Running, Installment 10, Chapter 26, "an end to it"

 Well it's been fun. I am toying with the idea of publishing the whole thing in one post next week. Frankly, I'm not sure Blogspot is up to that, but I may give it a whirl. Thanks to my lovely wife, Lee Ann, for bearing with me always, to my brothers James Morrison and Rocky Alvey for priceless input, and to you, dear reader. I hope you can say, by the end of this read, that you have enjoyed Running with me. Stay safe and well and don't be burying anyone under new construction. It's not cool. But you are. Here is...

26—an end to it 

 

The gas fire flickered beneath its conical chimney, adding cheerful warmth to the already pleasant environs of the London Oyster. It was a wonderful place to spend any Sunday afternoon, the little tables draped as they were with crisp white tablecloths, the wall of windows looking out over the parking lot and the backs of buildings which fronted North Santa Cruz Avenue. From where Will sat, he could see the intersection of that street and Main. Lazy traffic crawled through the drizzly afternoon, and rain dripping off the storefront eaves intensified the coziness of the dining room. 

The restaurant’s Sunday brunch was long over, and a few small groups of well fed and thoroughly champagned hangers on lingered, as if unwilling to venture out of the room’s warm embrace. Glasses tinkled at the bar, and smatterings of lighthearted conversations wafted over to the window table where the three sat. 

“Merle, you see, well he was a strange old bird, you know, a history nut from the word go.” George had been a distant cousin of Merle’s and the two had known one another from childhood. “That was his passion, yessir, old books, and letters, why one whole wall in his room, back when he stayed with us, it was just covered, why, literally covered with old postcards, and photographs, pictures cut out of all those old newspapers.” He leaned back in his chair, seeming to picture in his mind Merle’s room. “And I was up in that apartment where, God rest his soul, he must of died, and you know what? There were tape marks all over the walls of that bedroom, you know, like I know he’d done the same thing there, taped up all his old pictures and such, but I couldn’t find a single solitary one of them.” 

George sighed and made a little clucking sound with his tongue. He took another sip of his Irish Coffee. “Guess that murdering son of his…” he stopped himself. “no, I shouldn’t say that. Merle Junior never had it in him to actually kill his father. Though he sure acted like he would of liked to. Anyway, I bet that bloated bastard threw all his father’s stuff out.” 

He sighed again. “Never replace some of that stuff. Never replace it.” 

There was a long silence. Everyone in the room seemed to have been cued to freeze in position. The rain outside fell straight down, in light parallel lines of droplets, and heavier drops from the buildings’ eaves fell randomly, accenting the stillness. 

George shifted his frail weight in the comfortable chair and reached around to his hip pocket to bring out a weathered leather billfold. He thumbed through plastic snapshot leaves until he found the one he was looking for, then offered the wallet to Will. 

“There,” he said, pointing to the snapshot of two elderly gentlemen, that’s me and Merle, took a couple of years ago at Thanksgiving.” He searched Will’s face for recognition. 

Beyond amazement anymore, Will spent a few seconds in his mind running, smiling at the old man at in the old tweed touring cap and the oversized plaid greatcoat. What was it he had said? Something.  

No matter. Oh. "I wish I could do that."

Will cleared his throat, “George,” he said softly, “I only have one question that I can’t seem to answer. Maybe you can help me figure it out.” 

The older man looked suddenly tired, suddenly he looked every day of his eighty some odd years, as he returned the younger’s earnest gaze. “I’ll help you in any way I can, boy. You know that,” his voice broke a little, “You know, Will, I really loved that old,” he trailed off, but he maintained eye contact with Will. “Well,” George dropped his gaze to his coffee, then raised it back up to Will, “What’s your question.” 

Will forged ahead, determined to find the answer, if there was one. 

“All the dreams about fire, and all the stuff about lost records and the cemetery move and all that. Every bit of it can be explained, as much as any of it can be explained, by your cousin’s obsession with history. I believe he was using the only tool he could to draw me to where his body had been buried. History.” 

