Elevation

by Stephen King

  “Treat yourself,” he said, and laughed. “Treat yourself before you dry up and disappear. Why not? Just why the fuck not?”

  * * *

  Scott walked into the Castle Rock Rec at nine the next morning with a five-dollar bill in his hand. Sitting at the Turkey Trot 12K sign-up table were Mike Badalamente and Ronnie Briggs, the Public Works guy Scott had last seen in Patsy’s. Behind them, in the gymnasium, a morning league was playing pick-up basketball, shirts versus skins.

  “Hey, Scotty!” Ronnie said. “How’re you doing, m’man?”

  “Fine,” Scott said. “You?”

  “Pert!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Just as pert as ever I could be, although they cut my hours at the PW. Haven’t seen you at Thursday night poker lately.”

  “Been working pretty hard, Ronnie. Big project.”

  “Well, you know what, about that thing in Patsy’s . . .” Ronnie looked embarrassed. “Man, I’m sorry about that. Trevor Yount, he’s got a big mouth, and nobody likes to shut him up when he goes on one of his rants. Apt to get a bust nose for your trouble if you try it.”

  “That’s all right, water under the bridge. Hey, Mike, can I sign up for the race?”

  “You bet,” Mike said. “The more the merrier. You can keep me company at the back of the pack, along with the kids, the old, and the out of shape. We’ve even got a blind guy this year. Going to run with his service dog, he says.”

  Ronnie leaned over the table and patted Scott’s front porch. “And don’t worry about this, Scotty my boy, they’ve got EMTs at each 3K mark, and two at the finish line. If you vapor lock, they’ll kick-start you.”

  “Good to know.”

  Scott paid his five dollars and signed a waiver stating the town of Castle Rock would not be held responsible for any accidents or medical problems he might incur during the seven-and-a-half-mile race. Ronnie scrawled a receipt; Mike gave him a map of the racecourse and a number placard. “Just pull off the backing and stick it to your shirt before the race. Give your name to one of the starters so they can check you off and you’re good to go.”

  The number he’d been assigned, Scott saw, was 371, and this was still over three weeks before the big race. He whistled. “You’re off to a good start, especially if these are all adult entry fees.”

  “They’re not,” Mike said, “but most are, and if this is like last year, we’ll end up having eight or nine hundred running. They come from all over New England. God knows why, but our piddling little Turkey Trot has somehow become a big deal. My kids would say it’s gone viral.”

  “Scenery,” Ronnie said. “That’s what brings em. Plus the hills, especially Hunter’s. And accourse the winner gets to light the Christmas tree in the town square.”

  “The Rec has all the concessions along the route,” Mike said. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s the beauty part. We’re talking a lot of hotdogs, popcorn, soda, and hot chocolate.”

  “No beer, though,” Ronnie said sadly. “They voted it down again this year. Just like the casino.”

  And the lesbeans, Scott thought. The town voted down the lesbeans, too. Just not at the ballot box. The town motto seems to be if you can’t keep it on the down-low, then out you must go.

  “Is Deirdre McComb still planning to run?” Scott asked.

  “Oh, you bet,” Mike said. “And she’s got her old number. 19. We saved it for her special.”

  * * *

  Scott took Thanksgiving dinner with Bob and Myra Ellis, plus two of their five grown children—the ones who lived within driving distance. Scott had two helpings of everything, then joined the kids in a spirited game of tag in the Ellises’ large backyard.

  “He’ll have a heart attack, running around after all that food,” Myra said.

  “I don’t think so,” Doctor Bob said. “He’s prepping for the big race tomorrow.”

  “If he tries anything more than just jogging in that 12K, he will have a heart attack,” Myra said, watching Scott chase down one of her laughing grandchildren. “I swan, men in middle age lose all their sense.”

  Scott went home tired and happy and looking forward to the Turkey Trot the next day. Before bed, he got on the scale and observed without much surprise that he was down to 141. He wasn’t losing two pounds a day yet, not quite, but that would come. He turned on his computer and slid Zero Day back to March 15th. He was afraid—it would have been foolish not to be—but he was also curious. And something else. Happy? Was that it? Yes. Probably crazy, but definitely yes. Certainly he felt singled out somehow. Doctor Bob might think that was crazy, but Scott thought it was sane. Why feel bad about what you couldn’t change? Why not embrace it?

