Right To Die

by Jeremiah Healy

  "So the slugs match."

  "So what does that tell you?"

  "That the same rifle probably was used in both the sniping at us and the shooting at me."

  "Tells me more than that, pal. Tells me that Manolo was the shooter, both times."

  "Maybe he was. That – "

  "We found a rag there, closet of his room at the manse. Oil on the rag's same as the oil on the rifle."

  "Neely, just because- – "

  "What I'm saying here is, you got the right guy, okay?"

  "Neely, what I'm saying is that there might be another guy involved. Somebody to help Manolo write the notes, maybe get him stirred up about the professor injecting her husband way back when. Get it?"

  "That's the line you were pushing at the hospital. Just what do you got besides Manolo of the Morgue there?"

  I repeated what Roja said about the notes and suggested police protection for Maisy Andrus.

  "Cuddy, I got to tell you, I don't see it that way. We got a sniping, we got a match on the slugs, we got the gun, we got the dead guy with the gun. You got smoke and mirrors."

  "What will it take, Neely?"

  "To put a uniform on her door?"

  "Yes. Round the clock."

  "Never happen. She's got the money, she can hire somebody. Like you, for instance."

  ***

  From inside the town house came "Go away."

  I leaned my forehead against her unopened front door and spoke louder. "Professor, we have to talk."

  "I see no need for that. Please just go away."

  "Not until I've finished what I started for you. It won't take long."

  I heard a sound of exasperation as Andrus yanked open the door. The eyes burned out from a taut face. Her hair was tousled here and matted there, as though she hadn't brushed it since sleeping on it. A breath of warm air from behind me rustled some of the loose strands. Andrus shuddered violently and moved behind the door. I barely got in before she closed it.

  Andrus shook again. "Can't stand drafts."

  "Are you all right?"

  Her head ratcheted up. "I'm fine! Or I would be if I weren't being interrupted every five minutes. What is it, Mr. Cuddy?"

  Wondering what happened to "John," I gestured toward the parlor.

  Andrus made a noise that actually sounded like "harrumph" as she strode in ahead of me and sat rigidly on a wing chair. "What?"

  "First, I'm sorry about Manolo."

  "Manolo? A traitor! Do you realize what my husband did for him? What I did for him? He deserved what happened."

  I had the sensation of speaking to a different person, another member of a family whose personality diverged one hundred eighty degrees from the rest.

  "Does your husband know?"

  "Sir, my husband is d – - Oh. Oh, you mean Tuck, don't you? I've left messages for him, but we keep missing each other."

  "You mean, he doesn't know about all this?"

  "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."

  31

  "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.

  A remarkable number of people flanked the road despite suburban, even rural, countryside and lousy weather for spectating. The elderly in lawn chairs, holding umbrellas in gnarled hands. Kids in slickers with peaked fronts like the beaks of ducks, splashing both feet in rain puddles. Middle-aged men in Windbreakers and baseball caps, John Deere or Boston Bruin logos, applauding stoically.

  An oompah band had fun in a supermarket lot. A country and western group strummed from a truck dealership. Under a carport, a souped-up Dodge Charger idled, trunk lid up and facing the street, two stereo speakers booming out the theme from Chariots of Fire.

  A younger woman running my pace paired up with me, and we talked in brief, grunted sentences. At one point we had to veer around a video crew in street clothes, gamely jogging beside a TV reporter who was doing her first marathon and providing the station with a "running" commentary.

  There were other funny things early in the race, so many I missed a few of the mile markers as I got caught up in the atmosphere. A guy in a Viking helmet. Two women in tuxedos and top hats. A brawny gray-head in a strappy undershirt wearing a coat-hanger crown, the hook dangling an empty Budweiser can a foot in front of his mouth.

  And the T-shirts. Every conceivable college and university, but also some with legends. LESMISARABLES. SAY NO TO DRUGS. NOT TILL YOU CRY, TRAIN TILL YOU DIE. One man's front read CELIBATE SINCE CHRISTMAS, the back, WATCH THE KICK.

  By mile ten, however, the initial adrenaline was gone. Age ache returned to my knees and hips, and my side at the wound began to burn every other step. I found I had to concentrate. Breathe rhythmically. Maintain the stride. Drink lots of liquids. I also found I had to come to a stop to take the water, otherwise I knocked the cup from the offerer's hand and couldn't swallow properly.

  My partner pulled up lame at mile eleven. I said I'd wait for her, but dejectedly she said no, it had happened before and wouldn't get better.

