Run, Billy, Run

by Matt Christopher

  “Hi, Dad!” he called.

  “Hi, son!” replied his father.

  “Need any help?”

  “No! I’m almost finished!”

  His father was a workhorse. How many men were there who’d come home from an eight-hour job and almost immediately start chopping wood? Weren’t many, reflected Billy.

  Fifteen minutes later the spectator bus hummed to a stop in front of the house and deposited Dan and Christina. They came racing to the house, Dan beating his sister by two steps. Billy grinned as he watched them through the kitchen window.

  Dan was first inside the house, his pace slowed down to a walk. Christina barged in, plowing into him and sending him crashing to the floor.

  “What the heck’s the matter with you?” he shouted, glaring up at her.

  She stared at him, a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought you were way inside.”

  “Dummy,” he snorted, and got to his feet.

  Billy put a hand over his mouth to cover a grin. Count on Dan to be involved in some kind of caper, whether planned or not.

  “Mercer won,” Christina announced, smiling now that she discovered Dan hadn’t suffered any injuries.

  “I thought no scores were kept,” said Billy. “The coach said it was just a practice competition.”

  “Well, it was. But Jeannie kept score anyway. On her own.”

  “Jeannie?”

  “The scorekeeper.”

  “Who won the mile?” asked Billy.

  “Mercer. They won that and the two-mile.”

  “How come you weren’t there?” asked his father, his eyes riveted on Billy. “I thought you joined the track team.”

  “I did. I was in two races and lost.”

  “He finished last in one and next to last in the other,” explained Dan soberly.

  “He got discouraged with himself and came home,” Christina chimed in, and looked at her older brother. “Maybe you should have stayed, Billy. Maybe Coach Seavers would’ve had you run in the relays. Or even the mile. That’s where we really need some fast runners. We’re weak as heck in those distances.”

  Billy met her brown eyes, saw them light up with enthusiasm. It was the first time she had looked so bright and healthy since she was sick, he thought.

  “I think you’re right, Chris,” he said agreeably. “But it’s up to the coach, not me.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. After I walked off like that, maybe he won’t want me anymore.”

  Chapter 9

  AFTER SUPPER Billy, Dan, and their father went into the woods again to saw down another tree and cut it to kindling size. The trunk of the pine tree Mr. Chekko selected this time was only slightly larger than those they had sawed down before, but the way Billy’s arms began to feel as he pushed and pulled on the saw made him wonder if his father had found one six inches thicker.

  At last Mr. Chekko’s yell that they stop brought relief to Billy. He helped his father withdraw the saw from the tree, then watched him wield the axe till the tall pine fell exactly where he wanted it to.

  A squirrel Billy hadn’t seen on the tree before chittered with fright as it leaped through the air to another tree, landing on a slender branch that bounced up and down under its slight weight. Two crows screeched from the top of another tree and flew off; a rabbit skittered out from under a bush and ran madly until it vanished under another bush.

  Again Billy and Dan sawed while their father chopped, and it was twilight by the time the chunks were short enough to be carried to their back yard.

  By now Billy was really tired. His arms felt ready to break off from his aching shoulders. His knees felt ready to collapse. His stomach was beginning to feel nauseous.

  Suddenly his head became woozy, and he was afraid he was going to faint. “Watch it, Dan,” he warned his brother, who was walking behind him.

  He stopped and let the short log roll off his shoulder onto the ground, then he stepped off the path and lay down on the cool grass. He closed his eyes, while a myriad of tiny stars flashed before him.

  He heard a second loud thud, and knew that Dan had dropped his log, too. “Billy! What’s the matter? What happened?”

  “I got dizzy,” Billy murmured. His face was pale, his lips purple and dry.

  “Shall I call Dad?”

  “No. Let’s wait a minute.”

  He waited there for a few minutes, until the wooziness was gone. Then he rose, lifted the log back up on his shoulder, and walked on.

  “You sure you’re okay now?” asked Dan worriedly.

  “I’m sure,” said Billy.