  * * *

  There had been a cold snap in the middle of November, one hard enough to frost the fields and lawns, but the Friday after Thanksgiving dawned overcast and warm for the season. Charlie Lopresti on channel 13 was forecasting rain for later, perhaps heavy, but it hadn’t put a dent in Castle Rock’s big day, either among the spectators or the contestants.

  Scott put on his old running shorts and walked up to the Rec building at quarter of eight, over an hour before the Trot was scheduled to commence, and there was already a huge crowd there, most of them wearing zip-up hoodies (which would be discarded at various points along the route as bodies warmed). The majority were waiting to check in on the left, where signs read OUT OF TOWN RUNNERS. On the right, where the sign read CASTLE ROCK RESIDENTS, there was a short single file. Scott pulled the backing from his number and pasted it on his tee-shirt, above the bulge of his bogus belly. Nearby, the high school band was tuning up.

  Patsy Denton, of Patsy’s Diner, checked him in and directed him toward the far side of the building, where View Drive started and the race would begin.

  “Being local, you could cheat up to the front,” Patsy said, “but it’s generally considered bad form. You should find the other three hundreds, and stick with them.” She eyed his midsection. “Besides, you’ll be runnin at the back with the kiddies soon enough.”

  “Ouch,” Scott said.

  She smiled. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it? All those bacon-burgers and cheese omelets have a way of comin back to haunt a fella. Bear it in mind if you start to feel your chest tightenin up.”

  As Scott walked over to join the growing crowd of the locals who had checked in early, he studied the little map. The course was a rough loop. Down View Drive to Route 117 was the first three kilometers. The Bowie Stream covered bridge was the halfway point. Then along Route 119, which became Bannerman Road once it crossed the municipal town line. The tenth kilometer included Hunter’s Hill, sometimes known as Runners’ Heartbreak. It was so steep the kids often went tobogganing there on snow-days, picking up fearsome speed but kept safe by the plowed banks. The last two kilometers were along Castle Rock’s Main Street, which would be lined with cheering spectators, not to mention camera crews from all three of the Portland TV stations.

  Everyone was milling in groups, talking and laughing, drinking hot coffee or cocoa. Everyone, that was, except for Deirdre McComb, looking impossibly tall and beautiful in her blue shorts and a pair of snow-white Adidas sneaks. She had placed her number—19—off-center, high on the left side of her bright red tee-shirt, in order to leave most of the shirt’s front visible. On it was an empanada and HOLY FRIJOLE 142 MAIN STREET.

  Advertising the restaurant made sense . . . but only if she thought it would do any good. Scott had an idea she might be beyond that now. Surely she knew that “her” posters had been replaced by less controversial ones; unlike the fellow who would be running with his guide dog (Scott saw him near the starting line, giving an interview), she wasn’t blind. That she hadn’t just said fuck it and dropped out didn’t surprise him; he had a pretty good idea of why she was hanging in there. She wanted to stick it to them.

  Of course she does, he thought. She wants to beat them all—the men, the women, the kids, and the blind man with his German shepherd. She wants the whole town to watch a lesbean, and a marri
ed lesbean at that, throw the switch on their Christmas tree.

  He thought she knew the restaurant was toast, and maybe she was glad, maybe she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the Rock, but yes, she wanted to stick it to them before she and her wife went, and leave them with that memory. She wouldn’t even have to make a speech, just smile that superior smile. The one that said in your eye, you provincial, self-righteous assholes. Good discussion.

  She was limbering up, first lifting one leg behind her and holding it by the ankle, then the other. Scott stopped at the refreshment table (FREE TO RACERS, ONE TO A CUSTOMER) and got two coffees, paying a buck for the extra one. Then he walked over to Deirdre McComb. He had no designs on her, nor romantic inclinations of any kind, but he was a man, and could not help admiring her figure as she stretched and turned, all the time looking raptly up at the sky, where there was nothing to be seen but slate gray clouds.

