The Wonder Test

by Michelle Richmond

  As they approach the final lap, their time is surprisingly great, a four-minute mile still possible. Puddles fill the track, wind whips water into the runners’ faces, Vironnen and Torre are on Glen Park’s shoulders, ready to kick it into high gear, and then a funny thing happens. Glen Park doesn’t peel off the track the way the rabbit should. No, he sticks with it. He just keeps going. Vironnen appears confused, and Torre appears dazed, both of them beaten down by the weather. Vironnen starts yelling at Glen Park, but Glen Park keeps running. As they head down the backstretch, Torre and Telfer drop back, and it’s just Vironnen and Glen Park, giving it everything they’ve got.

  Vironnen is now visibly angry. Who is this guy, this unknown rabbit who dares to race Finland’s single greatest athlete? Vironnen, struggling, pulls around Glen Park to pass. As he’s passing, he clips Glen Park in the face with a high, sharp elbow. Blood spurts out of Park’s nose and pours down his face, the streams of rain making it look even worse. Blood flows from both sides of his face, scattering out behind him dramatically, painting the track with blood.

  At the final turn, Vironnen is a man racing nothing but the clock, aiming for the four-minute purse. What he doesn’t realize is that with each step Glen Park is gaining on him, blood still streaming down his face, staining his shirt, his shorts, his beat-up waffle trainers. Incredibly, halfway around the final turn, the mysterious rabbit tucks in just on Vironnen’s shoulder. The announcer is going crazy, yelling out the names, the time on the clock, counting it down, the four-minute mile still within reach, despite the crazy conditions, the miserable track, the huge puddles, the insane wind. Vironnen’s elbows are punching the air as he pushes out into lanes two and three, trying to stop Glen Park from passing.

  And then it happens, just like Bannister’s famous moment, immortalized in the bronze statue in Vancouver. Vironnen glances over his shoulder, and Glen Park passes him silently on the inside. His eyes are focused, his feet gliding over the drenched track.

  The announcer is screaming, the bad public address system distorting his words beyond recognition. Thirty yards, twenty yards, ten yards. There is no pain on Glen Park’s face. No, he looks almost beatific, ecstatic. At the line, the PA system goes out, and there is only a stunned silence, nothing but the sound of rain and wind, and then the sparse crowd out of their seats, screaming, going wild, beers flying, the drenched, faithful fans jumping up and down, surging toward the track.

  I’m not sure how I remember the last few steps of the race. Is it from my father’s grainy video or the words he used to describe it? His pure awe and disbelief, his sheer joy at the triumph of the common man over the preordained titan of sport. Nothing made him happier, and his elation, every time we watched the video together, filled me with happiness too.

  There’s a famous photograph. I bought a copy from the archives of the San Francisco Chronicle for my father’s fifty-fifth birthday. It still hangs on the wall in the living room. Ute Vironnen forever in shock as Glen Park breaks the tape in front of him, the huge numbers above them displaying the impossible time: 3:57.

  But I haven’t yet told you the most amazing part of all. At the finish line, Vironnen collapses to the ground, into a puddle, end over end, and medics rush out to help him. Torre and Telfer struggle for third, just over four minutes and painfully out of the money. In the commotion, as the camera focuses in on Vironnen and the doctors surrounding him, one thing escapes the camera’s eye: Glen Park.

  Back then, without digital cameras and phones, it took nearly a week to locate the footage that showed what actually happened. Glen Park burst through the finish line and just kept going. Some say he even sped up after the race was over, pushing past the viewers, into the tunnel, straight out of Kezar Stadium, onto Stanyan Street, never to be seen again.

  It’s one of the greatest mysteries in sports. Glen Park. Who is he, and why did he disappear? Why did he never return to claim the adulation, the trophy, the prize money? Of course, there were theories. He was wanted by the law, he was on some superdrug that eventually killed him. Some say it never happened, that Glen Park is only an urban legend, the story concocted, the footage fake.

