Race Across the Sky

by Derek Sherman

  “You said the exact dosage for the baby.”

  “A baby mouse,” Shane began. “In case we need to try again.”

  “Listen,” Prajuk tried, “Thailand is breathing at eighty-five percent normal. He has no wheezing.”

  But Healy’s face did not change. “Who else at Helixia is working on this?”

  “Just focus on what we’re paying you to do.”

  “I’m taking a piss,” Shane laughed, hoping to end the conversation.

  He walked toward the door. Healy took a step forward at the same time and gave Shane a small but significant shoulder shove backward.

  Shane yelled, “Hey, man, what’s that?”

  Healy walked to the Buxco on the back shelf and peered down at its instruments. He said quietly, “I want to speak to someone else who works on this.”

  Shane went to the bathroom down the hallway. Opening the door, he felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned around.

  “Did Healy push you just then?” Prajuk asked, his fingers fidgeting.

  “Yeah, he did. The little fucker.”

  “Tonight will be his final day with us,” Prajuk said in a low voice.

  “What if he tells the professor who recommended him what he heard?”

  “Tom Sangee? He tells my good friend Tom that he overheard us say something about a baby? Tom won’t even call me. And definitely I liked your answer.”

  Shane glanced back down the dim hallway. “He didn’t buy it.”

  “I will tell him he is no longer required here.”

  “Isn’t he, though? Required here?”

  “I can accomplish the rest with you. You’ve learned enough. He is a good postdoc, but he is an asshole.”

  “Little bit of a Napoleon complex, you think?”

  “Oh, definitely. But these issues exist in many bioresearchers, you know.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because they are in touch with the mechanisms of our existence. Because they are playing with the raw materials of God.”

  “It must make you feel very powerful.”

  Prajuk looked at Shane. “No. That’s the reason, you see.” He smiled.

  “Nothing makes you feel less powerful than manipulating life.”

  7

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  “Happy Trails!” Mack called out loudly, and everyone laughed.

  Outside the house it was pitch dark, four in the morning, and the stars shown madly, laughing like fairies in the woods. Each of them gathered in a wide circle outside for a standing hug, wrapping their arms around each other, heads down.

  “‘For we cannot tarry here! We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger. We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend. Pioneers! O pioneers!’”

  Everyone clapped and hollered, and they climbed into the vans. Mack had rented three of them for the drive. They were decades old, their transmission and brakes shot long ago. The vinyl seats leaked foam, the floors covered with cigarette burns from another era. One of them carried the faint stink of vomit.

  June carried Lily and her plastic car seat. The purple hiking backpack was stuffed full of clothes and diapers. She handed it to Kyle as they settled in the last row of a maroon van. She patted Lily’s hand, and the whole van sang songs as the Happy Trails Running Club began their three-van caravan through the mountains, down to the desert, and into the forest, to Yosemite.

  She had seen this same road a year before, only she had been coming the other way, from Taos. Since then, Lily had grown from infancy into a tiny person; her body no longer bore any similarity to her former self. And neither, June thought, did her own. The group diet and the running had transformed her into some abstract version of herself, lithe and pure. She wondered if Todd would recognize either of them if they walked into the Gorge.

  As morning heightened they slipped into the red earth of Utah, its numinous red arches rising in the distance. She wondered who had planned this dull highway that shunned and avoided them. If instead they had plotted paths that wound close to the scenic beauty of this country, maybe more people might emerge from their cars and walk among the natural healing energy of the world. Instead, they suffered a system of flat straight roads that encouraged stasis. It felt as if the highways had been designed by the army, when they should have been designed by artists.

  The baby seemed to enjoy the scenery blurring past her window. She held a book of animal pictures, turned its pages with what to June seemed great thoughtfulness, and slept. As the sky turned violet, they parked on the side of the highway and took a long run in the desert dusk. Leigh had come down with a cold and offered to stay in the van with Lily. Mack had purchased a cheap cell phone to stay in constant contact with Barry Strong and all of the arrangements in Yosemite. He was on the phone when June took off with everyone else into the open land. The dirt and clay felt warm against her feet. She felt as if she could run forever.

