Running Into Trouble

by Mina McShady

  Nasty was dead. The police were trying to reach Nasty’s parents who, according to her address book, lived in Ohio. Although Nasty had left a file on her computer called will-n-testament, she had neglected to have it signed, witnessed, and notarized. Therefore, her stated wishes—for her corpse to be cremated as soon as possible and for her house to be sold, the proceeds going to charity—were moot. Her body would reside in cold storage at the Crawford’s Notch morgue until Wayne and Sylvia Boorchaser could be consulted.

  And Eli was in jail. Not for murdering Nasty, but for failing to read the label on her morphine prescription that listed the correct, non-lethal dose and included a large WARNING about exceeding it. Manslaughter, they had called it. Negligent homicide. Death by accident. It was all so horrible that Jennifer didn’t want to think about it. But she had to. Although she’d only known Eli for a few weeks under bizarre circumstances, she was the only one aware of his predicament.

  She was sure that Eli had friends and family. He had, after all, been known as a good guy at the R&M club—at least until recently. But his connections to other people had been more evanescent than she’d ever imagined. Although he’d basically lived with her for a few weeks, she’d never seen him make even a single a phone call, which, now that she thought about it, was exceedingly strange, particularly since he didn’t own a cell phone. And, while he’d told her all sorts of amusing stories involving transient snowboarders and regulars at the Uvula, he’d never suggested they go out for a drink, or a hike in the woods, or a harmless caffeinated beverage.

  There was, however, one person who did know Eli extremely well. And Jennifer felt vaguely nauseated as she realized that this person was Helen. I have to call her, she thought, feeling a heavy weight descend upon her chest. She grabbed her crutches and hauled herself to the phone. Someone from the R&M club would know her number, she was sure of it.

  -Eli Hawthorne-

  Eli had never been in jail before. Because Crawford’s Notch was so quiet during the summer, he shared the large men’s holding cell with only one other inhabitant—a sixty something homeless alcoholic who gave off a powerful turpentine smell. His name was Raphael, and he’d been picked up for taking a piss while singing Ave Maria in the Notch’s pristinely rustic downtown area. Tomorrow, Raphael would be deposited on a bus bound for San Francisco. Tonight he would sleep it off, snoring with the loud, throaty tones and erratic rhythms of sleep apnea.

  Aside from the manslaughter charges—which he couldn’t believe, it had been an accident, he had meant well, he was sure it would all turn out be one big misunderstanding—the thing that disturbed him the most was the exposed metallic toilet sitting in the rear center of the room. The idea of taking a shit practically in public made him anxious. He wiped his slightly moist hands on his running shorts, realizing that he was still wearing the same damp, sweaty clothes he’d been running in.

  They let him make one phone call. For a brief moment he’d thought of parents—his mother dead, his father somewhere in Chicago. He hadn’t wanted to do it—it would be using her, it would be weirdly disloyal to Jennifer—but he finally decided on calling Helen’s cell phone number. Helen was a good, upstanding citizen with a nice house and an excellent credit rating. He thought she would be able to manage his situation. But when he went to make the call, he’d reached a Doug Sherman, a gruff man with a loud voice who’d barked “wrong number” and hung up before Eli had been able to choke out a desperate plea. He guessed that he’d transposed two digits, telling the collect call operator “17” instead of “71.”

  With no reading material or anyone conscious and coherent to talk to, Eli stretched out on a hard, narrow bunk that smelled like sweat and stale beer, and closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would follow.

  -Helen Kale-

  “Bob, here’s that wine Sue was talking about. The Chilean Monte Cielo.”

  Helen handed the glass to Bob and smiled. She had poured it during the brief time she’d been alone in the kitchen, spitting into the glass and then covering the glob spit with the Andean pinot noir.

  Bob brought his long, narrow nose to the glass, inhaled greedily, and took a large swig, which he swished around in his mouth.

