Running Full Tilt

by Michael Currinder

  “THREE FIFTEEN RIDE SCREAMIN’ EAGLE! AGAIN!”

  “I guess I owe you an apology for blowing up this morning,” I admitted, keeping my eyes focused on the television.

  I was waiting for the I-told-you-so, but he didn’t say anything. I glanced at him. He didn’t even offer a sly smirk like he was holding the winning hand. Instead, we just sat there smiling, listening to Caleb recount every last detail from the day.

  39.

  I WOKE UP EARLY THE MORNING of the district race and laced up my shoes for an easy two miles. I liked a slow jog before a long bus ride. It woke me up and got my insides moving and helped me take care of stuff I’d rather get done in my own bathroom. I was almost out the door before Caleb stopped me. For a moment I thought we were going to get into it.

  “Run with Leo,” he said.

  He’d never asked to do that before. “I’m not going far,” I warned.

  “Run with Leo,” he repeated.

  So we ran together. It was just twenty minutes and we didn’t say a word, mostly because I was focused on two things—wrapping my head around the race ahead and trying to use my nervous energy to focus on some intestinal motion. I picked up the pace a bit, and Caleb hung with me stride for stride down the sidewalks beneath the blooming trees. It was actually kind of cool running with my brother by my side. When we finished our run at the top of the driveway, Caleb finally broke the silence.

  “When Caleb run Special Olympics?”

  “You’ve got to wait another year, buddy,” I told him. “Unfortunately your season is over.”

  “CALEB LONG-DISTANCE RUNNER!” He smiled.

  “You’re damn right you are,” I assured him. “If you keep running, you’ll win that race next year,” I promised him.

  I held up my hand to exchange a high five. We slapped hands, a legitimate smack of open palms without an ounce of aggression. Then he started laughing and continued running down the street without me.

  —

  Dad pulled into the high school right as Isenberg and the last few throwers were lugging their equipment onto the bus.

  “I’m going to pick your brother up from swimming later this morning, then make a beeline over to your meet,” he told me.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  “You ready for today?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good luck, son,” I heard him say as I closed the car door and made a dash for the bus.

  The district qualifying meet was held at Parkway South High School. Curtis was taking advantage of the fact that the 3200 was the second-to-last race of the day and getting some extra sleep. The solitary time on the bus gave me some welcome peace and quiet. Sometimes his nonstop race-day sermons made me even more nervous.

  The scene at Parkway South’s parking lot looked like tribes preparing for battle: athletes in a medley of colors from schools all over the city hauling bags, poles, discuses, and shots toward the distant oval. I was making my way to the track, gym bag in hand, when the Poplar Bluff High School bus pulled up to the curb ahead of me. A bunch of maroon sweats filed out one after another onto the sidewalk.

  “You Leo Coughlin?” The voice came from behind me—a slow, thick drawl.

  I turned and saw a tall, lanky guy in Poplar Bluff colors approaching me. Unlike his teammates, he wasn’t wearing sweats or carrying a gym bag. He was already in his track shorts, singlet, and a pair of spikes.

  It was a warm May Saturday, but still, everyone wore their sweats to a meet, and nobody put on their metal spikes until a few minutes before a race. This guy had obviously worn them on the bus, and now he was clinking down the sidewalk beside me. He was looking to engage me.

  “You heard me?” he barked. “I asked if you’re Leo Coughlin.”

  “Yeah,” I told him. I was about to ask him how he knew who I was, but then realized my last name was written in big black letters on my bag.

  His hair was dark and oily, with bangs that draped over his eyes, so all I could see were these flaring nostrils and lips surrounded by dark, sparse mustache fuzz. His pores seemed to expand as he breathed.

  “I’m going to whip your ass today, Coughlin,” he told me with certainty. His spikes scraped and clanked against the concrete with each step. I just wanted him to disappear.

  “You have a name?” I asked.

  “I’m Arthur Fletcher,” he informed me.

  Only when I put out my hand for a shake did he finally retreat.

