by Eric Walters
“Don’t worry,” Doug said. “You’ll see him again in a little less than a mile.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s just…just that it seems so strange to think that he’s trying to run across the country.”
“Actually,” Doug said, “he isn’t trying to run across the country…he is running across the country.”
And then it hit me. What Doug had said was true. Terry wasn’t talking about it, or bragging about it, he was doing it. And maybe he was only a little bit into the trip, but he was going to do it. One step at a time. One stride at a time. I didn’t have a doubt in my mind that he was going to make it, because even if it was nearly impossible, he was going to do it. And then all at once I realized what he was staring at when he was running—he was seeing the other side of the country.
11
“I’ll see you in a mile,” Terry said as he set off once again. That was the rhythm, repeated over and over again. Before the day was over he’d have done twenty-six miles—one mile at a time.
He started down the road. Or, more correctly, up the road—it seemed like all of Nova Scotia was on hills. Not necessarily big gigantic hills, but small, slowly rising slopes that you probably would hardly notice if you were driving a car, but you sure felt them in your legs and in your lungs when you were running. Since my run that morning I’d been noticing every one of them.
I couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like for Terry. I’d run one mile. He’d run ten miles already and he was nowhere near done for the day. How could he do it? How could anybody do it?
Doug started up the van.
“Maybe this is the time for me to try to catch a few winks,” my father said. He was sitting up front in the passenger seat. “Would anybody object if I just lay down in the back?”
“No problem,” Doug replied.
“Change places with me,” my father said. “You come up front.”
My father squeezed through the seats and sat down on one of the bunks. I climbed into the front seat.
“Belt up,” Doug said. I grabbed the ends and buckled up as we started to move.
I looked through the windshield. Terry was up ahead on the road, no more than a hundred yards in front of us. A car passing in the other direction slowed down and a man leaned out of the driver’s window and waved. Terry, of course, waved back. We quickly caught up and Doug swung the van wide into the empty lane to pass. Terry caught sight of us out of the corner of his eye and gave another quick little wave.
“It’s hard to believe that he can run twenty-six miles a day,” I said.
“Day after day after day,” Doug added
“Do you run?” I asked.
He nodded. Actually, he did look like a runner. Lean and thin, but strong thin.
“Did you and Terry used to run together?” I asked.
“All the time. We were on the same cross-country team, and we ran together when we were training for basketball. We played a whole lot of sports together.”
“And who was better?” I asked.
Doug turned so he was partially facing me and a slight smile crossed his face. “Depends on the day, and the sport…and whether you asked me or Terry.”
I laughed, and Doug broke into a big smile. It suddenly struck me that was the first time I’d seen him smile like that. Not that he wasn’t friendly, but he just always seemed so serious. No, serious wasn’t the right word. Watchful. No not watchful…more like thoughtful, like he was full of thoughts and was trying to figure things out. Or maybe he was all of those things.
“Terry and I shared the Athlete of the Year award in our senior year of high school,” Doug said.
“So maybe you’re about the same as athletes,” I commented.
“Yeah, but you’ll never get Terry to admit that…or me either.” Again he smiled.
“How long have you and Terry been friends?”
“We first met when we were thirteen, in grade eight.”
“I’m in grade eight.”
“It’s a good grade. A good time to be in school, don’t you think?”
I didn’t want to answer that question. “So you two know each other from way back. And you’ve been friends all along?”
He nodded. “Sometimes we went in different directions, but we’ve always been close. Best friends.”
“That’s good. It would be hard to spend all this time together with somebody who wasn’t your best friend.”
“It would be practically impossible,” Doug agreed. “It’s hard enough when it is your best friend.”
Doug slowed the vehicle and pulled onto the gravel shoulder. “This is the mile spot. We’ll wait for Terry here.”
* * *
—
I FINISHED OFF the last of my sandwich, took the garbage and tossed it into the can beside the picnic table. Doug and Terry had finished a while ago. Terry had gone into the back of the van to sleep and Doug was sitting in the passenger seat, going over some papers. He was trying to sort out the rest of the day and the plans and schedule for the days coming up. This involved where they would sleep, how far they would travel, interviews, speeches and town meetings. He did a lot more than just drive the van. I wondered if Doug was ever able to catch any sleep during the day. He obviously wasn’t doing the running, but he had to be up as early as Terry every morning and probably didn’t get to bed any earlier.
My father had been pacing up and down the highway. He was having trouble staying in one place and he reminded me of a caged animal. Now he wandered back to the picnic table, tossed down the butt of his cigarette and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his shoe.
“Not the most exciting way to spend a day,” he said as he settled onto the bench across from me.
“Not the most.”
“I didn’t think this through. If I had, I would have arranged for somebody to pick us up midday. Riding in that stinky van is not my idea of fun.”
“Probably a lot easier than running behind it,” I said.
“But the air would certainly be fresher.” He paused and gestured toward the van. “He’s a pretty interesting guy.”