  “A strapping young wine,” he said, rolling his eyes into his head as though he were consulting a divine oracle. “Tannins, yes, lots of tannins, and a bold burst of raspberry with subtle undertones of citrus."

  “Oh, come on, it just tastes like red wine to me,” drawled Sue as she linked arms with Helen and Bob. “Now let’s sit down. Mickey wants to start the meeting.”

  As Helen turned to find her seat, her cell phone warbled out the first few bars of Für Elise. She waved to Sue that she’d be a few moments and hurried into the kitchen now that everyone was seated in the living room, waiting for the meeting to begin. After the fourth ring, Helen took a deep breath and pressed the Talk button.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this...Helen Kale?” asked a voice that was both slightly nasal and extremely tentative.

  “Yes, this is Helen.”

  “You don’t know me. Or, actually, you sort of know me. You know of me, I mean.”

  “That's fine,” said Helen, rapidly losing patience. “So, who are you?”

  “Jennifer. Jennifer Champion. Please don’t hang up. I’m calling about Eli. He’s in jail. Manslaughter. It’s a long story. Probably better if he explains it. Anyway, he, um, needs a lawyer. He’s at the county jail. I don’t know when the arraignment is.”

  “Well, Jennifer,” said Helen in round, disturbingly even tones, “I’m not sure if this is really my problem. I will think about it.”

  Helen hit the Stop button on her phone. So Eli’s in jail, she thought. For manslaughter. She wondered who he killed. She didn't think it was anyone that she knew. Then she realized: He needs me. He needs bail and a lawyer and money for legal fees. Maybe even a private investigator. And all this would be expensive, probably more than even Helen had available.

  For the man she loved, no price was too high and no effort too strenuous. Whatever Eli asked of her she would gladly do. But, she thought, staring at the wine bottles lined up along Sue’s kitchen table, that was exactly the problem. It wasn't Eli who asked her for help, it was Jennifer. Eli hadn’t called her from his jail cell. Instead, he’d called Jennifer, a woman he’d only known for a few weeks, a woman who clearly wasn’t interested in doing anything for Eli now that he was no longer an entertaining lifestyle accessory.

  No, thought Helen, I’m not going to do anything. If he’s afraid to even ask for my help, if the idea of having any contact with me is just so repugnant to him, then I’m going to do nothing. She pictured him in jail, alone and suffering, all because he was too stubborn or too stupid or too something to call his ex-girlfriend. He deserves it, she said to herself, feeling the anger flow through her like molten lava. She poured herself a glass of wine, took a large gulp, and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she was ready to enter the living room, where the meeting was in progress.

  At the front of the room, Harry “Hundred” Hickey was explaining Death March eligibility requirements in a high reedy voice with a moderate stammer.

  “There are,” he said, “three primary ways to qualify for the Death March. The first way—also known as the hard way—is to have been one of the top twenty male or female finishers from the previous year. We’ve already assigned numbers to everyone on this list, and we’ll begin the RSVP calls next week. The second is to finish one of ten designated qualifying races and submit an application including a detailed medical history. We’ve got about 5,000 applications for this year, and we’ll be conducting the lot-lot-lottery tomorrow for 200 spaces and 100 alternates.”

  Harry paused for a moment to drink from a bottle of water and lick his thin lips. Then he continued. “As you all know, there is one more way to enter the Death March. And that is to be a member of this committee and something of a masochist. So far, only one of us has signed up—and that’s me. If anyone el
se wants to join the Death March this year, I need to know now.”

  Helen, who was still imagining all the awful things that could happen to Eli in prison, didn’t notice that Sue had crept up behind her.

  “You’ve been putting in a lot of miles lately, and you need something to get your mind off him,” whispered Sue.

  Helen nodded absently, aware of Sue but still slightly dazed by her wild, angry thoughts.

  “Hey Harry,” yelled Sue. “I think someone over here wants to register!”

