Chapter 10
Weslee hurried. She quickly pulled on her spandex tights and a tank top. She grabbed her Windbreaker and her bag and headed for the door. It was the day of her first trial marathon, and she didn’t want to be late. It would be a long drive out to Lowell. She walked out the door to her rental car.
She tried to ignore the cold as she pulled out the keys to the Chevy Cavalier that would take her to Lowell, Massachusetts. She switched from the hip-hop station to NPR and pulled away. She had asked Lana to cheer her on at the start and finish of the Bay State Marathon, but Lana had declined. She had a date, and Lowell was just too far. “But tell me all about it and good luck,” she had said.
Weslee couldn’t deny that she was disappointed, but that was the way of things. Doing this race didn’t depend on having the support of Lana or anyone else. It was all about her and the ultimate goal: the Boston Marathon. If she could make a qualifying time in this race, she would be running Boston in the spring. Lana’s selfishness would not get in the way of that.
Her cell phone rang. Had Lana changed her mind?
“Are you there yet?” the deep, hoarse voice said.
“Duncan,” she said, her face breaking into a smile.
“I’m really sorry I can’t be there for you today,” he said.
“It’s OK, I understand.”
Weslee was actually relieved that Duncan’s childhood friend, also a friend of his family, was visiting for the weekend. She wasn’t sure whether she was ready for him to see her running a race where she wasn’t 100 percent sure she would accomplish her goal. It was too early to fail in front of him.
“Listen, if I can get away later, I’ll stop by and massage your feet,” he said.
“I’d like that,” she smiled.
She was glad he had called. It took her mind off the race a bit. The report on the situation in Iraq that was coming through the car speakers was not doing anything to relax her nerves.
There really was no need to worry. She tried to calm the distracting nervousness inside of her. Her training had been going well. She knew that all she had to do was finish this race in three hours and forty-five minutes and she’d qualify for Boston. This is not hard, she told herself. This is not going to be hard. Mind over matter.
Weslee thought of Duncan again. “I’ll stop by and massage your feet.”
She didn’t understand what was happening to her. She found herself looking forward every day to his calls. And it wasn’t because of the flowers and the gifts that had started a few weeks after their first couple of dates.
Two weeks ago, he sent flowers every day for the entire week. He said he was trying to guess her favorite flower and would send them every day until he guessed the right one. He hit white orchids that Thursday. The extravagance of the whole act had overwhelmed her. No man had ever paid this much attention to her. She felt as if she was the only woman in the world for Duncan.
It had only been a month, but she felt like she had known him for years. They fit so well together. She had learned to laugh at his sarcastic jokes, even when they were at her expense. He just loved to make fun of her Midwest naiveté and rosy outlook on everything. He was making her dream. He was making her feel safe: that it was OK to trust again and maybe love again. She had reached a point where she couldn’t go a day without hearing from him.
She put her wrist up to her nose. That perfume he had bought her smelled so good. Ralph Lauren’s Romance. She had worn it all week since he had given it to her. He had hidden it in his refrigerator the first night she went over to his duplex in the South End. He sent her to the fridge under the pretext of fetching a bottle of wine, and there it sat: a purple box with a white bow. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to assume it was for her. She handed him the bottle as he stood leaning on his kitchen counter staring at her.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You don’t want it?”
“What?”
He glanced at her nonchalantly. “Your present.”
“It’s mine?” she asked innocently.
She went back to the fridge and opened the box. He came to her as she stood in the middle of the kitchen sniffing her wrist, the bottle in her other hand.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said as he pulled her toward him.
She was floating on a cloud of doubt and ecstasy as his mouth traveled over her body. This is not the time . . . I’m not ready, her common sense protested. Not here! Not on the kitchen floor! But as her clothes fell around her feet, her physical desires took over her brain function. Her hands were furiously unbuttoning and unzipping as she and Duncan sank to the floor. She stopped him as her naked skin felt the chilly tiles of the floor. “Duncan, we need to get a thing . . .”
He looked confused for a second. Then “Oh!” He grabbed his wallet out of his pants and took out a condom.
Doubts dissipated as she began to trust him with her body and explore his. Goodness, she thought as she ran her hands over his muscled arms and chest. This man is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. His skin was golden brown and taut over his sinewy frame. And he was as much an athlete in his lovemaking. It hadn’t been this way with Michael. Duncan was a giver all the way. He asked, “Is this good, baby? Is this good for you?” He surprised her again with his intensity, and she let herself go, unashamed to let her voice carry up to the high ceilings and echo through his apartment when she reached climax. When it was over, she’d lain back on the cold, hard floor, giggling like a teenager.
“What’s so funny?” Duncan had asked, confused and turning to face her.
“I’ve never done it on the floor,” she laughed.
It was sooner than she had wanted, but Duncan was different. He wasn’t out for a quick hit. She knew that. They talked every day. He was so attentive. He listened to every word she said. He was always smoothing her hair back from her face or making other small gestures that showed her he cared. She couldn’t believe that the man whom she’d thought was an arrogant, self-absorbed jerk was actually sweet, sensitive, and deeply misunderstood. He was just moody enough to keep her interested. She wanted to get to the source of his dark silences and the mystery behind his brown eyes.