  After that the images are a little hazy, just kind of strung together. Passing Boston's Mayor Flynn, a former basketball star at Providence College a couple of academic generations before I hit Holy Cross. I thought back to the tree-lighting ceremony and his short speech, when Nancy almost said the "O" word. Then I looked at Flynn. Hizzoner's face was red as a beet but the legs still churned, what looked like two well-conditioned cops on either side of him. If he could do it, so could I.

  The rain perfect for what we were doing, neither too hot nor too cold. My clothing felt like just a particularly moist outer layer of skin.

  A blind man and a sighted woman, him jogging her pace, his hand resting lightly on her forearm. Each smiled a lot, but for each other, not the crowd.

  The sweet but refreshing tang of Exceed, the orange drink restoring lost chemicals. Just as Bo said it would.

  Runners with numbers at the side of the road in agony, clasping blown-out knees or torn Achilles tendons. Members of the crowd put sacrificed jackets around the runners' shoulders as race officials with walkie-talkies tried to raise the sweep bus.

  Wellesley College, roughly the midpoint of the race. The young women stood four deep, cheering so wildly I heard them for half a mile before the crest of their hill. Some offered liquids, others paper towels to wipe off the salt caking our legs.

  On the downslope, passing a woman in her forties. Cellulite jiggled over the backs of her thighs as she muttered her way through a downpour.

  Mile fifteen. The legs no worse, but my left side really throbbing now, no matter which foot was striking the ground. I probed it once with my index finger. Just a little blood seeping through the dressing. Orange rinds, scattered over the road like autumn leaves, slippery as banana peels. After nearly going down once, I began picking my way around them.

  Johnny A. Kelley, eighty years young, exulting in his fifty-seventh marathon. A painter's hat worn backward on his head, he blew kisses to the increased roar he received as each section of the crowd recognized him.

  Mile seventeen. Column right onto Commonwealth at the firehouse to begin Heartbreak Hill. Counting the inclines and plateaus to stay oriented, I remembered Bo's advice and kept my eyes on the horizon. Four-fifths of the field were walking, the other twenty percent of us still running, my knees feeling like I was climbing a rope ladder.

  Gaining on a father propelling his son in a wheelchair. I realized the man got no rest at all, having to push on the upslopes and then drag on the downslopes. A few of us offered to spell him. The father smiled and shook a drenched head.

  Mile twenty-one. Boston College and the top of Heartbreak. Exhilaration, then the incredible bunching pain in the backs of the legs from going downhill. My calves went mushy, and my feet kept tangling. My left side felt like somebody was plowing it with baling hooks.

  No functioning water stations for two miles until just below Coolidge Corner, where a guy my age and his kids braved the rain outside a majestic synagogue. They poured from Belmont Springs bottles as fast as they could, all of us thanking them. I remember the daughter saying she thought I was her five thousandth cup that day, my legs warning me not to stop for too long.

  The marker said "25" at Kenmore
Square. Every joint below my waist had tossed in the towel, the bones sawing and grating against each other. The crowd chanted a single phrase. One more mile, one more mile.

  At Hereford Street we made a right toward Boylston. The first ninety-degree turn for a while, I found I had to consciously plan how to do it. An older man in front of me took the corner too fast. His hamstring snapped like a dry branch, and he went down. Several people from the crowd pushed through police barriers to aid him.

  I eased left onto Boylston Street, three hundred yards to go. The crowd was still enormous, easily two hours after the technical winners had passed. They screamed, clapped, and whistled, most of us summoning a little extra to acknowledge the encouragement.

  The finish line itself was under a viewing stand. Yellow and white awning, beneath it bunting in orange, blue, and white, the colors so vivid through the rain. Crossing the line, I thought I heard Nancy calling my name, the official clock glowing 4:11:31. Not counting water stations, I stopped running for the first time in over four hours. Hands on hips, I kept walking to postpone the cramping. Scanning the crowd, I looked for an old Redskins cap and taped glasses. Not there. Other runners slumped on the sidewalk or trundled with tiny steps, wrapped in foil-like Mylar blankets to ward off hypothermia. Under the archway of the bank, Nancy waved to me, holding a little camera high with her left hand, as though she were taking a photo over the heads of people in front of her. "I got you crossing the finish line!"

  In yellow foul-weather gear, the peak riding down almost to her nose, she'd never looked more beautiful to me.

  I stopped and posed in right profile. Nancy brought the camera to her eye, clicked a button, and put the camera in a coat pocket. I said, "I heard you yell to me."

  "I couldn't believe I could finally go inside."

  "I want a hug."

  "Not on your life. You're the most disgusting creature I've ever seen."

  "What happened to the stretcher bearers?"