  The most likely scenario? Glen Park was trying not to be identified in order to maintain his amateur status. At the time, you had to maintain amateur status to qualify for the Olympics. For a young runner, the Olympics was always the ultimate goal. A year or two later anticipation ramped up in the running world, everyone waiting to see if a tall, thin guy with a big red afro would show up at the Olympic time trials. But he never did.

  These days, in the ever-shrinking circles of people interested in track and field, the mystery of Glen Park still comes up every now and then. Every year, on the anniversary of the race, a reporter writes a story about that crazy 3:57 mile, complete with a photo of the mystery runner in his bloodied Glen Park T-shirt.

  I switch my bike into a higher gear and push forward. The wind in my hair, I feel a flush of exhilaration, freedom, something I haven’t felt in a long time. The mysterious runner in front of me is now less than 200 yards away, 150. He picks up his pace, pulling away.

  I click one gear higher, head down, closing in. The bike gets quieter, smoother, and steadier, the belt drive system purring, tires clutching the road. I see Fred alone at the computer on the day he ordered the bike. I hear him answering the designer’s questions, selecting from dozens of options—hydraulic disc brakes, Rolhoff internal gear hub. Secretly scheming, designing the bike to be better and faster than I could ever need. When it arrived, I ran my hands along the frame, feeling unworthy. I thought I didn’t need a bike this good, this strong. Yet somehow Fred knew that I did.

  Mr. Beach turns left onto Eucalyptus, around the third fairway, and I pull in close behind him. He’s flying gracefully, not even winded, gliding over the quiet streets, ageless, his form unchanged over the decades.

  When I pull alongside him, he glances at me, startled, but he doesn’t miss a step. In one quick motion he pulls his earbuds out of his ears, nods.

  “Morning,” I say.

  And that’s it. Left on Forestview, right on Chateau, up Ralston. I’m flying now, pumping my legs as fast as I can, moving swiftly through the wind and now a light rain, pushing the bike onward, trying to find its limits. Although I move faster and faster, the feeling of exhilaration and freedom fades until it’s completely gone.

  I want to thank Fred for this brilliant machine, to thank him for knowing me so well, to thank him for loving me.

  And I want to tell my father what has just happened. Glen Park, I would say, Glen Fucking Park, in the flesh, right here on Eucalyptus Avenue, right here in our town. And he’s still going, never slowing down, never giving up, still steps ahead of Ute Vironnen, still steps ahead of the doubters, the detractors, still running that amazing, unexpected four-minute mile.

  23

  Insights from Vygotsky’s concept of the “zone of proximal development” have been useful to Tiger Woods and the US Department of Education. Why does the Irish potato famine suggest that such insights will be useless in the field of agriculture?

  “I spoke with Nicole again,” I tell Kyle. We’re sitting on the patio behind the house, sipping coffee. “She remembered something else.”

  “What, she just suddenly had a flash of insight?”

  “Maybe it took a little prompting.”

  “What did she remember?”

  “A swimmer in a red cap and a crab boat way off in the distance. The swimmer is probably a woman, fast in the water.”

  “So Gray Stafford did come from the water.”

  “I think so.”

  He leans back in his chair, gazing at the canyon. “Do you know how cold that water is? The riptide is a beast. Not to mention sharks.”

  “Does the red cap ring a bell?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve got nothing.”

  With the new information, we have two
potential leads to chase down, the swimmer or the boat. Personally, I like the swimmer. No real reason, just instinct.

  Kyle leans the other way. “My money’s on a crab boat. Most of them dock at Pillar Point Harbor.”

  “Want to check it out?” I feel myself pulling the threads, drifting further into the case, against my better judgment.

  “Definitely.” But then he checks his watch, smacks his hand on the table. “Shit. I’ve got to be at East School in seventeen minutes for some PTA thing.”

  “They’re really keeping you busy with the Mayberry stuff, huh?”

  “An officer retired last week. With the personnel shortage, Chief Jepson insists we’ll need to focus more on presence and less on investigations.”