He looked from George to Sarah and back again to assure himself his point was taken. Will had long since accepted that merle Senior had called him from beyond death, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of assuming that everyone with whom he discussed the matter agreed with that assessment. 

No one at this table voiced any interest in contradicting it.  

“And it worked. That much I can figure out.” He took a draft of his Guinness and let its cold fizz soother his throat. “And the three beats, that’s obvious too.” 

George spoke, “That’s the part that makes my skin crawl, you know, sort of makes a fellow wonder what’s going to happen to his mortal remains.” He smiled a little nervously. 

Sarah spoke up, “George, if I may, I really don’t think we can assume that anything that went on here can be applied to the normal business of life. Or death,” she added. “This is a really strange case—of abuse, maybe of murder, and definitely of some kind of spiritual bond between Merle Senior and Will. We could speculate forever about its meaning, but I think we only need to be concerned with its outcome.” 

Both men regarded her with profound respect. 

“Well don’t look at me like I just laid an egg. I’m perfectly capable of remarkable insight, even if I don’t make a habit of scaring myself half to death with psychic dreams and missions like Mr. Gardner here. You can have those, and with my blessings, my love.” She picked up her own cup if Irish, offered a little silent toast to the two, and took a dainty sip. 

Will picked up the thread once again, “There was one other image that really stood out. I mean, it was really its introduction into the stream of my consciousness that spurred me to start doing something about this mess instead of just sort of laying back and letting it all assault me.” He took a beat or two to visualize it, then continued. “It was as clear as anything else that I dreamed, or imagined, and it recurred at least as frequently. An image of a team of horses, out of control, racing toward me, and then…through me, like as if it were the end of my life. But, aside from a kind of a tug, both sharp and gentle at the same time, it wasn’t altogether painful.” He shrugged, “Almost pleasant, in a weird way.” 

He chuckled nervously. There. 

George, who had been sitting still as a stone during Will’s little monologue, now shifted once again in his seat and cleared his own throat. He held aloft his cup and looked around for the waiter. After he had requested another Irish Coffee, he returned his attention back to Will. 

“I guess you’ve connected with more than one side of life and death, Will.” 

Will sensed an answer coming but did not see it yet. The old man continued, in a low voice, “Merle, you see, was older than me, so I never really thought much of this. His mother, who was the second cousin of my mother—we were all cousins in those days, it seems like—his mother, I now clearly recall, had died giving birth to him. Medicine back then was not all it should have been, you know, a whole lot of mothers lost their lives giving birth. A great many children were lost, too. And in Merle’s case guess you could say that it was a miracle that either of them was saved. 

The tuxedo-vested waiter brought his fresh Irish with a smile, and after that little flurry of activity George completed what he had to say, “His mother, you see, Merle’s mother, was run over by runaway horses pulling a buggy down Main Street.” He inhaled deeply. “Merle was a premature baby, don’t you know? Pulled from the belly of his dying mother. Will. Will, you’ve heard, don’t you see, from the other side of death? And, don’t you see? You’ve heard from the other side of birth as well.” His eyes brightened with understanding. “The other side of birth.”  

The rain seemed to patter just that much louder as the three of them gazed out into it, each lost in silent speculation. The old man whispered, half to himself, “My God in heaven,” and then he was quiet, and the rain still came. 

Running, Installment 9

 Okay then. We are here. Should we just finish today? I won't know until I see how it feels on the page/screen at the end of chapter 25. Bear with me. If I do publish the last chapter, cleverly entitled "26 - an end to it" you'll be the first to know. Buckle that figurative seatbelt and here goes:

23—digging it

 

He dug it.

With quiet little scoops of a garden trowel, his shovel standing sentry against the shadow clad wall of the adjacent building, Will on his knees, all dressed in dark clothing, face smudged commandolike from where he had feverishly and futilely attempted to wipe away the sweat oozing from his pores into this cool December night, he spooned it out.

The dirt.

From under the steps.

In front of the coffee shop.

