Then what?
Come by, he‘d said, anytime. Did he really mean that? I thought he did. I also half-sensed that we were dancing around something, doing a complicated series of steps to some ancient rhythm that he knew but I didn‘t yet understand. Or maybe I was dancing alone, the whole scenario unfolding in only my imagination. Like so many other things.
Even for a nice day in October, Faring Park was virtually deserted, with only one other car—not Mr. Anderson‘s. I changed into my running shoes, stretched, then took off at what I knew was an easy seven-mile-an-hour pace. I followed a meandering wooded trail that, in three miles, would empty onto another east-west trail and that would eventually take me to the edge of Mr. Anderson‘s property. Total distance, there and back, was a little shy of seven miles. Crossing onto Mr. Anderson‘s property—running to his house, say—would add another four miles there and back. So, eleven altogether. It was doable. I just didn‘t know if I would.
Like math and science, running has never been hard for me. I don‘t listen to music when I run. The more I sweat, the clearer my mind becomes, as if all thought, good and bad, oozes out in salty rivers. After a while, there is nothing but the surge of my heart. My muscles are warm, my strides effortless, and I am flying, skimming the earth. I don‘t think; my head empties, and that is best of all.
I met no one on the trail. I knew when I‘d reached Mr. Anderson‘s land because there were placards stapled to the trees: Private Property and No Trespassing. I could‘ve continued. The trail unfurled like a brown carpet. I could run onto his property, loop around the lake, just happen to be passing by as he stepped onto his deck, a steaming mug of coffee in hand, to admire the view. Then he‘d do a double take and shade his eyes and his lips would curl in a happy, surprised grin:
Jenna, what are you doing out here? You ran how far? How fast? Your split was . .
. my God, that’s terrific time! I didn’t know you could run that fast. Hey, if you’ve got a sec, come on in; I’ve just put on a pot and I was thinking about how nice it’d be to have someone to share this....
I made great time back to the car.
f
That night, talking to my mother on the phone:
―Your father and I really need to get away,‖ she said. They‘d made it to Bayfield too late for the last ferry to the island, so they were staying in town and just about to head out to their favorite restaurant. ―I think we might stay an extra few days. You don‘t mind, do you?‖
―What about the store?‖ But what I thought was: What about your boyfriend?
―Evan‘ll handle everything. I haven‘t had a break in, well, I don‘t know how long.
Thanksgiving‘s coming up and things will get even crazier. I need the time away.‖
―I understand. Don‘t worry about me. I‘ll be fine. There‘s plenty of food and whatever I need, I can always buy.‖ I had a stash of birthday money I‘d planned to spend on some new clothes, but my mother had been too busy and shopping on my own was too pathetic even for me.
―There‘s emergency cash.‖ Mom told me where to find it and then added, ―You‘ll be good driving to school?‖
―We‘re out for the week.‖
―Oh.‖ Pause. ―Right. I forgot.‖
Big surprise there. ―When do you and Dad think you‘ll be back?‖
―Is Thursday all right?‖ After I told her that Thursday was fine, Mom asked again what I‘d done all day but then interrupted to say that Dad wanted to go eat. ―And have his first martini,‖ she said. ―Talk to you tomorrow.‖
―Sure,‖ I said. ―Tomorrow.‖
25: a
Monday.
There was no work I could pretend to have. I was way ahead in all my classes except English. High time I got serious about my project, though I didn‘t have a clue what I was going to write about. Alexis‘s book had arrived at the school library the day before break, and I had yet to crack the spine. So I turned the radio to an NPR station—Mozart, I think—and settled onto the window seat in my bedroom.
I expected something dry, a recap of what I already knew from my Google search with some anecdotes tossed in for interest. Instead, the very first chapter was about the rescue of a female beluga whale that had gotten tangled in a snarl of illegal lobster traplines off the coast of Canada near the St. Lawrence Estuary. By the time the rescue team arrived in Zodiacs, the poor thing had been struggling for hours to stay afloat. Belugas travel in pods and her podmates were frantic, crying in high-pitched whistles as they circled their companion. As Alexis watched, some tried slipping beneath the female to keep her from drowning but couldn‘t get close enough to help without getting entangled themselves.
The only way to free the whale was to cut the ropes and that meant getting into the water with all those whales. Belugas aren‘t huge, only fifteen feet when they‘re fully grown, but any given beluga may weigh as much as three thousand pounds. If the pod panicked when the divers got in the water, or the trapped female began to thrash, the divers wouldn‘t have a chance. But if they didn‘t help, the female beluga would drown. There really wasn‘t a choice. While the Zodiacs took up positions between the pod and the trapped whale, Alexis and three other divers slid into the icy water. As soon as they did, the trapped whale became virtually motionless, as if she knew she must. Silent now, the other belugas circled, waited, watched. For more than an hour and in brain-numbing cold, the divers hacked at the nylon rope, mindful that the beluga‘s podmates might swarm in to protect their companion; that a moment‘s lapse in concentration or careless placement of a knife might injure themselves or the whale.