Yes, she sometimes regretted that things between her and William hadn’t quite worked out and that he had given up so quickly and never called anymore. She wondered if it had been something she’d said or done. He must be dating someone else, she thought. That had to be it. Else why wouldn’t he call after we’d spent so much time together talking. . . . I’ll never understand men.
She’d wanted to call William several times, but fear kept her away. What if a girl answered? What if he simply did not want to speak to her and was unbearably kind? She couldn’t bear another rejection. Not so soon after Michael. Some things were just not meant to be, and this was one of them, she decided. Besides, according to Lana the guy was a crazed workaholic; he probably had no time for a girlfriend. Oh, well. We’ll file that one under eternally unresolved issues and unanswered questions, she thought.
But she couldn’t discount the present and what was happening with Duncan. It was fate that had led her to him. Even with William falling into the background, it was nature writing the perfect script. She felt so right, so on her way, when she was with him. She was turning into a swan, the kind of person she never imagined she could be. It had to be fate.
An hour later she stood at the starting line at the Bay State Marathon. Weslee was so excited—her heart was racing, and she hadn’t even started running yet. The crowd of about five thousand runners was packed tight on the street near the town’s high school. Weslee felt comfort from the few other women she noticed who were alone. She listened to people complain about the cold, the traffic, the lack of Gatorade. Couples rubbed each others’ hands and arms as the wind whipped through. Weslee ignored it. She was a Chicago girl, and forty-eight degrees to her was balmy.
As the clock ticked down to the start time, Weslee stretched her
calves and hamstrings again. She prayed silently. I have to make three-forty. I have to make three-forty. Then the starting gun went off.
She didn’t start feeling the pain until mile eighteen. Her legs began to feel like rubber, and she began gasping for air. She looked at her watch. Eight miles to go, and she had an hour and a half left. She wasn’t discouraged. She had prepared herself for the inevitable wall. She slowed down a bit and let some runners pass her.
“Wanna run together, sister?” said a voice next to her.
She turned, and another black woman who looked to be about her age was running next to her. “Sure, I think I’m about to hit the wall—I could use some support.” Weslee smiled, but it came out more like a grimace.
“You’ll make it. I’ve been tagging you the last ten miles. You’ve kept me going.”
Weslee laughed this time. “Wow, thanks.”
“I’m Sherry.”
“Weslee.”
They said nothing for a few minutes. The race had thinned out quite a bit. There were a few runners about a quarter of a mile ahead and a few about a hundred feet behind. The race was at the point where the true athletes had separated themselves from the amateurs, and the gap was quite wide.
Weslee was glad Sherry wasn’t too talkative and that she wasn’t too slow, either. They were running at an eight-minute-mile pace, which was a little slower than Weslee wanted but really was all she could handle at this point. Her thighs were still screaming, but for some reason having Sherry next to her really helped.
Then Sherry started to sing. At first Weslee said nothing. She wanted to laugh, but then she recognized the song. It was a song that she had heard in the church she had gone to that Sunday a few weeks ago.
The words said something about running a race and not getting weary, and something about He didn’t bring me this far to quit on me.
She figured she could stop Sherry from singing and looking stupid by getting her talking again.
“I know that song,” Weslee said. “I heard it at a church in Boston.”
“Oh yeah? Which one?”
“New Covenant in Mattapan.”
“No! That’s my church, girl.”
“What a coincidence.” At least that’s stopped her singing, Weslee thought.
“You’re not a member?”
“No, I just visited once. It was really good.”
“Girl, I don’t know how you could just visit once and not go back. I went there one time with my sister, and I’ve been going ever since. That was six years ago.”
OK. Worst-case scenario is that she keeps on singing. I can handle her preaching to me for the next six miles. Maybe, Weslee thought. Or, I may just have to speed up and leave her in my dust.
Sherry went on and on. She sang in the choir there. She apparently was involved in every youth, poverty, and prison-outreach program there was.
“Where do you find time to work?” Weslee asked her when she finally could get a word in.
“Girl, all I have is time. The Boston Beacon only claims about eight hours of my day; the rest of my time is mine. Sixteen hours is a lot.”
Sherry was a general assignment reporter at the Beacon, a smaller competitor to the Boston Globe. Weslee had been very impressed with that. Sherry was only thirty, but she had already worked at some of the top newspapers in the country—a fact that Weslee found out only because she asked detailed questions. Sherry didn’t seem to care much about her impressive resume. She was more excited about her choir singing and all the work she was doing with the church.
“You should really come out next Sunday, girl,” Sherry said. “We’re going to be doing a new song.”
“I’ll try to make it,” Weslee said.
Well, I might, she thought. Depends on what Duncan has planned for the day. Last Sunday he had driven her all the way down the Mohawk Trail to Western Massachusetts to see more of the fall foliage. New England was so beautiful, and Duncan had made the day perfect.
“So, do you have a boyfriend?” Sherry asked after being silent about ten minutes.
Weslee thought for a minute. Well, OK.
“Yes.” Then yes again to herself, yes, she could finally say that she had a boyfriend. She told Sherry about him. How sweet and attentive he could be despite his moodiness.