He breathed deeply and slowly as he worked in an effort to get his racing blood under control.  His heart drummed in the night like an alarm signal to the world: HERE! IN HERE! THUMP…Thu-THUMP!

At three-thirty in the morning on a Monday the traffic was sparse on North Santa Cruz Avenue. The occasional headlights had so far announced the occasional car far enough in advance for Will to creep behind the little shrub that stood beside the shop’s entrance. Still, he was completely exposed to the eyes of any but the most disinterested passerby. He could only hope (and each time he did that shrub crouching thing he did hope) that any passerby would be disinterested. So far there had been none, but how long would that luck last?

A car swept slowly away and he half-crawled back to his deepening pit.

He was on his belly, lying prone, and stretching now for each trowelful of dirt, piling it up at the far side of his deepening hole.

His arms and back felt about to break when, out of the periphery of his vision he caught the flashing red lights. He froze.

He hugged the earth for all he was worth and prayed they would go away. If they were not looking this way, they might, though surely the sound of his heart and his labored breath would call his game.

To his amazement, the squad car sped up toward him and continued past, its siren engaging.

But something in him had snapped. His resolve. Or his courage. Or both. Whatever it was he could not force himself to go on without it and he picked himself up, spitting dirt, and reached for his shovel. To run away.

Came the stage whisper from within the gaping hole at his feet, “Will. Help. Me. Help. Me. Will.”

And then he was beside the pit, shovel flying, and then he was down inside the thing, throwing earth recklessly out above him, inhaling the damp dirt-filled air, cutting through the roots of living things in a mad rush to reach something dead. His heart drummed in an accelerating rhythm, rising to crescendo along with the shushing beats of the shovel as it sliced through the rich brown earth, rising, rising, building, shush pu-pump shush pu-pump shush pu-pump until where he had expected another shushing sound there came a single, shovel arresting thud.

But it wasn’t stone, and it wasn’t wooden It was not a headstone and it was not a casket. And the odor that suddenly filled the newly dug pit left little doubt in Will’s mind what this shovel had struck, and what he was standing upon.

What happened next was only natural. Anyone in his shoes would have done the same. He pissed, down his leg, into those shoes.

Flashing red lights once again filled the night.

Only this time they were bright, so bright, and a piercing white searchlight sliced through the air between the street and the newly dug grave.

Curiously, this moment, Will was not afraid. He had no time to be afraid because he was running at full sprint directly at the police car.

It was the only thing to do. He could have stayed in the pit, or he could have crawled slowly out and quietly, calmly, and rationally answered the officers’ questions. Instead he chose to do the one thing he knew he was good at.

He ran.

The jig, as they say, was up.

The instant he hit the sidewalk he heard a shout from inside the patrol car, but though it was loud the words were unclear, as he was already off, running hard and fast, south on North Santa Cruz, buying himself the few moments it would take the car to turn about and follow. Surely they would not shoot at an obviously unarmed man. A gunshot blasted through the night.

It did not “ring out,” like a gunshot on television or in a movie. It was loud as a cannon and its loudness ended abruptly. No ricochet sound followed, either, and Will allowed no opportunity for a second shot. He pivoted sharply into a brick encased doorway and stopped. The screeching of rubber on a paved road told him to break for it.

He broke for it.

He ran hard for Bachman Avenue, cut left there, pounded down to the first parking lot, cut sharp left again, and pushed himself on into another lot at a full speed.

The siren began to wail as Will pressed for an opening in the shop buildings lining North Santa Cruz. He spotted one as the flashing lights and the wailing siren entered the parking lot with another screech and he threw his body into it.

It was a dead end.

He had misjudged. The alley he had entered stopped dead at the rear wall of another shop. He realized he had trapped himself, this time completely.

If he tried a repeat of the earlier trick, the officer, or officers, would probably blast him into the next century. His only fragile hope was that the driver of the patrol car would make the same mistake Will had made and assume that the alleyway went through to the street beyond.

It came into view, stopped with a shriek of rubber and for an instant, just for one millisecond, it was over.