  “Seems like a waste of talent.”

  Kyle doesn’t respond, but I can tell the compliment pleases him. “Some other time,” I say. “Mind if I do a little digging on the swimmer?”

  “Hell, no. That would be awesome.” He stands to leave.

  “I should probably tell you I talked to someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Gray Stafford. Met him at movie night. I met the parents too, sort of.”

  His eyes widen in surprise. “They let you talk to him?”

  “They didn’t want me to. They whisked him away pretty quickly.”

  “The family therapist warned Mr. and Mrs. Stafford that talking to investigators too much could impede Gray’s recovery. We did two brief interviews with him, and then they shut us down, said he’d told us everything he knew.”

  “Gray said something strange. At least I think he did.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said, ‘Rory will be fine.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know, but it was unsettling. Why wouldn’t he be fine?”

  Competitive female swimmer, red swim cap. Not much to go on, but it’s something. After Kyle leaves, I google “Bay Area swim teams,” but the results are for high schools. Intramural and college teams are a better starting point. I think about the local colleges and their colors. Berkeley is blue, SF State is purple, Santa Cruz doesn’t do sports. Then it occurs to me that Stanford’s official color is cardinal red. I do an image search, disappointed to discover the Stanford swim team cap is white, emblazoned with a red S.

  I search “Half Moon Bay swim team,” but I only get pictures of a high school swim meet. The school colors are orange and green. I try the other towns along the coast: Pescadero, nothing; San Gregorio, nothing; Moss Beach, no luck.

  My search for “El Granada swim team” brings up an article about the annual Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon. Every June, two thousand athletes begin the triathlon with the grueling 1.5-mile swim from Alcatraz to Marina Green in San Francisco. For decades, the myth prevailed that no one could escape the infamous prison because the bay is too cold, the currents too strong, the sharks too plentiful. Yet now, every year, thousands of people voluntarily make the swim in a series of popular races.

  The article mentions a woman from El Granada who won the swim portion of the triathlon seven years ago. There’s a photograph of her in the bay, facing the shore, one arm out of the water, one arm in. The photo was taken seconds before she won the race. She’s wearing a white bathing cap. Behind her, however, beneath the splashing water, I count three red dots, neck and neck.

  I scan the rest of the article but find no mention of the swimmers who won second, third, and fourth place. I search for the race results from that year, women’s division. There she is, first place, the words “Montara Swim Team” beside her name, followed by an incredibly fast time. Beneath hers, three other nearly identical times are listed, but they’re not identified by name or city. Instead, it says “Dolphin Club.” Bingo.

  24

  Many older cities are built at the base of a mountain. Is this a wise model for modern city planners to emulate? Support your argument with two quotes from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities and one example from John Summerson’s Heavenly Mansions and Other Essays on Architecture.

  Caroline rings the doorbell at 9:45 p.m., unannounced. Wearing jeans, a plain black sweater, and bright-white sneakers, she somehow manages to look chic and very French. The word “effortless” comes to mind.

  “Sorry it’s so late,” she says. “I got stuck at school. Kobayashi brought in a guy from LA to meet with my study group.”

  “A tutor?”

  “No, more like a motivational speaker. He’s an Olympic pole-vaulting champion who visits schools and corporations to tell people how to be better, faster, smarter versions of themselves.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Harris Ojai paid his fee. He pays for lots of stuff at the school.”

  That would explain the banner surplus of funds this year. Maybe Ojai isn’t all bad.

  “Rory’s in the library.”

  From the hallway, I hear the kids talking. “How’d the indoctrination go?” Rory asks.

  “Endless. Embarrassing. Boring.”

  Caroline does an impression of the speaker, her soft voice transforming into a gruff baritone with a heavy Southern drawl. “The Wonder Test, kids, is nothing more than a glass of water. And you are a packet of Alka-Seltzer, little fizzy tablets, bubbly magic. You gotta rip that packet open and drop those fizzy tablets into the water, feel the magic, be the magic!” she bellows.

