking with reporters, but not with you. For example, the other day when we were riding in the van and I went into the back to lie down, I heard you and Doug talking.”
“You were eavesdropping on us?”
“Not eavesdropping. I couldn’t help but listen. It’s a little van.”
Okay, maybe he had a point.
“And I noticed that Doug is much more open when he’s around you. Terry is the same way. They’ve already become cautious around the press—and that’s probably wise. But with you they seem more comfortable. For example, what do you and Terry talk about when I’m not around?”
“Nothing really,” I said defensively. “Mostly just about sports.”
“Well, if he said anything different then you could tell me about it.”
“So you’re saying you want me to spy on them?” I asked in disbelief.
“Not spy. Report. Just tell me things. That’s what a reporter does, sees and hears things and then writes about them.”
“It still sounds like spying.”
“It’s not spying. Besides, it would help Terry.”
“How would it help Terry?” This was all making me more than a bit suspicious.
“It would help because he’s trying to raise money for cancer research, and the more interesting an article is, the more attention it will get. And the more attention it gets, the more money will be raised. Do you see the connection?”
“I guess I do.”
“Good. Then can you do that to help me?”
I didn’t know what to answer. I just knew that even if what he said was right, it still left a bad taste in my mouth.
“All I want is for you to keep your eyes and ears open. Can you do that?”
Slowly I nodded my head. I could keep my eyes and ears open. I could also keep my mouth shut if it seemed like the right thing to do.
“I don’t mean you’re looking for bad things. I just mean interesting things. Human interest items. You know, what sort of music they like…things like that. It would really help. It’s becoming harder to keep this thing interesting with each passing day. This story won’t become really big until he stops running.”
“The Pacific Ocean is a long way from here,” I said.
“The Pacific is, but the end of the run might not be.”
“What do you mean?” Did he know something that I didn’t know? Was Terry getting ready to abandon the run for some reason?
“It’s just that you have to understand what it is that Terry’s trying to do,” he said.
“I understand exactly what he’s doing!” I snapped. “He’s running across Canada to raise money for cancer research!”
“He’s running across the country on one leg.”
“I sort of noticed that!”
He ignored my jab. “Running twenty-six miles even once is an incredible accomplishment. Something that only a few thousand people in the whole country have ever done. But he’s running a marathon today, and he’s going to do the same thing tomorrow and the next day and the next. Just like he did the day before and the day before that and the day before that.”
“I know that!” I snapped.
“And he’s going to have to do that for close to two hundred days.”
Two hundred days…wow…I hadn’t thought about just how many days it was going to take.
“And he’s doing it on one leg, after having cancer and all the treatment that goes with it. Do you have any idea just how incredible this all is? Nobody has ever attempted anything like this…ever.”
I let his words sink in. Everything he had said made sense. Perfect sense. I felt a lump growing in my stomach.
“I know you like Terry—heck, I like Terry. He’s almost impossible not to like. It’s just that I don’t want you to get your hopes too high. The higher you get, the more it hurts when you fall. What he’s trying to do is nearly impossible.”
“Nearly impossible?” I asked.
He nodded his head.
“But not completely impossible,” I said.
“Not completely.”
I got up from the table. “He’s going to do it.”
Across the room I saw Terry get up to leave. “I better get going. I think I’m going to ask if I can travel in the van again this afternoon.”
14
By the time I got to the door of the restaurant Terry was already outside and getting ready to climb into the van.
“Hey, is it okay if I ride along with you guys again?” I yelled.
He smiled and motioned for me to get in. I ran over and got into the passenger seat as Terry climbed into the back. I did up my seatbelt and Doug started to drive away.
Terry poked his head between the seats. “Good to have you along.”
“It’s good to be along.” Although it really, really smelled bad. I rolled down my window to let in a little fresh air.
“Do you know what the road looks like up ahead?”
“Black…yellow line down the middle, lots of gravel along both sides,” Terry said and then chuckled.
“I meant is it hilly?”