“Why is he so moody? You say he withdraws into his shell about one day a week?”
Trust her to focus on the one negative thing I said, Weslee thought. Maybe I should speed up. The race was getting thick again. Runners could finally get a taste of the finish line, and the slackers were upping their pace. Four miles left, Weslee thought. She felt great. She had hit and passed the wall, and she didn’t even know when it had happened. She glanced over at Sherry. I’m glad I met her, she thought, nosy as she is.
“I don’t know why. I think he’s just one of those people. Things bother him, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. He fights a lot with his family. I’m sure once we get closer he’ll trust me more and be more open.”
“Hmmm,” Sherry said. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“What about you?” Weslee asked. “Who’s the man in your life?”
Sherry laughed out loud. “That would be Jesus.”
Weslee groaned inside.
“I’m living for God. Girl, you’re looking at someone who’s been lied to, cheated on, deceived, abused, you name it. I’ve been there, and I ain’t going back. I’m working on the only relationships that I know are not going to disappoint me, and that’s the one I have with God and the one I have with myself.”
Weslee was silenced again by Sherry’s openness. And wisdom? She didn’t know. Sherry was pretty. Prettier than me, Weslee thought. She wore her hair in long, tiny braids, and her running gear outlined her near-perfect athletic body. So, why doesn’t she have a man, and how did she get mixed up in all that mess she’s talking about? Sounds to me like she’s been hurt, and she’s taking comfort—no, hiding—in church. Weslee pitied her in a way. She really ought to get herself out there and not give up so soon. There were good men out there. I found one, Weslee thought.
Sherry started singing again.
Weslee laughed. Then she joined in. There were people around them.
“Hey, that’s a great song,” a guy said as he passed them.
“Yeah, good for you that you can still sing at mile twenty-four and a half,” an older man said as he huffed and puffed his way by.
“We’re making excellent time,” Weslee said, looking at her watch. She was still hurting. Her legs didn’t feel like rubber anymore. They felt like lead. But her heart felt light. Sherry was smiling.
“I prayed,” she said.
“What?” Weslee asked.
“I prayed for us,” Sherry said again.
I’m not going there, Weslee decided.
They stopped talking after they saw the marker for mile twenty-five.
They upped their pace. Weslee’s heart was pounding, and her legs were numb. She knew Sherry was feeling the same way. She looked at her watch again. She was going to make it with time to spare. They had a half mile left, and it had been three hours and twenty minutes since she left the start line. She wanted to leap into the air and whoop in victory. But she knew she didn’t have the energy.
She looked over at her side, but Sherry wasn’t there. She looked back, and Sherry had fallen a few paces behind.
“Sherry, you OK?” Sherry looked terrible.
“I don’t know. My legs feel like they’re about to give out.” Sherry looked as if she would stop any minute. Her face was covered in sweat, and she was running slower and slower with each step.
Weslee slowed. “Don’t stop, Sherry. We’re almost there.”
“No, go on without me. You have to make your time.”
“No, I’ve got plenty of time to spare.”
They were running so slowly that some walkers passed them.
Weslee fished out her Gatorade from her sports belt. She gave Sherry the bottle.
“Remember the song, Sherry?” Weslee said as Sherry sipped from the bottle.
Sherry nodded. But she still insisted that she was going to walk.
“OK, my turn to pray for us,” Weslee said. And she couldn’t believe it as she said those words. Anything to get us across the finish line, she thought.
She grabbed Sherry’s hand as they continued their walk-limp-run. “God, I’m praying for my friend here, Sherry. She’s tired, and she’s gotta get across this finish line. So I’m asking you to give her a little strength to make it the rest of the way. Ummm. Thanks. Amen.”
She looked at Sherry. Sherry smiled. Then she laughed.
“That was pretty good,” Sherry said.
They both laughed. Weslee hadn’t really prayed in a while. Her religion was probably the first thing she had lost when she left home to go to college. After seventeen years of being under her parents’ strict rules, she couldn’t wait to be free—and Evanston had been her promised land.
They continued the walk-limp-run for what seemed like an eternity. Then the crowds on the sidelines got thicker and more vocal. The cheering got louder, and they could hear the loud, cheesy techno music, and an announcer calling out names.
“We’re there! We’re there!” Weslee suddenly forgot about the pain—hers and Sherry’s.
“Yes!” Sherry yelled out.
Then Sherry started running hard. Weslee was taken aback. Then she started running, too. The finish line was in plain view.
“Weslee Dunster of Boston, Sherry Charles of Dorchester,” the announcer said as they crossed the finish line together.
They jumped up and down, screaming, and embraced like old friends.
“You did it, girl,” Sherry said to Weslee.
“No, you did it,” Weslee told her.
She had made her time. Eight minutes to spare, and a new friend in the bargain.
Later, driving back to Boston in the rented Cavalier, Weslee used her cell phone to call home. First she told her sister about the Sherry experience. They both decided that Sherry sounded like a Jesus freak and was probably a little crazy. Weslee wanted to talk more about it but promised Terry she would call from home; it would be cheaper to talk on the land line.
She Who Shops Page 9