“Mary stopped by while you were gone,” Mom told me as I came in the house later that morning. “She dropped something off for you.”
I was way behind in school, so I made myself a sandwich and headed down to my room to try to make a dent in my homework. When I sat down at my desk, I noticed a new picture on the wall, next to Caleb’s version of da Vinci’s The Last Supper. It was the picture of the two of us at Six Flags, clutching hands and screaming while we were in free fall. Tucked inside the corner of the frame was one of Mary’s watercolors, a small painting of the three of us eating frozen custard beneath the awning of Ted Drewes in the pouring rain. I’d seen two pictures in her bag that day at Six Flags, and I’d figured that she was going to give one to me and one to Caleb. I guess she’d get to keep the other.
I got up and sat down on my bed and put my head between my hands and closed my eyes. That day seemed so long ago, I thought, maybe like it never happened. Just about an hour ago, I was starting to feel good again, but now I was tearing up.
42.
DAD WAS IN THE KITCHEN, waiting for me. He made me a quick breakfast of toast and eggs, then rifled through my gym bag and made sure I had packed everything before we headed out. I guess he sensed I was pretty out of it.
Mom met me in the hallway before I left and told me she would be driving to the meet with Mary.
“Mom, it’s all right,” I told her. “Maybe you should get some rest.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said.
We were on the road for just thirty minutes before Dad tried to coax me into talking about the race. “What’s the race plan today, Leo?” he asked gently.
“I don’t have one,” I told him, because I didn’t. “Gun goes off. I run. That simple.”
Dad read my energy. I flipped the radio on and pressed the buttons until I finally found a song I could tolerate. I listened for just a few seconds before Dad punched the button again and changed the station. “Sorry,” he said, sighing. “That song reminds me of your mother” was all he said.
“How?”
“Do yourself a favor, Leo, and focus on running this race.”
That pretty much ended our conversation. I looked out the window at the fields of young corn, now a foot tall above the freshly plowed earth.
The state meet was held at Lincoln University. When we arrived, the meet was already under way, and the stadium was packed. I jogged in the parking lot to stretch out my legs after the two-hour ride. Hearing the loudspeakers awakened my nerves, and now I was glad we’d arrived late. I decided not to enter the stadium but hang out by the car with Dad and listen to music for a while.
An hour before the race, I found Gorsky in the bleachers and checked in with him. Curtis was beside him. They both knew I didn’t like to talk much before a race.
Gorsky smiled and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You know what to do,” he said, “but you’re going to need to dig down.”
I looked the old man in the eyes and knew he was on my side. “Any advice?” I asked.
“Keep it simple, Leo. Just win the damn race,” he said. “You’ve earned this. Channel your energy. The race is only four minutes. Don’t be afraid.”
For once in his life, Curtis didn’t open his mouth. He acknowledged me with a fist pump to his heart. I left the bleachers and began my warm-up.
We were given the final call for the race well before we were even allowed on the track. They kept all sixteen sweaty, nervous runners crammed together in a tiny tent for fifteen minutes. I felt like I was going to burst out of my seams corralled in there. Finally, the loudspeaker announced our event and the marshals let us out at the far end of the track.
I was assigned lane four, and I had to walk the hundred meters in my lane to the starting line as they announced our names. I jumped up and down and tried to bring my muscles back to life, but my head still really wasn’t in it.
I spotted Gorsky in the stands first. Although he was far away, I saw his head nod. He raised his hand, made a fist, and tapped his heart. Curtis was next to him, with my father sitting alone three rows behind them. Then I spotted my mother sitting next to Mary, a couple of rows in front of Gorsky and Curtis. I tapped my heart with two fingers and pointed to her.