  Centering herself, he thought. Getting ready. Maybe not for her last race, but maybe for the last one that really means something to her.

  “Hello,” he said. “It’s me again. The pest.”

  She dropped her leg and looked at him. The smile appeared, as predictable as sunrise in the east. It was her armor. There might be someone behind it who was hurt as well as angry, but she had determined no one in the world would see that. Except, perhaps, for Missy. Who was not in evidence this morning.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Carey,” she said. “And sporting a number. Also a front porch, and I do believe it’s a little bigger.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” he said. “And hey, maybe it’s just a pillow under there, something I wear to fool people.” He held out one of the cups. “Would you like a coffee?”

  “No. I had oatmeal and half a grapefruit at six this morning. That’s all I’ll take until halfway. Then I’ll stop at one of the stands and help myself to a cranberry juice. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’d like to finish my stretches and my meditation.”

  “Give me a minute,” Scott said. “I didn’t really come over to offer you a coffee, because I knew you wouldn’t take it. I came to offer you a wager.”

  She had grasped her right ankle in her left hand and was starting to lift it behind her. Now she dropped it and stared at him as if he had grown a horn in the center of his forehead. “What in God’s name are you talking about? And how many times do I have to tell you that I find your efforts to . . . I don’t know . . . ingratiate yourself to me are unwelcome?”

  “There’s a big difference between ingratiation and trying to be friendly, as I think you know. Or would, if you weren’t always in such a defensive crouch.”

  “I’m not—”

  “But I’m sure you’ve got your reasons to feel defensive, and let’s not argue semantics. The wager I’m offering is simple. If you win today, I’ll never bother you again, and that includes complaining about your dogs. Run them on View Drive all you want, and if they poop on my lawn, I’ll pick it up, with never a single word of protest.”

  She looked incredulous. “If I win? If ?”

  He ignored this. “If, on the other hand, I win today, you and Missy have to come to my house for dinner. A vegetarian dinner. I’m not a bad cook when I put my mind to it. We’ll sit down, we’ll drink a little wine, and we’ll talk. Kind of break the ice, or at least try to. We don’t have to be bosom buddies, I don’t expect that, it’s very hard to change a closed mind—”

  “My mind is not closed!”

  “But maybe we can be real neighbors. I could borrow a cup of sugar from you, you could borrow a stick of butter from me, that kind of thing. If neither of us win, it’s a push. Things can go on the way they have.”

  Until your restaurant closes its doors and you two blow town, he thought.

  “Let me make sure I’m hearing this. You’re betting you can beat me today? Let me be frank, Mr. Carey. Your body tells me that you’re a typical overindulgent, under-exercised white American male. If you push it, you’ll either go down with leg cramps, a sprained back, or a heart attack. You will not beat me today. Nobody is going to beat me today. Now please go away and let me finish getting ready.”

  “Okay,” Scott said, “I get it. You’re afraid to take the wager. I thought you might be.”

  She was lifting her other leg now, but she dropped it. “Jesus shined-up Christ on a trailer hitch. Fine. It’s a bet. Now leave me alone.”

  Smiling, Scott put out his hand. “We have to shake on it. That way, if you back out, I can call you a welsher right to your face, and you’ll have to suck it up.”

  She snorted, but gave his hand a single hard grip. And for a moment—just one small glimmer of a moment—he saw a hint of a real smile. Only a trace, but he had an idea she had a fine one when she really let it rip.

  “Great,” he said, then added, “Good discussion.” He started away, back to the 300s.

  “Mr. Carey.”

  He turned back.

  “Why is this so important to you? Is it because I—because we—are a threat to your masculinity somehow?”

  No, it’s because I’m going to die next year, he thought, and I’d like to put at least one thing right before I do. It’s not going to be my marriage, that’s kaput, and it’s not going to be the department store websites, because those guys don’t understand that their stores are like buggy-whip factories at the start of the automobile age.

  But those things he wouldn’t say. She wouldn’t understand. How could she, when he didn’t fully understand himself ?

  “It just is,” he said finally.

