Jeremiah Healy - Right To Die

"It is not the sort of thing one can synopsize for a Parisian hotel operator."

"Don't you think he ought to come home for you?"

"No. No, I don't, not that it's any of your business. I am hardly the damsel in distress here. This is my home, and I am perfectly capable of living in it alone for as long as I desire."

"Inés Roja said you – "

"Mr. Cuddy. I prefer to be alone right now. Alone means no Tuck, no Inés, and no you."

"Professor, Inés thinks Manolo may have had help."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

I started in about the notes.

Andrus threw up her hands. "Out, Mr. Cuddy! I have been betrayed, betrayed by a man I thought loyal to me and to my family. That will take some getting over, and I would prefer to do so on my own, without your irrelevant inquiries and whether that meets with your approval or not."

She got up, but I didn't turn to go.

"Professor, have you seen a doctor?"

"I was not injured last night. Thanks to you, I'm told. Don't worry. You will be compensated for that, and I'll cover any medical bills."

Andrus went to push me toward the door. I hit her at each shoulder with the heels of my hands, sending her reeling back two steps.

The eyes burned again. "How dare you!"

"Can't you see yourself? Your appearance, your attitude."

"What I see, sir, is a trespasser and a batterer who used to work for me. Are you leaving?"

"Yes."

Staying out of the warm breeze, she slammed the door behind me.

On Friday morning I decided to spare my side the warm-up run but walk over to the river anyway. Bo wasn't there, but hundreds of obvious marathoners were, just jogging loosely for a few miles, getting the kinks out toward the race three days later.

By Saturday I figured Nancy might have cooled off enough to talk with me. The A.D.A. who answered at the courthouse said no one had seen her, and there was no answer at her apartment. When I tried Maisy Andrus, I had to wait fifteen rings before she picked up. Her voice was hoarse, like she'd been using it to yell. Telling me "positively for the last time" to butt out, she hung up.

By Sunday I was feeling restless and a little lonely. I walked over to the Hynes Convention Center for the Marathon Expo.

The building was filled with everything that ever had to do with running and a lot that didn't. Displays of the old-time shoes and shorts and singlets. Clips of Jesse Owens humbling Hitler in the thirties and Roger Bannister breaking the four-minute mile in the fifties. Longer pieces on Bill Rodgers in the seventies edging into Joan Benoit in the eighties. All watched reverently by probably the biggest, slimmest crowd the Hynes had ever hosted.

But after a while, being jostled this way and that, I felt nostalgia yielding to commercialism. How-to books and exercise videos, health foods and vitamin supplements, rowing machines and stationary treadmills. Uncountable cross-sectioned shoes in front of as many sales reps trumpeting arch support and heel stability. College kids working for restaurants and handing out discount flyers for beer and pasta "last suppers." I'd been trained by a pro, but I was basically an amateur, a little overwhelmed by the breadth of a sport in which I knew I just dabbled.

At a pay phone I tried Nancy at her apartment again. No answer. Maisy Andrus at the mansion. Busy signal.

I recovered my quarter and walked home.

Coming into the condo, I heard a movement near the kitchen. All I had were my keys and the chance of making the bedroom for a weapon.

"John?" said Nancy's voice from the kitchen.

I exhaled and moved around the corner into the living room.

"How did you know it was me?"

She came out of the kitchen. "I could hear your ankles grinding."

Nancy was wearing jeans and one of my old chamois shirts.

I said, "After the session with Eisenberg, I didn't expect to see you for a while."

Her face was flushed, and she used the back of her wrist to wipe away the perspiration. "I thought I'd try to cook you something."

"Unfortunately, I'm down to just pasta for the race."

"I heard that's what they push, so we're having spinach linguini, nonalcoholic beer, and whole-grain crisp-crust bread for your – what is it, your 'carbos'?"

"My carbos."

About midway through the meal and a particularly good hunk of bread, I said, "This mean you don't still think I'm stupid about running the marathon?"

"No. This means I think you are so incredibly more stupid for even considering doing it after getting shot that I realized I had to do what I could by way of damage control."

"Nance?"

"What?"

"How long you been working on that line?"

"All afternoon."

"Should have been more concise."

"I tried it a lot of different ways. That was the best."

I munched my crisp crust and shut up.

After a moment Nancy said, "So, I'll drive you out there and then come back here."

I put down the bread. "You'll be at the finish line?"

"Reluctantly. But I've got a trial first thing Tuesday, so I can't stay over."

"For once in your life, call in sick."

"Can't. But that reminds me. You should phone Del Wonsley."

"Wonsley?"

"Yes. I heard his voice on your tape machine as I was coming in."

"Did you catch any of the 1nessage?"

"Yes." Nancy used a soup spoon to twirl some pasta onto her fork. "Good news, I think. He said Alec Bacall is coming home tomorrow."

"IF I HADN'T SEEN IT.”

Nancy wagged her head, watching perhaps thirty other people dressed just like me standing in an auxiliary parking lot off Route 495 in Hopkinton. In a rain shower, temperature in the high forties.

I said, "These conditions are supposed to be good for the race."

Nancy made an indescribable noise.

Getting out of her car, I fiddled with the green garbage bag I was wearing, my head through the hole I'd made on top. My fiddling had to be from the inside, because I hadn't cut any arm holes.

"John, please be careful."

"You'll be at the finish line, in the archway of the bank?"

"With the stretcher bearers. Good luck, you jerk."

I closed the passenger door, and she drove off.

A yellow shuttle bus arrived. We trash bags filled it front to back. Inefficient, should have been back to front. Nobody was carrying much, just wearing extra layers against the wind, rain, and cold. Nervous banter, the laughter too hearty.

It was a few miles to a school building. From a van in the circular driveway a kid read incomprehensible instructions over a loudspeaker, presumably for the registered runners. Hundreds of us bandits stood under eaves and overhangs, dodging the raindrops and trying to sound modest about what time we'd finish. A lot of the folks were my age or older, and no one mentioned not finishing.

At eleven-thirty people began moving in throngs toward the street. I followed, the throngs swelling to form their own little parade. We were pointed toward the village green and past the yellow ropes that corralled the sixty-four hundred registered runners, in numerical order, white cardboards with red numerals flapping against breast plates and spinal columns.

At the back of the pack I stripped down to shorts, a cotton turtleneck and the BODY BY NAUTILUS, BRAIN BY MATTEL T-shirt Nancy had given me for Christmas. Balling up my outer clothes, I added them to one of the ragged heaps on the sidewalk.

The crowd buzzed, and the report of the starter's pistol provoked a loud, long cheer. Nobody in my part of the pack moved for a good six minutes. Beginning slowly, I finally crossed the start line at eight minutes after noon, jogging downhill lightly and freely. There was more spring in my step than I expected, and no pain at all from the closing wound in my side.