When the beluga was finally free, she blasted out of the circle of divers. The pod chattered and whistled, and then all the whales converged on the divers so quickly there was no time to get aboard their Zodiacs. Alexis thought they were toast.
Instead, the whales circled as the one they‘d freed gently pressed the bulbous hump on her head— melon, Alexis called it—against each diver. When it was Alexis‘s turn, she wrote: ―At the whale‘s touch, I felt my questing soul calm. It was as if I had been asleep my entire life and then suddenly come awa—‖
The phone jangled.
The sound catapulted me out of the book and back to the real world. I fumbled with the handset. ―Hello?‖
―Hello . . . Jenna?‖ A pause. ―Are you all right?‖
My answer was automatic, awkward: ―Yes, I‘m . . .‖ I was still so deep in the web of the story I had a hard time making sense of the words. Then my brain caught up, and I sucked in a breath of surprise. ―Mr. Anderson?‖
―Yes.‖ He sounded concerned. ―I was just calling to see how you were doing. I would‘ve called yesterday, but . . . Are you all right?‖
I swallowed, all thoughts of Alexis Depardieu pushed aside. ―I‘m fine. I was just reading. Something for English.‖
―Oh.‖ A pause. ―Well, okay. I didn‘t mean to disturb you.‖
―No, it‘s fine, really. I just . . .‖ I glanced at my clock: nearly noon. Two hours had evaporated. ―Wow, I lost track of time.‖
―Must be a good book.‖
―It is, actually. I wasn‘t expecting it to be. Anyway . . .‖ I slicked my lips with my tongue. ―I‘m fine.‖
―Good. I was just checking in. You know, after what happened Saturday night, you‘ve . . . you‘ve been on my mind. I would‘ve called yesterday, but I thought that was too soon and your parents—‖
I jumped in. ―My parents are away for a couple days. They left Sunday morning.‖ I explained about Meryl then said, ―So I‘ve got the house to myself until Thursday.‖
―Oh.‖ Pause. ―Well, what are you planning to do with all your free time besides read?‖
―Uhm . . . well, I‘ve started running again.‖ I screwed up my courage. ―In fact, I went over to Faring Park yesterday.‖
If he was surprised, he didn‘t sound it. ―Yeah? I run there. How‘d you do?‖ I told him and he said, ―So that‘s . . . hang on . . . about a seven-minute mile, give or take about four seconds. Not bad. You run today yet?‖
I shook my head then remembered he couldn‘t see. ―Not yet.‖
―Neither have I. Want some company?‖ He said it lightly enough and then added:
―If you‘re not too busy. No pressure. I did a long run yesterday, so I‘m going easy today, only five or so.‖
―No.‖ My heart was racing. ―I mean, sure, I‘d love some company.‖
―Great. Well, you know where the park is, right? How about we meet there in, say, an hour?‖
I said that would be cool, and he said to bring a change of clothes because he knew this little place for lunch, and then I said that sounded nice and hung up and was out the door in fifteen minutes.
Depending on how you look at it, Bob, you might say that was the worst decision of my life. Depending.
26: a
After the first mile, Mr. Anderson said, ―So how are things with your parents? I mean, in general.‖
I‘d already told him about the glacial freeze on Sunday morning, so I said, ―How do you mean?‖ We were going at an easy ten-minute-mile pace, and I had plenty of breath for talking. Not that I‘d done any, I was too tongue-tied and awkward. Before leaving, I‘d obsessed on which outfit to wear. When I‘d started running again, I‘d ordered two new pair of compression shorts, pants and matching tops, along with new shoes. The shorts were broken in, but the tops not so much and I thought the grungier I looked the better. I mean, I was run-ning—with an older man—not going on a date (which I‘d never been on anyway).
In the end, I paired navy blue compression shorts with a baby blue racerback tank that hid my grafts well enough in case I peeled a layer; a white running bra; a lightweight training jacket; and good wool socks for the trail. The day was a carbon copy of the one before, though a little cooler because Mr. Anderson had suggested a loop around Faring Lake. By the end of the first mile, my muscles were warm; I was sweating, my body moving in a comfortable rhythm, though I had to lengthen my stride a little to keep up with Mr.
Anderson‘s longer legs.