  He left her with that.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Turkey Trot

  At ten minutes past nine, only a little late, Mayor Dusty Coughlin stepped in front of over eight hundred runners stretching back nearly a quarter of a mile. He held a starter pistol in one hand and a battery-powered bullhorn in the other. The low numbers, including Deirdre McComb, were at the front. Back in the 300s, Scott was surrounded by men and women shaking out their arms, taking deep breaths, and munching last bites of power bars. Many of them he knew. The woman to his left, adjusting a green headband, ran the local furniture shop.

  “Good luck, Milly,” he said.

  She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. “Same to you.”

  Coughlin raised the bullhorn. “WELCOME TO THE FORTY-FIFTH ANNUAL TURKEY TROT! ARE YOU FOLKS READY?”

  The runners gave a yell of assent. One of the high school band members blew a flourish on his trumpet.

  “ALL RIGHT, THEN! ON YOUR MARK . . . GET SET . . .”

  The mayor, wearing his big politician’s grin, raised the starter pistol and pulled the trigger. The bang seemed to echo off the low-hanging clouds.

  “GO!”

  The ones at the front moved forward smoothly. Deirdre was easy to spot in her bright red shirt. The rest of the runners were packed tightly together, and their start was not so smooth. A couple fell down and had to be helped up. Milly Jacobs was jostled forward into a pair of young men wearing biking shorts and turned-around hats. Scott grabbed her arm and steadied her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “This is my fourth time, and it’s always like this at the start. Like when they open the doors at a rock concert.”

  The bike-shorts guys saw an opening, shot past Mike Badalamente and a trio of ladies who were talking and laughing as they jogged, and were gone, running in tandem.

  Scott drew even with Mike and gave him a wave. Mike skimmed him a salute, then patted the left side of his chest and crossed himself.

  Everyone believes I’m going to have a heart attack, Scott thought. You’d think whatever antic providence decided it would be interesting to make me lose weight could have at least buffed me out a little, but no.

  Milly Jacobs—from whom Nora had once bought a dining room set—gave him a sideways grin. “This is fun for the first half hour or so. Then it’s heck. By the 8K mark it’s hell. If you make it through that part, you catch a little following wind. Sometimes.”

  �
��Sometimes, huh?” Scott said.

  “Right. I’m hoping for that this year. I’d like to make it all the way. I’ve only managed that once. Good seeing you, Scott.” With that she picked up the pace and pulled ahead of him.

  By the time he passed his own house on View Drive, the pack had begun to spread out more and he had running room. He moved steadily and easily at a fast jog. He knew this first kilometer wasn’t a fair test of his stamina, because it was all downhill, but so far Milly was right—it was fun. He was breathing easy and feeling good. That was enough for now.

  He passed a few runners, but only a few. More passed him, some from the 500s, some from the 600s, and one speed-devil with 721 pasted to his shirt. This comical fellow had a spinning whirligig mounted on his hat. Scott was in no particular hurry, at least not yet. He could see Deirdre on every straight stretch, maybe four hundred yards ahead. Her red shirt and blue shorts were impossible to miss. She was taking it easy. There were at least a dozen runners ahead of her, maybe even two dozen, and that didn’t surprise Scott. This wasn’t her first rodeo, and unlike most of the amateurs, she would have a carefully thought-out plan. Scott guessed she would allow others to set the pace until the eighth or ninth K, then start pulling ahead of them one by one and not take the lead until Hunter’s Hill. She might even make it exciting by waiting until downtown to put on her final burst, but he didn’t think so. She would want to win going away.

  He felt the lightness in his feet, the strength in his legs, and resisted the urge to speed up. Just keep the red shirt in your sights, he told himself. She knows what she’s doing, so let her guide you.

  At the intersection of View Drive and Route 117, Scott passed a little orange marker: 3K. Ahead of him were the bike-shorts guys, one pounding along on either side of the yellow centerline. They passed a couple of teenagers, and Scott did likewise. The teenagers looked to be in good shape, but they were already breathing hard. As he left them behind, he heard one of them pant, “We gonna let an old fat guy get ahead of us?”