Will had sent the signal from his brain to his arms to raise both hands high.

The car peeled out again bound for the storefronts around the block.

Will took one deep breath, held it at the top, and exhaled slowly, pausing after all the air was expelled from his lungs, before slowly and deeply inhaling again. If there had been two policemen in that patrol car and if one had been left waiting at the mouth of this alley, this might be his final breath.

When his lungs were full, he ran.

He ran straight across, over uneven asphalt, between small shops, through the empty parking lot, to University Avenue as distant sirens wailed and he pivoted hard left at the sidewalk and powered up his legs again. He sprinted the distance to the intersection where University cut across Saratoga, actually by then State Hwy 9. It was as open an area as God makes and his only hope now was luck.

Now, as one sedan full of travelers—following their headlights to Saratoga, or to Monte Sereno, or even to San Francisco via the “scenic route”—whooshed past, Will whispered “vanish” to himself and without a break in his stride bolted across the intersection and ran for home.

He leaned hard into his future as he ran.

He never once looked back.

Suppressing an irrational urge to set his stopwatch in motion, he concentrated on making time with his body. No “Long, Slow Distance” here. His body was time. Time was his body.

This was Running.

Will accomplished his apartment door at full speed. Breathing hard and incredibly fast, he let himself into his apartment as quietly as he could.

He wanted to laugh out loud; but a short time later, showered and glowing, as he stood naked before the mirror and stared at the skeletal figure he had become over the last month, he wept soundlessly.

Finally, drying his tears and his body, he slipped into bed beside the sleeping Sarah. For the first time in nearly a month, he slept peacefully.

He slept for two nights and for two days.

 

24—a little explanation

 

He was running on the beach, and it was the Capitola Beach, his favorite, and there was no one on that beach but him. He wore no shoes, he wore no shirt, he wore no shorts. He was as naked as the sand itself, as naked as the ocean, as naked as the sky. If the sky could be said to be wearing the wind, so he wore his smile, all that the moment called for.

He ran without any effort at all, feeling the splash of salty smelling ocean water mix with the salt within his own bare body. Cold wet and warm wet, mingling under the intense summer sun. A single seagull skirted off the shore he ran along, swooping purposefully toward the sea’s rolling surface, only to pulls out of its dive at the last instant and heave itself heavenward.

He raced under the cooling shadow of the rickety old pier, which yearned out over and into the sea, the sea, mother ocean. The heat of the sun slapped his skin as he emerged from the shadows. On he ran, into the littler beach on the pier’s other side. He ran for the giant boulders strewn over the beach’s outer reach.

There Sarah sunned herself, only as he drew nearer, he realized she was wearing a heavy robe which covered her lithe body from neck to ankle. She slept soundly as he approached, now walking, now quietly panting only slightly from his run. She was. Beautiful.

The sun shone.

The pounding, the singing, the whispering ocean as he stood over Sarah. She stirred slightly, and she opened the cumbersome robe slowly, peeled it open, tantalizingly, and her smooth, her silky, her cool, her taut body was offered ever so gently to him, and he approached as that seagull called out from somewhere in the distance, and called out again, this time more loosely, and again, and it was calling his name, gently, lovingly, singing his name, Will, Will, honey, Willum…

“Love. Wake up baby, oh, sweetie, I hate to wake you, but you really have to eat. Take your time, now, there is no hurry.”

He opened his eyes very, very tentatively. He knew it was Sarah who sat over him, and he knew that he had been dreaming. Ah, but such a dream. It dawned upon him in stages that suggested the opening of that robe. It had been a long, long time, a long time indeed, since he had dreamed a dream of his own, that belonged only to him.

Strange that he had not been more concerned with that, over the past month or two. He had been so confused. So incomplete. So

He careened into full consciousness. “Sarah, Sarah, what time is it, Jesus, I must have overslept.”

