Running Into Trouble

by Mina McShady

  Oh, she thought, what am I thinking? Eli couldn’t fight off a mountain lion. The mountain lion would eat him. If a big cat had really attacked him, then he was already dead. Helen thought about Eli being dead. It was a horrible, terrible thought, one that would leave her alone forever, making sick fetishes of Eli’s unwashed socks and running gear. She envisioned herself older and poorer, returning home from work and finding a fat orange tabby cat nested in Eli’s faded old Death March T-shirt. She choked back a sob, realizing that she didn’t really have what she considered a suitable memento of Eli.

  Of course, if Eli had passed into the next life via some mountain lion’s strong jaws (and his own cowardly impulse to flee from a talk with his girlfriend), then Helen would be Eli’s woman forever and ever. His love for her would be fixed in time and in people’s minds. She would organize the funeral, gently break the news to Eli’s estranged parents, choose an appropriate casket, and take bereavement time off work. She’d work with Bob Robertson and Mickey Hotchkiss to organize a memorial run, to take place either at sunrise or sunset. She would leave roses on the anonymous trail where his body (or, more likely, pieces of his body) was be found and write cautionary articles for sports websites and the Notch Gazette about the folly of running alone at night.

  At the Death March, she would give a little speech. She would stand on the podium and look out at the crowds of skinny people who had come from around the world to subject themselves to 100 miles of knee crunching, ankle twisting, kidney-pulverizing torture. She would be skinny, too, because losing Eli would, she believed, dampen her appetite better than any diet pill. She would say a few words, about how Eli would have wanted to be there, and how little atomic bits of him were probably still there because he had been eaten on the course.

  And then a woman, or something, screamed. Jolted out of her strange reverie, Helen got up and turned out the lights. She jogged over to the bedroom window, pulled back the aquamarine curtains, and tried to see into the darkness where the scream had come from. She waited for another scream, feeling adrenaline combine with the caffeine in her bloodstream to produce an almost painful degree of alertness. Standing at the window, she quickly catalogued the pros and cons of calling the police. But then, when she didn’t hear anything else, the urgency she’d been feeling slipped away. It was probably nothing.

  Helen looked at her antique fish-shaped clock. It was 12:30 am. Time for bed, if she wanted to make it to work the next day. She kicked off her fuzzy spotted slippers, crawled into bed, and turned off the light. She closed her eyes and tried to think of pleasant dreamscapes, like her first three or four dates with Eli, the particulars of which she had memorized in extreme detail. Then she let her mind drift back to the day they had met, the car accident that had seemed so amusing at the time.

  Car accident, she thought, making a face at the word’s odd, metallic aftertaste. Car accident. Helen sat up in bed like spring-loaded pop up toy, her breathing rapid and shallow. Maybe it wasn’t a mountain lion at all. Maybe Eli was killed in a car accident.

  -Eli Hawthorne-

  “Ohmigod Eli, are you okay?”

  “What happened to Helen? Is she okay?”

  “Why didn’t Helen come with you? I don’t think she’s ever missed a Thing.”

  “How did it happen? I heard—”

  “You hit a bear—”

  “You hit a moose—”

  “You hit a jogger—”

  “No, we didn’t hit—”

  “Oh thank god! You’re so fortunate.”

  “Very lucky.”

  “You should be very thankful.”

  “Yeah, the vehicular homicide laws in this state are—”

  “Oh shush.”

  “No, I’m serious. The penalties for vehicular homicide are—”

  “Poor Helen. How awful for her.”

  “So you two have been together how long?”

  “Um, just for—”

  “You should be thankful. Very thankful.”

  “She’s a great girl. It’s people like her who keep the R&M club going.”

  “Absolutely. And as I was telling Sue the other day—”

  “Helen’s a pretty competent little runner.”

  “Not a champion like you Eli—”

  “No, but she’ll just plug away like a—”

  “Um, excuse me, I have to go use—”

  “So when are you guys going to make it official?”

  “Uh, pardon me I, um—”

  “There are some pretty spectacular places to hold a wedding around here.”

  “I um—”

  “I remember my first two weddings. One was held at—”

  “The Lodge, I know, it was spectacular, like—”

  “Just gorgeous, I bet Helen would love—”

  “I’VE GOT TO TAKE A FUCKING LEAK!”

  “Well, um, go ahead.”

  “Yeah. Who’s stopping you?”

  -Jennifer Champion-

  Jennifer, who was fitfully sleeping on Bob Robertson’s king size bed, awoke to the sound of a door softly clicking shut. She cracked open her eyes and saw the outline of a tall figure barely illuminated by the moonlight. The man-shape moved slowly, and it was carrying a bottle of wine. It sat down on the foot of the bed, brought the bottle to its lips, and took a long, gulping swig. Jennifer blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the light. Her head still ached, but not as much as before. Goddamn that Bob Robertson, she thought. That man could not take a hint.

  Jennifer propped herself up using a couple of pillows and readied herself for a confrontation. She didn’t enjoy confrontations, but she didn’t shrink from them either, especially when the other party was so obviously wrong.