  When Caleb ran unexpectedly beside her, June politely acknowledged him with a nod, knowing he would not speak. But to her great surprise, he did. He spoke, looking out at the beautiful sky, until some of the others slowed down and got too close. And then Caleb dashed ahead.

  She stared after him and did not speak to him again.

  Back at the vans, Leigh was giving Lily a bottle.

  “I loved the company,” she’d laughed when she handed Lily back into June’s slick arms.

  “Fresh diaper,” June noticed approvingly.

  “Damn right,” Leigh high-fived her.

  They ate root stew, which John had packed in containers and heated on hot plates on the shoulder of this road, watching stars part the evening. They joined hands and meditated together, building on their new kinetic energy. Then they climbed back in for the night’s drive through the desert.

  Three days later, the three old vans finally groaned to a halt outside the Big Oak Flat entrance to Yosemite National Park. They were staying four to a room at an old damp lodge just inside the park. Many of the other entrants were also staying here, and handwritten signs for pre-race meetings had been taped all over the lobby.

  June stood with a fussy Lily in the lobby, trying to calm herself down as well. She was about to run one hundred miles into its old trails, with no safety net, save an occasional aid station, ending with a mammoth climb up Half Dome. She was confronted with the reality of her commitment. It was much more than she had ever done. She bent her head and prayed that she was ready.

  The sky was the color of late lilacs; black tops of soaring oaks brushed its belly. June noticed Caleb standing outside, staring in the same direction. A force seemed to be pulling them from somewhere deep inside its trees. She was hoping to finish, but he was expecting to win.

  It would be Caleb’s energy against Yosemite’s, she understood. Either the two would merge on the old trails and explode together to glory, or they would battle each other until one of them claimed victory.

  Tomorrow, she knew, he would run into this wilderness until he arrived at its end, or his own.

  • • • • • • •

  “We have a problem.”

  Shane stopped on the street. His hand tightened around his phone. He had been undertaking a long-needed Saturday walk with his son. A bonding stroll. He had been regaling him with the world, placing his ten-month-old hands onto the bark of trees, pointing to seagulls and sails by the bay.

  “What happened?”

  “We need to talk in person. I can be at the Peet’s near you in fifteen minutes.”

  Shane hung up and pushed the stroller quickly back home.

  “Be back in a bit,” he kissed Janelle.

  “What’s a bit?” she called after him, frustrated.

  Running through the damp air, Shane felt as if his heart had been injected with thick sap. Something was wro
ng with Thailand. The mouse had undergone some failure of its renal glands. His chance to save Lily, and to bring Caleb home, was gone.

  Inside the coffee shop the music was horrifyingly up-tempo; its optimism grated on Shane’s nerves. He wished he had suggested a bar. He sat in a hard chair. Beside him a woman produced a shrill vibrato laugh after every sentence she finished. Finally, after half an hour, a bell over the door twinkled, and Prajuk hesitated in the threshold. Worry seemed to contaminate his face. Shane watched him inhale one last mad pull from the Parliament an inch from his face. He lifted a hand, and Prajuk came over, reeking of smoke.

  “What killed him?”

  Prajuk narrowed his eyes, confused. Then he nodded slowly. “This thing, it works. I told you that it would.”

  Shane dropped his head. The flutter of a billion stars. When he looked back up, Prajuk was still staring at him. “The mouse is fine, Shane. We, on the other hand, are not.”

  “What happened?”

  “Our Mister Healy.”

  “Healy?”

  “He called Anthony Leone.”

  “He did what?” he shouted.

  The two women at the next table turned to them. Shane took a hard breath through his nose.