  But he wasn’t entirely okay. After he dropped the log off at home he told Dan that maybe he should tell their dad that he was sick, and that he was going into the house to lie down. Sheri, watching her brothers ever since they had come into sight from the woods, rushed into the house immediately to tell their mother that Billy was sick and “was coming in to lie down.”

  His mother was waiting for him when he reached the living room door. Not asking him a single question, she helped him to the sofa, then got a blanket with which she covered him.

  “Did you throw up?” she asked him worriedly.

  “No,” he said.

  She tucked the blanket under him. “I’m not surprised this happened,” she said. “You’ve been working hard, and running hard. It’s bound to get you eventually.”

  Later, after Billy had been in bed for about ten minutes, a knock sounded on the door and his father stepped into the room.

  “You awake, son?” he whispered.

  Billy opened his eyes. He was tired, but he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. “Hi, Dad,” he said.

  “I’d like to talk to you a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  He came over, sat on the bed. A bristle of heavy beard had begun to show, and his shirt was open at the throat.

  “I’ve been working you boys pretty hard,” he admitted. “It’s no easy job cutting down trees, turning them into firewood. But it’s got to be done. And I can’t do it all by myself. I need you boys to help me.”

  “I understand, Dad,” said Billy, smiling.

  He felt a hundred percent better than he did an hour ago. The nauseous sensation had left his stomach. His mind was clear. He just felt tired, and he was sure that a good night’s rest would take care of that.

  “Maybe you do,” said Mr. Chekko, finding his son’s warm arm under the blanket and rubbing it gently. “And maybe you don’t. I know you like to run on your track team, and that perhaps it’s because of the hard work I’ve put you to that you came in last and next to last in the races. But you must recognize priorities, Billy. In this case we’re working together for the good of our family. We’re fortunate that the wood is provided free to us. All we have to do is cut it down and reduce it to a usable size. And with the price of gas, coal, and electricity nowadays every bit of the work is worth it. You see what I’m driving at, Billy?”

  Billy nodded. “There will be just the chopping left to do,” his father went on. “And I can do most of that. You helped me a lot. You and Dan both. I appreciate that. You’re two of the best sons a father could be proud to have.” He stood up, letting go Billy’s arm. “Sleep tight. And don’t think I’m far in left field when it comes to your running. I’ve read articles in the papers about it. I know how important it must be to you. Oh, one final thing before I leave you. Remember what I promised a little while back?”

  Billy tried to remember, and a grin spread over his face. “About getting a car?”

  “Right. I’m going to buy one this Saturday. How about that?”

  “That’ll be great, Dad!”

  “I thought you’d like that. Good night, now. Sweet dreams.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  The next day, Friday, seemed to be the culmination of all the bad things that happened during the week. Mr. Roche gave the math class a test that, Billy realized, was on a chapter he hadn’t had time to study thoroughly. Math wasn’t one of his favorite subje
cts anyway, which amplified his chances of scoring very poorly in it.

  That day’s French test might just result in a passing grade if Mrs. Tarkington had her heart in the right place, which she usually didn’t. Billy didn’t think he’d ever learn to understand her. He understood the French language better than he did her. Sometimes she’d mark off a point or two for misspelled words; sometimes she didn’t. What she always did do was write her remarks in the margins in French. Sometimes they were clearly legible, and sometimes they weren’t. It had become a game trying to translate a phrase he couldn’t read.

  He was glad that a weekend was coming between today and the next time he had to face Mr. Roche and Mrs. Tarkington. The grades he expected to receive from them weren’t going to be ones he’d care to write his grandmother about (not that he would brag to her even if they turned out to be very good).

  Seattle, Luke, and some of the other guys in the classes encountered him in the hall and asked him how he thought he had fared.

  “Pas si bon,” he answered.

  He headed for his next class, and ran into Wendy. She looked radiant in a pink skirt and white blouse with sheer, flaring sleeves.

  “Billy!” she exclaimed, stopping in front of him.

  “Oh, hi,” he said, smiling back at her. “How you doing?”

