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 married 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.”