  “He left a voice mail for Anthony. Which Anthony forwarded to me. In this thing he says that he has been working for Prajuk Acharn and Shane Oberest in a lab away from the office. On a biologic which we told him is a Helixia project. He has asked to speak with the head of this project.”

  Shane let his head fall against his forearms. “Fuck. Fuck.”

  “And then he told him that he is concerned because we are planning to give this drug to a baby.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. I just received this thing, this voice mail, on my e-mail. Clearly Anthony expects an answer however.” Prajuk glanced around, as if the café were full of biotechnology spies, which, for all Shane knew, it probably was.

  “I told you,” Shane said softly, “if anyone at Helixia found out anything, you’re out. You were never part of it. There are no records. I’m taking full ownership of it all. I’m sorry it came to this.” He pushed his hands through his black hair as he thought out loud. “I can probably tell Anthony that I used your name to get Healy to work for me, but that you never had any part in it, and Healy’s exaggerating or lying or something. I’ll think about it.”

  The scientist stared at him.

  “Look,” Shane reminded him, “we talked to Brad Whitmore. We’re not breaking a law.”

  “Laws and reputations are separate things.”

  Shane’s amber eyes lit up. “Or, tell Anthony that you turned Healy down for an internship. He’s making this all up.”

  “How would he know your name?”

  Shane’s head began to hurt. Outside a soft rain had arrived. The drizzle it left on the windows was, he saw, almost unbearably beautiful.

  Shane reached across the table and patted his arm. “Stop smoking.”

  “I like smoking.”

  “Everyone likes smoking. But everyone quits.”

  “You never even started, not even once?”

  “I never did.”

  “Because you are a runner.”

  Shane saw Fred and Caleb, far ahead of him on a winding morning road, in synch in the dampness of the ocean air. No, he thought. That was something he was not.

  8

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  On the eve of the Yosemite Slam, they attended a pre-race briefing out in the park.

  Whatever Mack had expected in terms of numbers, Caleb thought, this had to be bigger than he had ever hoped for. Whether it was the Internet, or Mack’s efforts at press, there were at least six hundred runners here. This was the kind of number Western States drew. Mack had really done this. It was, Caleb thought, something of a miracle.

  The Happy Trails Running Club assembled at the front of a clearing by the Big Oak Flat entrance to Yosemite. Walking among the crowd, Kevin and Alice commented that some new force was present, tangible. They all felt it. Caleb was not sure if it was positive or threatening. Perhaps it was coming from the presence of the camera crews, the trucks, the rumors of this event’s difficulty. Perhaps from some other source.

  All day, the lines had grown for medical check-ins. All the entrants were weighed, their pulses taken, and given waivers to sign forgoing their rights to sue for any reason. Caleb came in at 173 pounds, up three from the Hardrock. He was given number 24.

  As the sun slipped behind Glacier Point, a broad man in his fifties wearing a tan cowboy hat turned on a beige megaphone. Beside him stood Mack, his face hosting a long-toothed grin.

  Kevin tapped Caleb’s shoulder. “Barry Strong.”

  Mack and Barry were nodding, looking out at the assembled entrants, at the camera marked ABC SPORTS, behind which stood a young man wearing headphones. The sun was falling rapidly, bathing the field in violet shadow.

  Mack pointed to a young woman talking on a phone and gave a questioning shrug. She returned a thumbs-up. Barry adjusted his hat and began to address the crowd.

  “Welcome to the Yosemite Slam!” he shouted into his megaphone.

  Cheers went up and lasted a good two minutes. The producer flashed another thumbs-up at Mack. It seemed things were going well.

  “I want you to take a good last look at yourselves. Okay? Because whoever you are tonight, you’ll be somebody else from now on.”

  More whooping and clapping. Barry handed the megaphone to Mack, who waved it manically. His voice sounded tinny and distorted through its plastic.

  “As you can see, ABC is taping this event. You will see some cameras on the course, at positions we can get a cameraman to. Don’t let them distract you.”