  I asked Gorsky if he knew anything about the guy.

  “He’s trying to get inside your head before the race,” he told me. “Keep your distance.” Fletcher was a decent runner, he said, but I should be able to handle him. Curtis later confirmed that if I ran a strong race, Fletcher wouldn’t be a problem.

  By late morning it was hot, and most athletes tried to escape the sun and lie low. The Poplar Bluff team set up camp on the opposite side of the track, near a small grove of trees. Arthur Fletcher sat underneath one tree, all by himself. Whenever I looked over in his direction, he had his arms crossed and was staring at me. He was definitely getting under my skin.

  Forty-five minutes before my race, I tried to work off my nervous energy with a long, thorough warm-up. I jogged, stretched, and did a few quick strides to get my heart rate up. I liked to start well before the first call, and I timed my routine by the events preceding the 1600.

  The announcements for the first and second calls were made, and like me the other 1600 runners completed their preparations. But Fletcher remained parked under that tree, legs casually stretched out, eyes like knives on me. When the final call was made, Fletcher stood up, walked calmly to the starting line, and checked in.

  My 4:18 1600 time made me the top seed. It was a time I’d hit consecutively in my last three races, but the third lap still plagued me. The marshal called us to the starting line and placed us in our lanes for a staggered start. We would hold our lanes for the first turn and break on the straightaway. I was in lane four, with Fletcher three lanes behind me in lane one. By midturn we would be able to gauge each other’s positions and be even for the break on the straightaway.

  When the gun fired, Fletcher went by me at breakneck speed, and by the time we cut down the backstretch he had nearly fifteen meters on the field. He’d extended that lead another ten meters by the time we completed the back turn. I usually went out aggressively, but Fletcher’s pace was staggering. I thought he must be out of his mind.

  I went through the first lap a touch over 61 seconds, meaning Fletcher probably hit 58. He was killing it. I knew I had some work to do as we headed into the second lap, but Fletcher wasn’t slowing. I closed the gap by five or ten meters, but he still maintained a sizable lead. It was either his day, and he was indeed going to kick my ass, or this guy was going to collapse. When I went through the 800 in 2:07, three seconds ahead of normal pace, I felt the sear begin to well up in my chest.

  Fletcher was still a good thirty meters ahead of me as I began the third lap. I knew I had to do something, so I began to press the pace. I opened my stride on the backstretch, looked down, and just started counting my strides. I knew if I counted to twenty-five, I would have covered the backstretch, and then there’d be only six hundred meters to go in this beast. Maybe I could still take Fletcher. By the time I crossed the two-hundred-meter hash before the back turn, Fletcher was just twenty meters ahead of me. I had gained ground.

  As we headed into the back turn, Fletcher looked over his shoulder and saw me. He surged slightly and increased his lead. I couldn’t believe the guy still had the capacity to accelerate. I could only maintain my pace at this point. We were heading into the homestretch of the third lap, and Fletcher still had a monster lead.

  The bell rang well before I crossed the line for the final lap, but it provided a much-needed surge of adrenaline. Fletcher rounded the first curve, and I saw his shoulders begin to tighten, his arms begin to rise, his head begin to tilt toward his shoulder. He was getting tired. If I could m
aintain my form and stride, I still had a shot at reeling him in. I was dying, but he was dying more. I focused on raising my knees to increase stride length. Now I really began to close the distance between us: with two hundred meters to go, he only had fifteen meters on me. He was within striking distance now. He looked back once again over his shoulder, and his eyes were wide. He pumped his arms furiously, but his knees were barely lifting.

  I got shoulder to shoulder with him as we turned into the homestretch. As I pulled beside him, he let out a gasp and I knew it was over. I still had one gear and I let him have it. I unleashed a final sprint and crashed through the finish in 4:13.

  My momentum carried me another ten meters past the tape before I collapsed on the track.

  I’d run the last 800 in 2:06, including a 59-second final lap, a negative split, meaning I actually got faster as I went. It was a five-second personal best, a time that I’d never thought possible, and I had qualified for sectionals and even had a shot at state.