  “Bob Robertson,” she said in a surprisingly loud, clear voice. “You are a terrible host. Sure, it was nice that you invited me to take a nap when I wasn’t feeling well. But then you just had to hit on me. And you don’t hit on someone when she’s about to vomit. You just don’t. Now, I’d like to lie here just a little bit longer. But, if my sweaty cotton-mouthed nauseated body is just too much temptation for you to handle, then I’ll find a ride home right now.”

  “Jennifer, is that you?”

  Oh shit. The shadow man wasn’t Bob Robertson at all. It was someone else, someone with a familiar, teasing voice.

  “Um, who’s there?”

  “Oh, Jennifer, I can’t believe you don’t remember me. That makes me so sad.”

  Oh, double shit. She knew the voice. It was the playful voice from the Organic Food Store’s parking lot and the same calm, reassuring voice from the accident. It was the voice of confident, good-looking, crush-inducing Eli Hawthorne. He and Helen were good friends with Bob Robertson—Bob worked on innumerable R&M club planning committees along with Helen—and she, Jennifer, had basically called him a slime ball. Oh, triple shit.

  “Um, is it you, Eli? Why don’t you, um, come a little closer where I can see you?”

  Eli got up and grabbed a rolling chair from Bob’s desk at the other end of the room. He pushed it towards the head of the bed and turned on a small reading lamp. He swallowed another mouthful of red wine. Jennifer noticed his lips were stained slightly purple.

  “Better?” he asked, smiling at Jennifer, whose face was flushed and lined with sleep creases.

  “Um yeah,” she said. “So, um, I guess we should stop, um, meeting like this.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. You said you were sick. Are you okay?”

  Jennifer looked into Eli’s warm, brown eyes and felt comforted. Her mind flashed back to the accident. She remembered how Eli had wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back while she sobbed. She had poured out all her shock and fear, and Eli had soaked it up. She also recalled Helen, who had been brisk and businesslike, talking to the cops and the EMTs and the tow truck driver with a steady voice and sane, dry eyes.

  “I’m, um, fine. Just self-inflicted wounds.”

  Jennifer saw Eli’s forehead crinkle up. For a
moment she was absorbed in the details of this new facial expression. His eyebrows raised just slightly, denoting mild surprise, and his eyes grew wide. She dipped in and out of his eyes, measuring their depth, until reflected questions and anticipated replies floated to the surface. Ah, she thought, he’s confused.

  “I drank too much,” she said. “I guess I was just kind of, um, freaked out by the accident, and I had a little too much wine. My head started spinning so I came up here to, um, take a nap.”

  “And I guess Bob decided to join you,” said Eli, smiling warmly again.

  “Yeah, well, um, would you mind just forgetting that?”

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s been a crazy night.”

  “So, um, how’s Helen?”

  Suddenly, the life drained out of Eli’s face. It was blank and dull, defying Jennifer’s efforts at analysis. For the first time, she wondered if Eli and Helen were as happy as they seemed to be.

  “Oh Helen’s fine,” he said gruffly. “She’s always fine.”

  Jennifer inspected the off-white comforter on the bed as if it held the answers to the greatest questions of the universe. She struggled to think of something light and amusing she could say to change the subject, but a sludge of brain cells killed by the evening’s alcohol was still gumming up her thought processes.

  “You want to hear something funny?”

  Jennifer looked up and saw Eli grinning again. He put his large hand over hers. She contemplated Helen, Eli’s girlfriend. She had never poached anyone’s boyfriend before. She just didn’t think it was right. And yet. Eli and Helen weren’t technically married. She knew they lived together. But, she thought, wasn’t living together really just the penultimate stage of dating? It wasn’t even as serious as an engagement. And then there was Nasty, who was always telling her to take risks, to dare to make heartfelt mistakes. The opportunity was before her. All she had to do was squeeze his hand.

  -Eli Hawthorne-

  He was lying in bed with a beautiful woman in a dark room. But someone was staring down at him. A skinny, shadowy vulture-man in a bathrobe wearing a distinctly unfriendly expression. Eli closed his eyes, rolled over, and hugged his companion. It was all a dream, a largely pleasant, gently weird dream. And he wanted it to last as long as possible.

  -Helen Kale-

  When Helen heard the blat-blat-blat of the alarm clock, she slapped the snooze button and rolled over, hoping to warm herself against Eli’s body for just five more minutes before the day began. She closed her eyes and stretched her limbs, reaching out for Eli’s smooth back and slim but solid legs. Her sleep-muddled brain was surprised to find Eli’s side of the bed cold and vacant. Her heart raced, and her eyes popped open. Where is Eli?

  For just a fraction of a second, Helen wondered if Eli was simply in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and excreting last night’s dinner. And then it all came flooding back: the fight, the workday spent fighting off tears, the unexpected love, the car crash, and Eli’s late night escape. She remembered opening her box of unspeakable books and imagining Eli dying in a variety of gruesome ways.