  Rory is laughing—long, genuine, careless laughter—the way he used to before Fred died. It’s a beautiful sound, all too rare these days. Later, Rory comes barreling down the stairs, Caroline on his heels. “Do we have any art supplies?” he wants to know.

  “Poster board, markers?” Caroline chimes in. “Tomorrow is the student government election. I talked Rory into running for minister general.”

  “What exactly does the minister general do?”

  “We’ll find out when he wins.”

  “There’s money in my purse,” I tell Rory. “Walk down to Walgreens and get whatever you need.”

  When I drop Rory off at school the next morning, his signs line the breezeway. While the signs for other candidates are sleek and professional, with four-color printing on giant banners, Rory’s are just block letters drawn with marker on neon poster board:

  RORY FOR MINISTER GENERAL

  BRING BACK THE CANDY!

  “What do you have in there?” I ask Rory, pointing to his bulging backpack. “A body?”

  “Twix, Snickers, and Swedish Fish.”

  “Buying votes. I approve! Not original but effective.”

  “‘Bring back the candy’ was Caroline’s idea. They banned candy from the cafeteria last year because the current minister general, Sophie Parker, is a food Nazi.”

  “Is she your only competition?”

  “No. There’s also Dopey Barrett, but he can’t win. Everybody hates him.”

  Caroline is standing in front of the breezeway, handing out candy. As Rory walks toward her, a boy with bright blond hair comes up alongside Rory and slaps him on the back. “Dude, I’m so voting for you.”

  25

  Proponents of inexperienced candidates who win a major political election often argue their candidate will grow into the job over time. If the term is for four years and, by month thirty-one, the elected official has shown no signs of improvement, what are the chances said official will be prepared for the job by the time his or her term ends?

  I drive to San Francisco, park at Marina Green, and wander through Fort Mason to Aquatic Park. I love the way it smells here, seawater and fish, both rank and pleasant at the same time. My parents used to bring me to Fort Mason on summer days when it got too hot on the peninsula. Sometimes I wonder if the happiness of those days was a mirage, if my mom was just pretending, biding her time until she could leave, start her real life far from us.

  The side of a
two-story white clapboard building is marked with a boat-and-oars insignia and the words DOLPHIN CLUB—­ESTABLISHED 1877. The door is locked. I ring the bell, wait, ring again. The door opens. A leathery-skinned woman with broad shoulders fills the doorway. “Need something?”

  “I’m interested in joining. May I have a look around?”

  “Come back tomorrow. Fridays are members-only days.”

  She’s already shutting the door in my face when I ask, “How do I become a member?”

  “We accept new members four times a year. Next application period is in two months.”

  I walk around the back of the building to the beach, a narrow spit of sand abutting Aquatic Park Cove. I kick off my sandals and dip my feet into the frigid water. A few dozen yards from shore, a lone swimmer floats faceup, arms akimbo, a thick patch of gray hair covering his barrel chest like a pelt.

  What am I doing here? Maybe I’m wasting my time, trying to distract myself from the tasks at hand: combing through all of my father’s things, coming up with a plan, deciding when to go home—if New York really is even home anymore. In this state of limbo, it’s too easy for grief and anxiety to set in. I prefer dwelling on outside problems rather than my own. The complex counterintelligence cases served as a kind of refuge long before Fred died. Few of us make it to adulthood without a few demons to stuff in the closet. I think of my mother, that old wound, and how the work gave me focus, purpose, a family I could count on.

  I go back to the car and sit, radio off, windows down. I feel empty, directionless. It’s an awful feeling. I’ve been many things in my life—ambitious, obsessed, even reckless—but until recently, I’ve never been directionless. Fred and I always had a plan. We set goals for every phase of our lives: marriage, work, parenthood, vacations, Rory’s college, our retirement. In addition to personal goals, I always had at least half a dozen cases going at work. Until now, I was always making progress in at least one area of my life. I always had forward motion, something to look forward to. I loathe stasis, this feeling that I’m going nowhere.