“I guess anybody planning on running across the country would have to be pretty interesting,” I commented.
“I didn’t mean Terry. I was talking about Doug. What do you think of him?”
I suddenly felt like I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to do, because I had been trying to figure him out myself. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.
“Come on, you must have an opinion,” he said, prodding me to answer.
“Well…he seems nice.”
“Nice? That’s all you can come up with to describe him?”
I shrugged.
“You have to look at people more fully, analyze them, if you want to be a reporter,” he said.
“I never said I wanted to be a reporter.”
“You could do a lot worse than following in your old man’s footsteps.”
Yeah, right, footsteps that took him away from his wife and kid…make that his wives and kids. From what I knew he hadn’t been any better in his first marriage than he’d been with us.
“Do you want to hear what I think?” he asked.
I knew that whether I wanted to hear or not he was going to tell me. Actually I kind of did want to hear what he had to say.
“First off, he’s an introvert. It’s his nature to be shy,” he said.
That was no big news. Thanks for sharing your words of wisdom and telling me the obvious.
“Ever hear the saying ‘Still waters run deep’?” my father asked.
“I’ve heard it, but I never really understood it.”
“It means that even when the surface of the water is still and smooth there still might be a whole lot going on underneath, in the depths, where you can’t see it.”
“There’s a lot going on there below the surface. He’s thinking. The wheels are turning.”
First he’s deep, still waters, and now he has wheels in his head?
“I’ve noticed that he’s got his eyes open all the time, watching things.”
“What is it that you think he’s watching?” I asked.
“Anything and everything that has to do with Terry and the run. He’s trying to figure things out.”
My father pulled out another cigarette and lit it. The smoke drifted across the table and I shifted over to escape the noxious fumes.
“Of course,” my father continued, “there’s lots of things I’d like to ask Doug, but there’s no point.”
“Why not?”
“Two reasons. First, just because he’s figured something out doesn’t mean he’ll tell you what he thinks. He’s smart enough to keep his opinions to himself. And second, I think there are probably a lot of things—about what he’s doing, about himself—that he hasn’t figured out yet.”
“And you have?” I questioned.
My father exhaled a cloud of smoke and nodded. That was so like him, always thinking he knew things that other people didn’t.
“Why would you know something about Doug that he doesn’t know about himself?” I questioned.
“Because he’s just a kid…they both are.”
“No they’re not!” I protested. “They’re both twenty-one or twenty-two!”
My father chuckled—a smug, self-satisfied sound. “Like I said…”
“So what is it that you think you know about Doug?”
“I think I understand something about the role he’s playing in all this, how important it is. He’s doing a lot more than he probably knows.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
My father stood up. “Doug and Terry are friends.”
“Best friends,” I said.
“And it was that friendship that brought Doug here, to drive the van. That’s what he signed on to do.”
“That’s what he does…that and arrange things.”
“That’s right, but he’s become more than that. He’s become Terry’s protector—that’s why he’s always watching—and his confidant, and his mother and his father and everything else. Terry may be out there running by himself, but he’s never alone. Doug is with him all the way, every step.”
My father stood up and circled around behind me. He tossed his cigarette to the ground.
“Do you have a good friend?” he asked.
“I have friends. Lots of friends.”
My father nodded his head. “That’s nice to know. I have friends too…not as many as I used to think, but I have friends.” He paused. “But I know I don’t have one friend who would give up half a year of his life or more to take care of me, to help me chase one of my dreams. Do you have a friend who would do that?”
I thought about what he said before answering. He was right, that was what Doug was doing. I shook my head. I didn’t have a friend like that.
“That’s not surprising. I don’t even know if I know anybody who has a friend like that.” He paused. “Think about it. Out of pure friendship he came along on this trip. Now, I just hope that their friendship is strong enough to survive.”
“They’re best friends,” I repeated.
“Even the best of friendships can be tested, and I can only hope that friendship can survive what this journey—this quest—is going to become. Because Terry’s determination, his dream, is what keeps him going. But it’s Doug who’s smoothing the way.”
12
I walked over and turned the dial on the TV. The bad, snowy image gave way to complete static. I flicked the dial to the next station—more static. I flicked it again and again and again, all with the same result. Or I guess the same lack of result. Lots of static and no picture. I spun it right around the dial until I arrived back at the channel where I’d originally started. It was an awful black-and-white, snow-filled image of an old, equally awful movie. I smacked the off button and the picture flickered, faded and then went dark.
I flopped onto the bed and the springs groaned under my weight. The quality of the bed was obviously a match for the quality of the TV. I checked my watch. It was only nine-thirty. Despite having gotten up at four-thirty in the morning, I still didn’t feel tired enough to go to sleep. But what else was there to do? The TV was useless, there was no radio, and even if there had been one, the stations around here seemed to play only country and western music or Frank Sinatra. And, of course, since the motel was in the middle of nowhere it wasn’t like there was any place for me to go.