  -Jennifer Champion-

  Jennifer got out of bed and went to the window. The cars in the parking lot at the front of her apartment complex had a crisp, white coating of frost. Nearby trees were either bare or wearing ragged remnants of autumn foliage. She took a book of matches from the Uvula and lit a candle that smelled strongly of sandalwood. She smiled at a brief memory of Nasty telling her that aromatherapy is a load of bullshit.

  Walking to the kitchen to make a toasted peanut butter sandwich and a small instant coffee—the only kind of meal she could afford since she’d started sending most of her trust fund checks to Lisa Lopez, Eli’s defense attorney—she felt a dull, aching pain in her right foot. She could walk and run now, but the pain refused to go away. Her orthopedist, a heavyset man with a second-trimester belly who thought running was dangerous and unwise for anyone over 20, had recommended rest. “It might be time,” he’d said, “to listen to your body and try some other form of exercise. Like yoga.”

  But, after spending almost eight weeks alone in her apartment, mourning Nasty and coordinating Eli’s legal defense out of some strange sense of obligation, Jennifer could not stand any more rest. So she began training for the Death March, even though it was only six weeks away. At first, she was wobbly on her feet, and the slightest unexpected movement caused pains to shoot up her foot and into her brain. She shuffled more than she ran, frequently excusing herself and standing aside to let stronger, healthier runners pass her on the Notch’s single-track trails.

  Every once in a while, Jennifer would encounter someone from the R&M club. Sometimes whoever it was would pretend not to recognize her and speed by her without even a nod or a wave. Other times, she would find herself on the receiving end of a voluble, awkwardly friendly interrogation. One cool afternoon Sue Dawson had run beside her for almost six miles, quizzing her about Eli’s imprisonment and how she’d broken her foot. To get away from Sue, Jennifer had turned onto a treacherous root-gnarled path leading up a 45-degree incline and then down into the Abyss. She’d gotten the impression that Sue had been trying to get her to admit that Eli was a violent psychopath who, among his many crimes, had somehow broken her foot.

  Nevertheless, Jennifer had kept running and enduring constant pain. She ran at night, carrying a flashlight because she couldn’t afford a headlamp, and ignoring the wild cries of nocturnal animals. She ran at sunrise, watching the landscape absorb light and begin to glow. She ran alone, because she didn’t want to endure the frozen faces and whispery gossip that she believed would have been the inevitable result of running along with the R&M club’s elite women. And, besides, she wasn’t fast anymore; it hurt too much.

  Today, just one day before the Death March, Jennifer felt prepared. She knew she had no chance of winning, not with her still-healing foot, but she felt calm and solid. She reached down to pet Wretch, who was rubbing himself against her ankles. She planned on a quiet, restful day—maybe a brief run, a bath, some light reading, and then lots of sleep. She blew out the candle and smiled.

  -Helen Kale-

  Helen’s lungs and legs were on fire as she ran up an unmapped trail known as the Jagged Edge. Although everyone—even Eli’s old coach, who had somehow started advising her—had said that it was imperative to rest for at least a few days, if not a few weeks, before the Death March, Helen had not been able to resist the urge towards momentum. Running was still the only thing that could quiet her thoughts, which were now fixated on why Eli had yet to call her from jail.

  He has nothing to do all day, she thought, pushing branches out of her way. Why doesn’t he call? The pounding of her feet against the flatter ground at the top of the hill provided a rhythm that turned her obsessive thoughts into a chant. Why doesn’t he CALL? Why DOESN’T he call? WHY doesn’t he call? As she accelerated downhill, the crunching of debris beneath her feet seemed to say Eli, Eli, Eli, Eli, Eli.

  Of course, Helen didn’t tell her new friends how much he dominated the landscape of her mind. Sue and Carol were so impressed by how much progress she was making in the “self-esteem” and “self-priority” arenas; they would be horrified to discover that she had programmed her home phone to forward calls to her cell phone so that she wouldn’t miss Eli's maybe-someday-future call.