  “Okay. What did you think of the math test?”

  “I want to forget it.”

  “You don’t think you’ll pass it?”

  “I’m sure I won’t. I didn’t go over the chapter. Didn’t have time.” He noticed the umbrella pendant she was wearing. “Hey, that’s cute.”

  “Protection when I’m caught out in the rain,” she said, beaming.

  An awkward few seconds passed. Then she said, “You going to be at practice this afternoon?”

  “I think I’d better, if I expect to stay on the squad,” he confessed. “I’m barely hanging in there.” The bell rang. “There she blows. See you later.”

  “At the track,” she replied, and went past him, flashing that warm, beautiful smile that matched the brilliance of her pendant.

  He turned and watched her for a minute, mentally cursing the bell for cutting their conversation short. So what if all they had talked about was trivia? It kept them together, that’s what mattered.

  For a minute, after he turned back and headed for his next class, he had to reorganize his thoughts to remember just which one he was going to.

  “Destination Cove Hill Park. Run all the way to it, walk halfway around it, then break into a sprint and head for the Ludlow Rod and Gun Club.” Coach Seavers’s rapid-fire order had the attention of every member of the track team, including Billy, who felt good that the coach hadn’t chewed him out for taking off before the meet was over yesterday. But there was still time for that. “When you get there, come back, alternating with walks, slow runs, and sprints. Seattle Williams will give you the orders. Everybody understand that?”

  Nodding heads and a few muttered yeses gave evidence that everyone did. The group was comprised of only the runners; those involved in the sprints, hurdles, relays, and the longer distances. The discus throwers, high jumpers, broad jumpers, pole vaulters, and shot putters — members of the field events — had their own program, most of which was under the guidance of the assistant coach, Dick Rafini. The girls’ track and field teams were grouped separately at the opposite end of the field.

  “Okay. Take off!” commanded the coach.

  The distance to Cove Hill Park was about a mile and a half. Around it was another two-thirds of a mile or so; no one had ever really measured it. From there to the Ludlow Rod and Gun Club, which was located on Salmon Creek, was about two miles. From the gun club back to the school was a mile and a half. So the total round-trip distance was slightly over five and a half miles.

  Billy found himself running among the trailing half of the crowd by the time they reached the park. He wasn’t exerting himself, just dropping one foot after the other in a smooth, rhythmical pace.

  During the sprints he noticed runners zipping past him. There weren’t many because the fastest runners were far in the lead anyway. Seattle, Rudy, and Luke were practically in a category by themselves. A kid named Chuck Schwinn was close behind.

  Seattle’s loud yell, “Okay, walk!” seemed to come as a welcome relief to most of them, but Billy found that his running pace was comfortable enough that he could run on and on without getting more tired. But the sprints affected him, wore him down, so that by the time the twenty-two-man team was returning from the Rod and Gun Club he was beginning to feel the strain in his thighs and calves.

  He discovered something else that gave him a lift. He was one of the first six to finish the practice run. Seattle had come in about fifty yards ahead of him, definitely the fastest of the squad. Luke was second, about twenty yards behind him, and Rudy only a few yards behind Luke. Two other runners filled the spread between Rudy and Billy. Even though the run was just a body, lung, and leg conditioner, Billy knew that most of the guys tried to make an impressive showing.

  At the field there was a ten-minute rest period during which the squad dropped like bundles of wet hay right on the spot where they were standing, when Coach Seavers announced the order. The cool grass was the next best thing to a shower.

  Then came the loud, familiar bark again. “Okay, men! Up on your feet! Line up!”

  A chorus of “Oh, no!” came on the heels of the order as the twenty-two athletes got slowly to their feet.

  “Come on, you guys! You act as if you’re half dead! Let’s go! One! Two! One! Two!”

  By the time the ten minutes of calisthenics were up, only Billy’s dim awareness of what was going on around him made him certain he was more alive than dead.