The marshals gave us one last minute to warm up and get loose. I did a final stride on the first curve of the track, then returned and positioned myself on the starting line. There were two of us stacked to a lane, a staggered start that would break at the turn. Arthur Fletcher was to my right in lane five. He turned and glared at me before squaring himself for the start. I knew that I had trained to win, and I knew that I wanted to win. But at the moment I doubted that I had anything left in me. Then I remembered Gorsky’s words. I wasn’t going to let anyone in this race think I was afraid.
When the gun blasted, I allowed myself to get sucked into the momentum of the pack. When we hit the turn and everyone broke for the rail, I found myself tangled in knees and elbows. This time Fletcher held back and let someone else be the rabbit and press the pace. The first lap was quick but manageable. All sixteen of us were running in a tight clump as we completed the first lap in 61 seconds, a respectable split. Some of the spectators stood up, thinking this might be the race of the day.
I was running in the thick of it, tucked in behind the first five runners, when I felt a foot clip my ankle. I lost my balance and spun forward onto the tarmac. Runners parted themselves, trying to sidestep my flailing arms and legs. I fell forward, tucked my head, and hit the track shoulder first and somersaulted. When I popped back up, I caught Fletcher looking over his shoulder with a little grin. He dropped his right arm for a split second on the backswing and flipped me the bird. Then that bastard took off and began to press. I rolled back up on my feet, watching the pack pull away, and I continued running. I was twenty meters behind, but now I was pissed.
I spent the second lap in no-man’s-land. Trying to close the gap now would be suicidal, so I just maintained my pace and didn’t let them get any farther ahead. The scoreboard clock showed the leaders through the half in 2:04. I crossed the line three seconds behind them, in last place.
They slowed on the backstretch, and I caught the last runners on the far turn. Now I had the collective energy of the group and worked off their draft. I settled in during the third lap and prepared for the finish.
As we hit the back turn into the homestretch that third time, I made my move. I surged from the back and began passing runners. When I came up on Fletcher’s shoulder, he heard my breathing and looked back. I could see the fear in his eyes now. It was my turn to grin.
Fletcher and I headed down the homestretch together, positioning ourselves for the final lap. I was on the outside as the final bell rang, and I tried to squeeze Fletcher into the rail. He prodded my elbow on its backswing, and I nudged him back. Then Fletcher caught me under my arm just below the elbow and knocked me off balance again. I stumbled into the third lane but was able to steady myself. As I closed in on Fletcher’s shoulder, Snell broke between us and took the lead on the backstretch. Now I was running in third place. It was a three-man race.
Rounding the final turn, I couldn’t see or hear anything except the back of Fletcher’s singlet and the pounding of my heart. My lungs were searing and my chest felt like it was going to blast apart. Then I saw the tape across the finish line, and I said to myself that this was mine. I unleashed my kick with fifty meters to go and finally broke the race open for good. I split the tape in 4:10 and then just kept on moving.
I really didn’t want to run another step, but almost by reflex I launched into my victory lap. I slowed to a gentle trot and exchanged handshakes with a few guys on the first turn, then kept running.
I thought about Caleb and the fact that I would never have to run away from him again. I thought about the irony that my success as a runner was due in large part to him. By the time I hit the back turn, I was tired of being alone. I looked up into the stands and found Gorsky, Curtis, Mary,
Mom, and Dad. Even though they were just dots in the distance, I felt their presence beside me.
By the time I hit the homestretch, I was running full tilt.
43.
I SAID GOOD-BYE TO CURTIS a few days after school ended. It wasn’t so much a “farewell” as a “so long.” His father took a temporary teaching assignment at the University of Colorado, so he gave Curtis his ultimate graduation gift: a summer in Boulder, where he could run at high altitude.
“Any last words of wisdom?” I asked him after we’d completed our last run.
“Yeah. Stop asking for advice,” he told me. “I’ll be back for winter break, and we’ll celebrate being Ladue’s first back-to-back state champions. In the meantime, just run, man. Remember Gorsky’s famous words: ‘cross-country is a summer sport.’ Run long.” He made me promise him that I would. “Run long and you’ll figure it all out.”