Maybe I should have gone with my father. I didn’t know exactly where he was but there had to be more action there than here. He’d left about an hour ago, saying he was going to check out a “lead” for the story. I’d figured he wasn’t checking out anything more exciting than some more of his old drinking buddies, so when he invited me to go along with him I knew he really didn’t mean it. Not that he’d said anything, but I could just tell by the way he asked the question and that look of relief in his eyes when I said I didn’t want to come. He took off in a hurry and told me not to wait up.
Outside the room I could hear the occasional roar of a truck’s engine and the swoosh as it zipped past us along the Trans-Canada. For a split second I thought about going out to the highway and sticking out my thumb and…that made no sense, and I knew it. I was hundreds and hundreds of miles away from home. There was no way I was going to run away from here. Being on the run in Toronto was one thing, but being on the run in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Nova Scotia was something else.
Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to just go outside and stretch my legs. It would be good to get some fresh air into my lungs. The room smelled bad: a combination of the dozen or so cigarettes my father had smoked before he left—the butts were all smushed in the ashtray on top of the dresser—and a damp, musty odour that seemed to be oozing out of the walls. At least it didn’t smell as bad as the van.
I climbed off the bed and grabbed the key from the top of the dresser. I figured I should lock the room up, even though the only thing worth stealing was my father’s portable typewriter. Boy, would it tick him off if that disappeared. Somehow the thought amused me and I played with the idea in my head—but I just couldn’t do that to him. I clicked the lock on as I left.
The night air felt cool and clean. I took a deep breath to replace the foul, stale air in my lungs and started to circle around to the front of the motel. Most of the units appeared to be vacant. There were no lights on in any of the windows. There were only five or six cars, plus Doug and Terry’s van sitting in front of the corner unit. Either the place was practically deserted or a lot of people were out, just like my father.
As I walked I glanced anxiously at the dense forest that sat at the back of the motel. Just like when I was running along the highway, I couldn’t help thinking about what might be lurking just behind that first layer of trees. Maybe Toronto had its share of dangerous things, but bears and wolves weren’t high on the list.
Reaching the front of the motel I felt safer. There were a couple of lights illuminating the dirt-and-gravel parking lot. The motel sign—both the “T” and “L” only half lit—gave off a bit more light. There was also a glowing “Vacancy” sign. I wondered if the “No” part of the sign had ever been lit up.
I caught sight of headlights coming down the highway. I wondered if it could be my father…no, he’d said he’d be home late. The lights got bigger and bigger and the sound grew louder until it was obvious it wasn’t anybody’s car. A gigantic transport truck thundered by. It looked like it was going a hundred miles an hour. I tried to figure out how many hours it would take to get back to Toronto if I hitched a ride in one of those things. Again, I pushed that thought
out of my mind. I wasn’t going anywhere…at least not right now.
I walked across the parking lot, the gravel crunching under my feet. Up above, the clouds were scattered about and the bright moon and about a million stars beamed down at me. It was amazing how many stars they had here…of course, we had the same number of stars back home, you just couldn’t see them. It looked like tomorrow would be clear and dry at least. During the afternoon, the sky had opened and it had poured down rain for hours. Terry had been soaked to the bone. If it had been me out there running, I would have taken shelter until the rain stopped. But he wasn’t me…I could never do what he was doing.
Off to the side of the parking lot, just over from one of the lights, stood a pole with a backboard and a hoop attached to it. I walked over. It was an old wooden board with a rusty metal rim holding the remnants of a torn and tattered mesh. The rim was bent down slightly, like somebody had been hanging on it. It wasn’t much of a net, but if I’d had a ball I could at least have killed some time taking a few shots.
I was beginning to think maybe it would be better if I just went back to my room and tried to get to sleep and—I caught sight of a basketball! It was sitting in the middle of a puddle. I walked over, bent down, grabbed it and gave it a little shake to shed the water so it wouldn’t soak me.
Besides being cold and wet, the ball was almost worn bald. Whoever had been using it had pretty much used it up. I spun it around. Somehow it felt like it wasn’t quite round. When I bounced it, it gave off that familiar ping sound that basketballs make. Well, maybe it wasn’t perfect but at least it could bounce. I dribbled the ball, trying to put it through my legs, but it hit an uneven spot and shot off to the side and away from me. I chased it down and grabbed it just before it rolled into another puddle. Maybe shooting would work better than dribbling.
I walked over and stood at the spot where a foul line would have been if I’d been on a real court instead of a dirt-and-gravel parking lot. I put up a shot. It hit the backboard with a loud crash and then rattled around the hoop before it fell off and bounced back to me. At least the net, backboard, ball and court were all a matching set. I put up another shot. This one swooshed in, just skimming the rim and then ruffling the tattered netting before dropping to the ground below. I gathered up the ball. I figured that was the key to this net—don’t hit anything except the air in the middle of the hoop.