  Chapter 10

  ON SATURDAY Buck Saunders, a neighbor, drove Mr. Chekko, Billy, and Dan to Lonsdale, dropped them off at a used car lot, and said he’d pick them up in two hours. Billy didn’t care what kind of a car his father was going to buy. Anything would do as long as it ran. But he knew his father had his mind set on a Buick. He had always had a Buick and had been satisfied with it; his philosophy was, Why bother with a different make of car if you’re not sure how it’s going to perform?

  They covered three lots before Mr. Chekko found a car he liked and could afford to buy. It was a cream-colored four-door sedan with vinyl seats, AM—FM radio, and even a mounted compass on the snazzy-looking dashboard.

  Billy couldn’t get over how simple the whole business was. The salesman handled the entire transaction, even down to getting the information to the insurance company of Mr. Chekko’s own choice. Mr. Chekko made a down payment by check, was given a coupon book, and told that the car would be delivered directly to his home the following Wednesday.

  The thrill of finally having a car in the family left Billy in a stupor. He couldn’t believe that his father had really gone and done it. Billy thought that the moment the deal was over he would let out a yell, make some kind of noise to celebrate the event. But he didn’t feel like doing anything like that. Dan didn’t seem to feel like it either, as if he too were in a state of shock.

  Only their father was outwardly affected. He was whistling.

  It wasn’t till Buck Saunders picked them up that both Billy and Dan opened up, exuding excitement and joy about their new car. It was three years old, but to them it was like brand new.

  “We rode in it,” Billy declared from the back seat. “It rides like a boat. Real smooth. Wow!”

  “The radio works great,” added Dan. “We got a dozen stations, all clear as a bell. Right, Billy?”

  “Right.”

  Their father didn’t have much of an opportunity to put in his two cents worth, but his happy smile was enough to express the joy that he was feeling. Both Mr. Chekko and Billy studied the driver’s manual that the car salesman had given them, so that by the time the car was delivered they’d know all about driving.

  Billy really hoped he’d learn to drive the car. H
e wasn’t old enough to take a driver’s test, but he could see no harm in learning how to drive a car now so that by the time he was sixteen and had a junior operator’s license he’d be an expert.

  Having a car would eliminate the trips on foot to New Court and back — for groceries, for drugs, for anything that his mother thought the family needed. Running was fun. But combining it with carrying groceries turned it into a wretched task. Most of the time he did the errands willingly, but he wished such tasks weren’t necessary. Now that he was in track he didn’t need an extracurricular activity to get in shape.

  The weekend sped by. On Monday he stayed after school for track practice, wondering if he was improving. When he felt a sharp burn on the back of his right heel and removed his shoes, he saw that a blister had formed and torn open. He got a Band-Aid from the manager and applied it to the sore, hoping it would heal before the next meet, which was on Friday.

  After supper that night Buck Saunders came over to teach the rudiments of driving to Mr. Chekko, who had picked up a three months’ driving permit during his lunch hour. It was more of a refresher course, since Mr. Chekko had driven before. Billy could hardly wait till his father was again familiar enough with the shifting, braking, and steering to instruct him.

  On Tuesday Billy learned that the math test he had taken last Friday had proved to be a disaster, which didn’t surprise him one bit. He got a 48. Mrs. Tarkington gave him a grade of 76 on his French test, which was just one point over the passing mark. It was better than he expected.

  On Wednesday, the day the Buick was to be delivered, Billy was called to the office of the vice principal, Mr. Keating, who looked like a kindly man, with dark-rimmed glasses and a perpetual smile, but wasn’t. Billy didn’t think he had ever seen a more deceptive face in his life.

  “I thought I had better talk to you personally, William,” Mr. Keating said in a level voice, eyeing Billy with a soft, froggish stare. “Your grades have indicated a decrease in effort over the last few weeks, particularly in math. That mark of forty-eight that you received in last Friday’s test is atrocious. Your grades in social studies and history are only slightly better. I’ve got to have a promise from you, William, that you’re going to make an honest effort to up your grades or, I’m afraid, your days as a trackman will be over.”