Mom, Dad, and I each spent the next month grieving in our own way. Caleb’s absence created this massive void of energy in our house that seemed to suck more and more life out of us. Mom would be slicing vegetables for dinner, then suddenly drop the knife and run sobbing to the bedroom. Dad sat in front of the television holding a drink and watching ESPN, the volume nearly muted, his eyes glazed over. I went for long runs, slow and steady, the ones where you just spaced out. Sometimes the runner’s high would creep in and I’d think about things that made me laugh or feel better, but then I’d feel guilty and crappy about feeling good.
I’d eat breakfast in the morning and look out the window and see him talking to himself and making grass piles in the yard. I’d look at the clock at seven each night and hear him speaking to James. I’d lie awake and hear him pose me his riddles. I’d lie awake at night tossing and turning, wondering about the infinite what-ifs.
—
By the end of June Mom and Dad were drifting further and further apart, to the point where they barely said a word to each other. Their silent treatment with each other was killing me. Dad was sleeping in the spare bedroom, and Mom was out of the house a lot. She’d turn a shoulder if Dad tried to hold her, but she asked me to hug her at least once a day. They finally sat me down one night, and Mom told me they were going to call it quits for a while and separate.
Mary told me she thought it might get ugly when they started packing things up, so I asked my parents if I could get out of the house for a few nights while they got things sorted.
“I can’t believe you’re actually choosing to go to your grandparents,” Mom said, placing a plate of bacon and eggs before me.
“It was Mary’s idea,” I explained. “It’s not like we have a lot of options,” I reminded her. “Besides, she wants to find out if all those stories I’ve told her are true.”
“Oh, I think she’s in for a surprise,” Mom said.
“I’m hoping it’s not too much of a surprise.” I was trying to finish the last bites when Mary pulled into the driveway.
Mom reached into her billfold and pulled out some cash. “Just make sure Mary understands all your grandmother’s quirks before you get there.”
“Like the two-squares-of-toilet-paper regulation?”
She laughed and handed me the cash. “Listen, Leo. She’s a part of me, and that makes her a part of you.”
“That’s kind of a scary thought, Mom.”
“Please be nice to your grandmother. I’m still shocked she’s allowing her grandson to bring a girl for an overnight. Never would have happened in my day,” she said, combing my hair with her fingers.
I began to make a break for the door, but she grabbed my arm. “Leo, can you give me a hug? I could really use it.”
I hugged Mom and she gave me a peck on the forehead. “I love you, Leo. I haven’t been my best self this year, honey. Once your dad and I get everything sorted, I want the two of us to sit down and have a long talk. Can I take you to Charley’s?”
“We can do that, Mom. I’m easily bribed by a cheeseburger.”
—
We arrived at my grandparents’ in the early afternoon. Like clockwork, Grandma burst through the patio door, wearing her blue cornflower housedress and brandishing her metal spatula to direct traffic like a cop, Grandpa close in tow.
“Get ready,” I warned Mary. I was sure Grandma was about to rattle off a long list of jobs we had to do to earn our dinner, but she surprised me with a big, warm hug and then turned to Mary.
“Hello, young lady,” Grandma said warmly, extending her hand. “Let me give you the grand tour.”
Grandpa lit up a cigarette, took a long slow drag, and gazed at me for a moment before gently nodding. “How are you doing, Leo?”
“I’m holding,” I told him. We nodded at each other, and that was all.
Grandma showed us inside and immediately laid down the boundary markers in terms of our sleeping arrangements. Next she ushered Mary and me to the bathroom and explained the two-square-toilet-paper regulation, provided a graphic description of what happened when the toilet clogged, and reviewed how to use the plunger.
Grandma went light on work detail that afternoon. She just told us to go pick from the garden whatever we wanted to eat that evening.
After dinner we sat on the porch and Mary coaxed Grandpa to tell stories about what he was like when he was our age. He told her things I never knew, like how he hopped trains during the Depression and made money playing card games in Chicago.