  Not that Helen was 100% sure she would take the call if she saw COUNTY JAIL appear in her caller ID window. She had suffered for so long waiting for some word or sign from Eli that she was tempted to give him a taste of what enforced passivity was like. Maybe he would call, and she wouldn't answer it. This thought made her smile broadly as she began the climb up yet another gnarly hill. To someone running past in the other direction, her red, oxygen-starved face and toothy grin would have looked insane.

  -Jennifer Champion-

  Jennifer was lying on her futon, letting Wretch chew on her hair, and waiting for a call from Eli. Since he had been in jail (still the county jail, as distinct from the more menacing-sounding prison), they had agreed to talk on all days ending in the number three—the third, the thirteenth, and the twenty-third days of each month—at three o’clock in the afternoon. She didn’t especially enjoy speaking with Eli. As it turned out, they had nothing much to say to each other beyond polite, health-related inquiries, overdone descriptions of the weather, and mutual updates on “the case.”

  Although Jennifer felt responsible for Eli in the same way that she felt responsible for Wretch—they were both strays she had fairly randomly taken in—she was also uncomfortably aware that he had killed her friend—and that she had sent him there. She honestly believed that Nasty had tricked Eli into giving her a lethal overdose, and she didn’t believe he deserved to be in jail. But she also held him in contempt for falling prey to what, in her mind, had to have been a pretty transparent ruse. What an idiot, she thought as the phone rang.

  “Yes,” she said to the nasal operator’s voice, “I will accept the charges.”

  “Jennifer?”

  “Yes, Eli?”

  “So, how’s it going?”

  “Alright. I’m just kind of resting. You know, for the Death March tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

  Jennifer stared at a long crack in the paint on her wall and listened to the gentle crackle of static on the line.

  “Um, I don’t mean to bring up something awkward, but have you heard from Helen at all?”

  “No,” said Jennifer, sharply inhaling. “I’ve told you before. I called Helen. I asked her to help. She said she’d think about it, and I never heard from her again. Not once. And it’s not like she doesn’t know where you are. She could have visited you in jail any time.”

  “Are you sure you asked her nicely?” asked Eli plaintively. “Maybe she just doesn’t want to, you know, intrude.”

  “Of course I asked her nicely. As far as I can tell, she just doesn’t care.”

  They were silent again for a long moment.

  “So,” said Eli. “How’s the weather?”

  -Eli Hawthorne-

  The worst thing about jail was the food. Always long and lanky, Eli was now approaching skeletal. He could barely eat the small, waxy containers of nearly sour milk, the lumpy gray hamburger patties, and the spongy canned vegetables that made up most of the jailhouse cafeteria’s lunch and dinner menus. Breakfasts, which usually consisted of stale cereal and gritty, reconstituted eggs, were slightly more edible. Every once in a while, Eli would find a bruised apple or some canned pineapple slices with a meal at random. Now he lived for
those days, and for the taste of nearly rotten fruit.

  The second worst thing about jail was the boredom. Eli's world had quickly contracted to a small corner of his eight-man cell, a few daytime television shows, and three well-worn issues of Runners’ World that Jennifer had left during her last visit. He had managed to avoid trouble with his fellow inmates who were mostly transients in for a few days at most—drunk drivers awaiting bail, small-time pot users, even one guy who had too many traffic tickets. But he could understand now why someone might look for trouble—it was something to do.

  As it was, he had far too much time to think about his life and what had gone wrong. From his current vantage point, his time with Hell in her comfortable house, with its regular schedule of training, eating, and couples’ socializing, was the pinnacle of contentment and luxury. He struggled to remember why, exactly, this dreamy, easy life had seemed like a prison at the time. Oh yeah, he thought, sex. He should have just slept with Jennifer instead of rushing into a relationship. In his wildest fantasies, he saw himself convincing Hell to have an open relationship. Then they could enjoy domestic harmony without the sour aftertaste of false monogamy.