  Curtis and Gorsky met me on the track and congratulated me. I was light-headed and having problems standing. Gorsky was laughing as he helped hold me up. “Fletcher certainly gave you a run for your money, Coughlin. And guess what? You’ll get to run against him again next week.”

  “Can’t wait,” I gasped. “Where was he during cross-country?”

  “Academically ineligible, I assume.” Gorsky chuckled.

  “You’d better go with him next week,” Curtis told me. “If that dude goes out again like that, he might not come back.”

  I looked around for Arthur and spotted him collapsed under his tree. I jogged over to him to shake hands. He was too tired to extend his arm, but he did offer me a military salute. I then looked around for my parents, but they weren’t there. It was my best race of the season, and I was bummed that they’d missed it.

  Curtis gave me a lift home from school after the meet. He took a close second in the 3200, earning himself a slot at state as well, but on the ride home he was focused on me. “I told you you could run 4:12, Leo. And you did it.”

  “I ran 4:13,” I corrected him. “And it hurt like hell.”

  “I think it’s going to take a 4:11 to win state,” he told me.

  As we pulled into the driveway, I spotted Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen table. I knew something was up.

  “Give me a call later on,” Curtis said.

  Mom and Dad didn’t say a word when I walked in the house. Dad was just staring at the wall. Mom was the one who motioned me to sit down. “Your brother drowned this morning,” she managed to say as I sank down in a chair, before she began sobbing.

  Dad got up from the table and made a quick move toward the kitchen sink. He vomited.

  40.

  I DIDN’T GO TO SCHOOL THAT WEEK. As it turned out, there were all sorts of crazy things that needed to be taken care of before a funeral, especially one that no one had been expecting. It seemed like Mom and Dad were on the phone night and day, in between errands.

  Dad’s biggest concern for me was what I was going to wear to Caleb’s wake. “It’s about time we get you a new suit,” he informed me during Monday night’s dinner. “I want to make sure you look decent for your brother’s funeral.” It was a weird thing for him to be obsessing on, but I was giving both Mom and Dad plenty of space. When my grandparents arrived Tuesday afternoon, even Grandma backed off Dad and didn’t give him a hard time about anything. She kept her mouth shut and focused on cleaning the house and making casseroles and pies.

  It was dumping rain on Thursday night, the night of the wake, and the roads were starting to flood. Dad’s car was stuck behind a large yellow dump truck moving slowly. He was getting frustrated and cursing to himself. His neck and shoulders curled toward the windshield as he wiped the fogged glass with a handkerchief. I thought he might lose it any second. Mom sat beside him with her head resting against the window.

  “I think we’re headed for low numbers tonight,” Dad finally said.

  “Huh?” I wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “No one goes out on a night like this,” he said. “You see many cars on the road?” He looked over his shoulder at me like I was clueless.

  “Christ, Niles.” Mom sighed. “It’s a wake, not a damn football game.”

  “Just figures. Your brother never could get a break, could he?”

  “Does it really matter if there are ‘low numbers,’ Niles?” Mom said, making air quotes. She sighed. “You know, Niles, I was the one who said…”

  Dad exploded. “Oh no, Elise. You think I haven’t thought about letting him go swimming by himself? I hope to God you’re—”

  “Listen!” I yelled. “Both of you need to pull yourselves together right now. Can we try to act like a family for just one night? Especially this one!”

  Neither of them responded. I could feel the heat coming off my face. Mom finally reached over and took Dad’s hand. “All I was going to say was that I was the one who said it might be better to do this earlier in the day—when people are less tired.”

  Eventually Dad hit the turn signal and pulled into Kriegshauser’s funeral home. Dad parked tightly against the left side of the building facing the road, so anybody passing by would see our car. We sat there for a moment with the car running and the rain blurring the windshield. Mom began weeping.

  “I’m sorry, Elise,” Dad said to her. “Sorry for a lot of things.”

  “I’m sorry too, Niles.”