“This whole country is on a hill,” Terry said. “I’m not sure why everybody in Canada doesn’t just roll down
to one of the oceans.”
I laughed.
“I think there’s a flat spot somewhere on the prairies,” he continued. “Then everything will be downhill from there…except for the mountains.”
Doug pulled the van off the blacktop and onto the gravel. He slowed down, cruising along the shoulder. I knew what he was looking for. There it was up ahead, a plastic bag weighed down with rocks and gravel—the exact spot where Terry had stopped running before lunch. Doug slowed the van to a crawl and then brought it to a stop right beside the marker.
“I think this might be my stop,” Terry said. He opened the sliding side door and I watched as he put his foot down right on top of the bag. That was the way he always did it. He never cheated by even an inch, and anybody who even thought about writing a story like that was nothing more than a stinking liar!
Terry stretched. Doug stayed behind the wheel of the van. He was studying some papers, probably sorting out the rest of the day. I climbed out as well and looked up ahead. There was a hill directly in front of us, another one of those long, slow inclines. This one gradually rose up until it twisted around a corner, so you couldn’t even see where it ended. According to what Terry had told me it ended somewhere in Saskatchewan.
“I’ll see you two in a mile.” Terry started running.
I walked around to the front of the van and sort of leaned against the bumper and watched him. As always there was something about the way he ran—a step, skip and a stride with the artificial leg—that was hard not to watch. I’d never seen anything that was so awkward and so graceful at the same time.
Up ahead, almost like magic, some people appeared on the side of the road. They hadn’t driven up so they must have come out of the houses that were scattered along the highway. As Terry passed they began to clap and cheer, and somebody reached out to offer him something—probably a donation. People had been continually pressing money into Terry’s hands or passing it through the window to Doug—all going to fight cancer. More and more people each day, all of them having heard about Terry and wanting to contribute to the Marathon of Hope.
I’d seen this same thing happen in one form or another at least twenty times over the past few days, but it still amazed me—strangers standing on the highway cheering on this person they didn’t know. And I knew it had been happening more today than yesterday. My father was wrong. People weren’t getting tired of this run, they were getting more enthusiastic about it, and it would get bigger and bigger with each passing day.
I circled around and climbed back into the van. The odour hit me like a wave.
“I’d forgotten about the smell,” I said.
“It’s pretty hard to forget…or ignore,” Doug said.
“It’s the toilet, right?” I asked.
“Yep,” Doug said without looking up from his papers.
“You really have to do something about that.”
“Somebody has to do something about it. Somebody has to clean it out.”
“Somebody?”
He put the papers down and looked at me. “I’ve been taking care of it all along. Now I’m too busy doing all these other jobs. Besides arranging places to stay and interviews and scheduling appearances, who do you think buys the groceries and does the laundry? So maybe it’s somebody else’s turn to empty the holding tank.”
“But there’s only you and Terry,” I said.
“Then I guess it’s his turn. Terry’s the one who fills it, so maybe he should be the one who empties it.”
I knew they had been fighting. I guess my father was right to worry about the strain on their friendship—it looked like it might be busting up over something pretty stupid.
“Is it hard to do, cleaning out the holding tank?” I asked.
“Not hard. Doesn’t take long. Just a few minutes.” Doug put his papers down beside the seat and started up the van again. He looked in the side-view mirror and, seeing that it was clear, pulled out.
“You know,” I said, thinking through my words, not believing that I was actually going to say what I was going to say, “if somebody showed me how, I could take care of it.”
“You?”
I nodded.
Doug looked over at me. “Thanks for offering, man, but you didn’t fill it either.” He paused. “You’re only here for a few days. It’s one of those things that Terry and I have to work out between us.”
I felt relief.
“And Winston…we will work it out, don’t worry.”
As we caught up to Terry I could see that he wasn’t alone. There were four other people running with him. I guess whether he wanted it or not he was going to get more and more company. The cars up ahead of us slowed down and people honked their horns and waved as they passed. That had been happening a lot more today as well. We went wide around Terry and the other runners and I waved out the window. Terry gave a little wave in reply. I think he was waving to both of us.