“It’s okay, Will, it’s all right, now just lay back here, like the good boy you are. I’ve called your work and explained,” she spoke as a teacher to a child, the palms of her hand on his shoulders gently but firmly pushing him back into the softness of the pillow. “Besides,” she added, “our little Willy is a hero.” That made Will flinch, but Sarah took no notice, “You couldn’t lose a job in this town if you streaked a town council meeting.”

She seemed taken by that image. She broke into here little tinkling laughter.

Will just looked at her, his heart full and his mind thoroughly befuddled.

When she had collected herself and her little fit of laughter had subsided, Sarah continued, “Now comes the fun part. I think I have this whole story under control, although you will have to fill me in on a few details, like how it all fell into place for you. Will,” she gave him a serious expression, lightly brushing a fallen strand of black hair from his brow, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wouldn’t listen to you. I guess,” she paused, “I guess it all just didn’t make any sense to me. Even now that it does make sense, it still spooks me a little. No. Not a little. It spooks me a lot.”

Will started to speak, but Sarah placed a soft warm hand over his lips.

“You’re not allowed to speak for a few minutes,” she again took control, only to yield it again, “only maybe to say you forgive me. Her eyes twinkled. Tears? Or mischief?

Will cupped her little hand in his own and kissed it gently. When she took it back he spoke, “Sarah, I love you. I need you, and,” he lowered his voice to a Soto whisper, “I think I must have you.” He reached for her.

But she had already rolled back out of reach and, from the doorway, said coyly, “Uh-uh, big boy, not until I’ve gotten some answers to some very important questions. Wait one minute.”

From the dungeon’s living room, she called, “Notice anything different?” She returned, clutching a small bundle of newspapers to her breast. She pointed at the ceiling, “You’ve slept for two solid days. You have any guesses why that’s been possible?”

“My god, she’s right,”Will thought. No Thunderthighs, no Leadfoot, no One Ton Centipede. He looked confused again, and he realized he was getting very adept at looking confused.

“You busted him, you sly Hardy boy, you popped him into the pokey.”

Noting Will’s bewilderment, Sarah continued, “Okay, hon, I’ll go slow. Here’s the straight skimmy.” She plopped down beside him on the bed. Squeaks prevailed. “The body you found? You know, the one you dug up downtown in front of the El Gato? Well that was Merle Senior, the lately deceased father of Merle, you got it? Junior.” Once again, she pointed to the ceiling.

“It seems that the older Merle passed away in his sleep this past October. That is, if we can believe his son. And at this point we’re not so sure we can believe any smalltime but heavyweight restauranteur who would bury hid dear beloved namesake under the front steps of his business establishment and then carry on the pretense that all was business as usual, all the while collecting and cashing his dad’s pension and social security checks in order to feed his already well overfed face in the style to which it had grown, and I do mean grown, accustomed.”

“Oops,” she said, covering her smile with her hand, “I think I’ve gone too fast. That’s pretty much the whole story. Damn.” She looked disappointed. “And I was planning to tell it so dramatically. Oh, well. Oh, but I could add that the police know it was you who did the dirty work, excuse me, and that it’s all right that you did it, I mean what happened was they went to Merle Junior before coming here and Merle Junior well he just cracked like a little porcelain Buddha right then and there, confessed to the whole grisly thing, upon which confession he was led off to the hoosegow in handcuffs. God, I’m surprised that you slept through the whole thing, all the hollering and weeping and such going on right up over our heads am I going too fast?”

She was, but before Will could respond yea or nay she continued, “Anyway, at this point you were still in the clear, until the police put a call from your Miss Riley at the library together with a report of a strange conversation you and some funeral director had and came up with little Willy Gardner’s name.” Will flinched again, but Sarah didn’t notice, “boy graverobber. They brought your trowel and shovel here and I identified them, but only after they told me they wanted to thank you and to talk to you about how you knew where to look and stuff. I was able to tell them enough to confuse the hell out of them and to convince them that you needed your rest to build back your strength. But I promised that you would call them as soon as you were yourself again.” She reached out and touched his silent face. Her hand felt so warm and soft upon it, his stubbly face. She heaved a heavy sigh. “So. How about it, my love? Are you? Yourself I mean?”