“Gambling?” Mary asked.
Grandpa winked at her. “Some might call it that. Others would simply say I was making ends meet.”
“What kind of trouble were you getting into in Chicago?” she asked.
“Let’s just say that I was rarely the one holding a losing hand at the card table, Mary. Sometimes that can create a predicament.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“For the love of God, let go of the past, Bernard,” Grandma said as she cleared the table.
“Leo, run on into the house and fetch a couple of decks of cards and that pickle jar full of pennies in the cupboard,” Grandpa told me. “I’m going to teach the two of you a basic life skill.”
I fetched the cards and pennies in a flash. Mom had told me all about Grandpa’s antics when he was younger, but Grandma had always held him at bay. Grandpa was finally going to teach me how to play cards. Despite Grandma’s objections again, Grandpa taught us several different versions of poker. We bet pennies until almost midnight.
I slept on the sofa in the living room, and Mary got the guest room to herself. The windows were open, and I fell asleep listening to that same damn bullfrog who was always looking for action.
I awoke the next morning to the distinctive sounds of my grandmother’s squawking, and I feared the worst as I stepped outside onto the porch. She was standing next to the split metal drum, a small fire burning the few bits of garbage that couldn’t be composted. Above her, five grumpy crows sat on the electrical wires flapping their wings, eyeing whatever could be scavenged, and making a racket.
“Caw…Caw…Caw,” she screamed, while shaking an old rusty shovel above her at the birds.
“Caw, caw,” one answered back angrily.
“It’s about time you got out of bed, young man! Go wake up that friend of yours and come back out here. You need to check the strawberry patch for those thieving turtles,” Grandma ordered me. “You know what to do.”
I schlepped back inside, hauled Mary out of bed, and grabbed a box from the garage. I explained the turtle situation on the way to the strawberry patch.
“Sounds like a dangerous assignment,” she said. She was still a little groggy. “I’ll let you handle it.”
Grandma’s strawberry patch consisted of three parallel rows of strawberry plants ten yards long. She barricaded its borders with a fence made from chicken wire and wooden stakes. Despite the penitentiary-like fortifications, the turtles always found a way to breach security.
We spotted five turtles right away gorging themselves on Grandma’s berries. I glanc
ed over at Mary, made a pistol with my fingers, and placed my index finger to my lips, demanding silence. I crept toward the gate and motioned with my thumb for her to cover the back fence. “You take the back in case they try to make an escape,” I whispered.
I then gently released the latch and kicked the gate open. “Freeze!” I screamed. “Drop the strawberries now and nobody gets hurt!”
The turtles snapped tight into their shells. Mary and I entered the patch and plucked them up and placed them in the box.
One turtle sported a faded red 7 painted on its shell. Two others bore the numbers 17 and 35.
“What’s up with the numbers?” she asked.
“You will soon find out.”
We lugged the box back to the house and plopped the turtles on the porch, satisfied with our work. Grandma stepped outside and peered into the box. “No-good scoundrels,” she scolded them.
She picked one up from the box. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Seventeen.” The turtle poked its head from its shell and looked at Grandma inquisitively. “Why, I haven’t seen you in five years.” She placed him back in the box and picked up another. “Mr. Thirty-Five, I thought you might have passed away.”
Then Grandma shook her head and whistled sadly. “Well, well, well, it’s Mr. Seven.” Mr. Seven had his head tucked deep inside his shell. “This is not your lucky day, Mr. Seven. That’s three strikes, mister.”
Grandma reached into the pocket of her housecoat and pulled out a little bottle of red polish and lobbed it at me.
“Put a number forty-seven on that one,” she said, pointing at the quicker turtle. “And the other one fifty-six,” she said decisively. “After that you two can come on inside for your breakfast.” Grandma walked away with Mr. Seven, clutching him like a rock.
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