“I noticed you have a tape player in the van,” I said. “Could we listen to a little music?”
“Sure,” Doug said. He reached over and pushed in a tape that was sticking partway out. There was a click, a hiss, and then the van was filled with the sound of twangy guitars and a rough, raw voice.
“Who is this?” I demanded.
“Johnny Cash. He’s one of Terry’s favourite singers.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Don’t you like him?” Doug asked.
I snorted in reply.
“Terry’s brother Darrell made the tape for us. It’s the best of Johnny Cash.”
“Must be an awfully short tape.”
Doug reached over and turned down the volume. “Have a look at the other tapes. We must have something that you’d like better.”
I rummaged through a box sitting on the floor between the seats. There were lots of tapes…more Johnny Cash…the Everly Brothers…some gospel tapes…Hank Williams…Dolly Parton, at least she was good to look at.
“See anything you like?” Doug asked.
I shook my head.
“Then I guess we’ll just keep listening to Johnny.”
For the first time in my life I think I would have been happy to have heard from the Chairman of the Board…Mr. Frank Sinatra.
* * *
—
“SO, ARE YOU PLANNING on doing any running today?” Terry asked me.
I didn’t answer right away. I’d been thinking it would be nice to run a couple of miles—to stretch my legs and get away from the smell in the van—but I knew Terry liked to run by himself.
“Well?” he asked.
“I guess I’ll just ride in the van,” I finally answered.
“That’s too bad,” Terry said. “I was hoping you’d keep me company for a couple of miles.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“You want him to run with you?” Doug asked. He sounded just as surprised by what Terry had said as I was.
“I was just thinking that it would be nice to have a little company,” Terry said, shrugging his shoulders.
“I could run with you…if you want me to.”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked. You want to run this section?”
“Sure…I could…I guess. But I thought you liked it better when you got to run alone.”
“Most of the time it is better…easier. And I especially like to be by myself in the mornings. I like the quiet…it gives me time to think. Other times I actually like having company. And sometimes it seems like I don’t have any choice, people just tag along.”
“I noticed. Especially today.”
“It’s getting to be more people all the time. That’s okay now and again, but I do need to concentrate. And sometimes people run too close. I almost got tripped twice today. And there’s always a lot of questions. I know peop
le are just being friendly and curious, but I really need to save my lungs for running, not for answering questions.”
“I’ll try not to ask questions,” I said. “Except maybe to ask you to slow down a little when we’re going up the hills.”
Terry laughed, and I laughed along with him. He had the kind of laugh that made you want to join in.
“Let’s get started,” he said.
“See you gentlemen in a mile,” Doug called out.
We started running. I kept way over to the side and ran well behind Terry. We ran along in silence. There was no noise except for our feet hitting the road and gravel. The silence was broken occasionally by the whoosh of passing cars and people tapping on their horns or yelling encouragement out their windows.
Terry looked back over his shoulder. “You can run a little bit closer than that if you want.”
“Sure,” I said. I moved up a bit.
“And you can talk to me, it’s okay,” he added.
“Sure…I just didn’t want to bother you.”
“That’s all right, don’t worry about it.”
I moved up closer but made sure there was no way I was close enough to get tripped up in his feet. He’d said we could talk and there was something that I was curious about.
“Do you mind if I ask you one question?”
“No problem…as long as you don’t try to trip me.”
“I was just wondering…does it hurt when you run?”
“Not really,” he said.
“It doesn’t?”
“It hurts sometimes,” he admitted.
“Does it hurt today?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you mean sometimes?” I persisted.
“Sometimes the stump hurts, but only when I put pressure on it.”
“What sort of pressure?”
He didn’t answer right away. Maybe because my one question had become a lot of questions he wasn’t going to answer.
“It only hurts when I run on it.”
“But you’re always running on it!” I exclaimed.
“Not always…just every second step,” he said, and smiled.
“That’s awful. If it hurts you have to do something.”