In answer he pulled her to him and kissed her full welcoming lips. The next several hours were dedicated to determining, as thoroughly as possible, the answer to Sarah’s question.

The answer was an unequivocal yes.

 

25—a funeral

 

It was a dark, cool, rainy, Northern California Sunday afternoon, and there were not many mourners present to witness old Merle Sikes’ coffin lowered into its proper resting place. January had finally turned into Winter, such as this part of the country would see, and it appeared that life’s own Winter had already claimed most of the old man’s friends, had he any.

A handful of old people stood bent under the green and gray stiped canopy that had been set up against the winter rain. Time weighed heavily upon the little assembly. Time had bent them all, in one way or other, though none, as yet, were broken. Only Merle. Only Merle.

They attended to the proceedings with silent respect. There was a heavy air of seriousness about it, some dimension of meaning beyond that of other funerals. No one spoke. All shared the moment.

Will felt detached from the occasion and at the same time deeply responsible for it. He and Sarah stood a little away from the rest of the party, sharing the shelter of a big black umbrella. Somehow, it did not feel right to be a part of the small circle of elders who stood beneath the canopy. The echoes of the minister’s final words hung for a moment in the air. Then, as if he had never spoken, he was gone. And then, as the cemetery workers leaned into their work of filling the grave, the small group of mourners filtered out into the grayness of the winter day. It was over.

As he and Sarah turned to leave together, a great sense of relief washed over Will. He silently thanked God that there had been no press to sully the event’s momentous weight.

Will had already begun to gain back some of his own weight. His face looked a little fuller, and the dark circles that had become so familiar to him had evaporated.

It was. Over.

Except, that is, for the old gentleman who now made his way up to the young couple.

His face was lined like soft leather, creased by decades of worry, perhaps of pain, but also of laughter. There remained but the slightest wisps of white hair scattered about his bare head. He also carried an umbrella, open to ward off the rain, and he smiled a kindly greeting, speaking gently, “Hello. You, of course, are Will Gardner, and you, young lady, are...Mrs. Gardner?”

Sarah blushed, unseen in the grayness that so enveloped them. She and Will had only the previous day brought the subject up.

“No, sir,” Will interjected, “this is my dear lady, Sarah Moore, and you, sir, are?”

“George Milhous is my name, son.” He peered with almost unsettling sincerity deep into the younger man’s eyes, as if searching for something he might have lost. “Durned if I wouldn’t like a cup of coffee and a word with you, if you would deem to spend a few minutes with an old man. My sister doesn’t keep coffee in the house, says it’s bad for us, but I do like a cup now and then. Are you possessed of a vehicle, son?” He smiled again, and where his previous smile had been laced with gravity, this one held a little mischief, along with a tinge of urgency.

Will could not refuse. Aside from the genuine feeling that a conversation with this elderly fellow might prove fascinating in itself, there were still some questions in Will’s own mind that perhaps the old man could help answer.

“Yes, that old white Mercedes on the end,” he gestured to the parking lot. You are more than welcome to join us for a coffee, Mr. Milhaus. In fact,” he lied, “we were just going to stop for some on our way home.” He glanced at Sarah, who only smiled politely, obviously of like mind.

“Make it George, my boy. Just let me make my excuses to Sally, there. You can drop me home after our chat, can you not. I understand that is a lot to ask, but I live just off Bachman Avenue, up the hill, don’t you know, and I would much appreciate the respite from the old girl, I love her deeply but,” his eyes twinkled, “well, yes. Just one moment, here.” He talked a little more spryly than before as he moved off to speak with sister Sally, who stood at the base of the little hill in the midst of a small group of old folks who appeared to have been waiting for George.

Sarah gently squeezed Will’s hand. They made their way, arm in arm, to the car.

Please stay tuned. I have decided there is something magical about 10 installments. It's not your fault. Be back here next week with chapter 26, "an end to it."