  He looked around. An awkward stoppage of communication ensued. Eventually Barry took the megaphone back. He paced as he spoke.

  “Okay, folks. Rule One. No bitching. I understand that a few newbies may be in attendance. So let me explain: you volunteered. We don’t want to hear it.”

  Still more cheering echoed across the field.

  “Rule Two. Do not underestimate this terrain. These are old mining trails. We did our best to mark them. But animals may have run off with them. If you think you’ve left the course, turn around. Going off trail here can be fatal for about twelve dozen reasons.”

  Caleb turned around. Was June here? He thought he might have seen her standing by John, obscured by his height.

  “Yosemite has mountain lions. Grizzlies. Both have killed hikers in this park this year. They will attack a brightly dressed human running through their territory. We planned the course away from them, but we’re not perfect listeners, and neither are they.”

  Barry shuffled the papers in his hand, and the megaphone gave a shocking shriek of feedback.

  “Okay, injury. We can get minimal supplies to the aid stations on mules. But rescue Jeeps and ATVs will not be able to reach you on about two-thirds of this course. Helivacs are not an option. You get hurt, you find your way to the closest aid station. We can get you out of the park from any of them, though it may be on an animal.

  “Rule Three. Do not push. This is not the event to test your limits on. Walk. Rest. If you’re thinking about dropping, drop. If it is determined at an aid station that it is in your best interest, you will be pulled.”

  Barry Strong waited, narrowing his eyes, and looked at Mack with an expression of polite invitation to add a thought. Mack took the megaphone again but could not seem to think of anything to say.

  “We have dinner in the camping area by the Ranger Station,” Barry concluded. “Please come by.”

  The crowd rippled with excitement as they turned and dispersed. Caleb caught whispers of rumors, about the course, about the weather, about the news crews. The Happy Trails Running Club did
not attend the pasta buffet. To the amazement of the other runners, they collected at the lodge bar, drinking beer and laughing until ten in the evening.

  In the room he shared with Kevin, Hank, and Juan, Caleb carefully checked his drop bags, which had been packed with lightweight clothing for night and bad weather, shoes in increasing sizes, energy gels, water. As darkness fell, he would slip close to sleep, but halt there, touching vivid, mad visions. Finally he slept. At four, Kevin nudged him awake. He put benzoin on his feet, pausing to touch the oddly smooth skin where his toenails had been. He rubbed Vaseline on his body and partook of twenty minutes of lying meditation.

  In the lobby he saw Lily and June, speaking with a middle-aged woman. Mack had arranged for Lily to stay with the lodge’s owners. She was sitting up in a Pack ’n Play behind the front desk when Caleb last saw her. He thought June looked nervous; certainly leaving Lily here for two or three days would do that. He hoped it would not distract her on the course.

  He opened the door and emerged into a chilly mist. Caleb wore red shorts, white and green striped Montrails, a yellow tank top. The seventeen members of the Happy Trails Running Club and their coach stood together in front of the lodge. Mack greeted them with great solemnity. This time, rather than shout his Whitman with joy, he spoke softly, slowly, with a rich resonance in his voice and an honesty in his eyes.

  “‘O secret of the earth and sky. O winding creeks and rivers! Of you O woods and fields! Of you strong mountains of my land! O clouds! O rain and snows! O day and night, passage to you! I in perfect health begin, hoping to cease not till death. Underfoot the divine soil, overhead the sun.’”

  He nodded solemnly to each of them in turn.

  Then he turned and they began to jog up a snaking service road to the opening of Big Oak Flat Road. A yellow banner strung between branches of black oak signified the start. The swelling crowd mingled there uneasily. Each had numbers written on their foreheads and shirts with black marker. A white ABC Sports van with a satellite on its roof was parked in the campgrounds lot. A reporter for the Outdoor Network stood by her own van, speaking into a camera. Light fog filtered through the trees, simultaneously enticing and foreboding.