  She’d also searched the Internet for answers. A lot of the sites she’d scanned were of the “you create your own reality” genre. At the time she’d scoffed. If determined wishing could make dreams come true, then nobody would be poor or alone. Everyone would have a nice car and a house, and work would be fun. But, under a sickly morning light filtered through a gray skein of clouds, the world was a different, more mysterious place. Maybe, she thought, wishing might have some effect, but your actual results would depend on the strength of your wish relative to that of all the competing wishes. For example, lots of people pray to win the lottery, but very few actually win.

  Of course, she figured, if positive thinking could give your life a boost, then negative thinking might have the opposite effect. You could imagine something terrible and thereby bring it forth from some dark abyss. Helen’s breathing quickened and a thin film of sweat dampened her face. She’d had so many negative thoughts about Eli the night before. If Eli were laying out there someplace, sick or hurt, it would be her fault. To dispel her growing agitation, Helen lay flat on her back and tried to conjure up some positive images that would provide some counterbalance for her earlier, more evil thoughts.

  But every time Helen had a suitably happy and peaceful picture in her mind, something would go wrong. After greeting a tired, contrite Eli, she’d find herself pushing him to tell her exactly where he had been. He would resist, saying something like “It’s not important” or “Why don’t you trust me?”. Pretty soon, they’d be screaming and throwing things. Eli would chug a mug of coffee and stomp out, either to commiserate with a skinny, younger woman or to blindly run across the road into the path of an oncoming car. She sighed. Helen decided that she was definitely a bad witch. She figured she might as well abandon the whole “create your own reality” philosophy for good.

  Feeling spacey and groggy from getting only four hours of sleep, Helen got out of bed and trekked to the kitchen, where she started a large pot of coffee. Normally, Helen drank tea because too much caffeine made her hyperactive and moody. But after last night’s caffeine orgy followed by this morning’s brain fog, Helen decided that she just didn’t care. She watched the rich brown liquid drip into a clear pot that would be at home in any diner, and she felt a momentary pang of guilt. Although she did all the grocery shopping, she somehow thought of the coffee as belonging to Eli, and she had just used up the last of his Columbian Super Beans, which were supposed to contain three times as much caffeine as regular coffee.

  The regular drip-drip-drip of the coffee was hypnotic and Helen’s eyes blinked shut. Part of her brain knew that she should pour herself a cup of artificial energy, but another, more persuasive part dragged her back to bed. She dreamed she was in a large supermarket shopping for coffee beans with Eli, who ran ahead of her and finally disappeared at the end of an impossibly long aisle. A female voice over a loudspeaker called “Helen Kale, please report to customer service.” Somewhere a phone was ringing...

  Helen opened her eyes. She saw that the coffee was brewed and the phone was really ringing. Who would call at 7:00 am? In her scramble to grab the receiver, she tripped over the phone cord, ripping it from the wall. She replaced the cord into the wall, and checked caller ID. It was Bob Robertson.

  -felis concolor-

  The predator hated to go to sleep hungry. His belly ached with excess stomach acid, and he felt depleted, an animal weariness that could not be cured by simple rest. But he didn’t want to stay awake either. The rising sun brought lethargy to his limbs. He saw a thicket of bushes beneath a clot of pine trees. It would offer some shade from the heat of the day. He crawled in, collapsed on the ground, and began chasing deer in his dreams.

  -Jennifer Champion-

  “Do you have to be at work or something?”

  “No,” said Jennifer, smiling despite an awful hangover. “I have a trust fund.”

  “Coolness,” said Eli, pulling Jennifer closer to him.

  “Yeah,” she said, twining her arms and legs around Eli. “I have all day if you want. I can skip one day of training.”

  Eli looked into her eyes and smiled gently. “You know that I have a girlfriend, right? That this was just a one-time thing? And you’re okay with that?”

  Jennifer, who was intoxicated by the sheer naughtiness of borrowing the saintly Helen Kale’s boyfriend, grinned broadly. She was looking forward to telling Nasty a humorously embellished version of her drunken lurch into quasi adultery. She was also thinking about her next R&M club women’s group run. When other women talked about their experiences with Eli, she’d refrain from saying anything incriminating, but she’d know. And, when they went on with regret about how unaccountably faithful to Helen Eli had turned out to be, Jennifer would have the satisfaction of knowing that she alone had tempted him, if only briefly, from the path of monogamous resolve.

  “You’re okay with that, right?” Eli sa
id again, this time in a high, wheedling tone of voice that suddenly irritated Jennifer. What, she thought, does he think I’m going to stalk him? But the annoyance passed as quickly as it had come.

  “Sure, silly, I’m just fabulous,” she said, tickling Eli and making him squeal.

  -Helen Kale-

  “Go,” said Bob, who liked to give the impression of being hopelessly busy, even if he didn’t actually work any more.

  “Good morning, Bob. This is Helen. My caller ID says that you just called me.” Helen paused, hoping that Bob would take the hint and fill in the blanks.