  Dad closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and heaved out a sigh. “Are we ready?” he asked us. He looked at me in the rearview mirror for assurance.

  “I suppose,” I said.

  We got out of the car, opened our umbrellas, and dashed through the pouring rain, dodging puddles.

  The place was empty. Dad looked at Mom, confused. Dad and I wore identical dark-gray suits that matched the weather. Mom wore a navy-blue dress I’d never seen her in before. Despite her somber expression, she looked beautiful. I spotted our reflections in the entry-hall mirror. Yep—we looked like we were going to a funeral, and it all began to feel too real.

  “Seriously, Elise. What do you think?” Dad asked my mother. “Think anybody is going to show up on a night like this?”

  “I don’t think you should be worrying about that, Niles,” she said.

  The funeral director reviewed a few last-minute details with Mom and Dad. We walked in silence down the hallway past a chapel, a kitchen, and some closed doors, until we reached an open pair of doors leading to a large room.

  Here I saw Caleb for the first time since I’d left for my track meet on Saturday. He lay in a half-open casket on the far side of the room. I wasn’t sure what to do. A loud clicking sound came from behind me, piercing the silence. I turned and saw the doors to the room closing inward. It was now just Mom, Dad, and me, alone in the room. I suppose you could say Caleb was there too.

  Mom and Dad walked up to the casket first. Mom began sobbing. She put her head on Dad’s shoulders, and he put his arm around her and held her tightly, and he, too, began to cry. For several minutes they stood in front of Caleb’s coffin, gazing at him and gently whispering a conversation I couldn’t hear. For the moment they seemed together, there for each other, and that made me feel good. Eventually Mom’s head left Dad’s shoulder, and when they turned to me their faces looked drained.

  It was now my turn to approach Caleb.

  He was inside a traditional casket lined in white. He looked peaceful. I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do—or even think, for that matter. I felt guilty about all the times I resented him when I felt he was impossible—impossible to reason with, impossible to understand, and sometimes impossible to accept. I thought about all our ups and downs over the last few months, and I wondered about a future I would never have with him. I felt like I had to say something to him, but I didn’t have any words. So I kept it simple. I put my hand on his and whispered, “Peace, brother. God love you,” because those words always calmed him.

 
Then I walked to a corner of the room and started bawling. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d wept. I was shaking, and I wanted to stop, and I wanted to be alone. I thought Mom and Dad must feel the same, because each of us had retreated to a different corner.

  I was staring blankly at a picture of Christ with his arms raised, thinking about all the times I had assured Caleb that God loved him, when I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was Dad.

  He turned me around and embraced me. “I keep thinking about that scene in The Lord of the Rings when King Théoden discovers his son is dead,” he whispered to me. “He says ‘No parent should have to bury their child.’ It’s not supposed to happen this way, Leo. This was not supposed to happen,” he repeated.

  He lifted my chin and made me look him in the eye, making me feel like a baby. “Leo, my boy, your brother was my hero. When I think about the cards he got dealt, he continually amazed me with what he achieved, and I’m sad and I’m pissed because we’ll never see what more he had in store,” he told me as he wiped a tear from his eye. “A lot of what your brother achieved was because he admired you.”

  “I’m not sure—” I began to argue, but he gripped my chin once more and redirected my eyes into his.

  “I know he didn’t always make life easy for you, Leo,” he interrupted. “As a matter of fact, I know your brother could be a royal pain in the ass.”

  All of a sudden I was laughing, wiping my eyes, and sniffling back tears.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Leo,” Dad told me, holding me a few more seconds. “Trust me on that, son. But you made Caleb a better person, and he made you a better person. That’s what brothers are supposed to do,” he said as he let go, straightening the knot of my tie. “It’s time for us to pull ourselves together and hope some people show up.”

  I took a deep breath and ran my hand across my hair.

  Our family had lived in three different neighborhoods, and, surprisingly, people from all those places started filing into the room. I first greeted Mrs. Andersen and her daughter, Betsy, our babysitter when I was seven years old. I hadn’t seen them in nine years.