BY JANUARY I WAS HANGING OUT at Mary’s place two or three nights a week. My parents liked Mary, and I think it made them feel better that it also gave Caleb and me a break from each other so we weren’t getting into it as often. As long as I got my homework done and maintained mostly As, Mom and Dad pretty much let me come and go as I pleased.
Mary and her mother loved to cook, and between their homemade pizza and awesome Mexican, I was staying well fed. All I had to do was put together a decent playlist on the computer and wash the dishes.
After dinner Mary and I would park ourselves in front of the television. On Saturday nights we tapped into a local cable station that featured what they guaranteed were the worst movies ever produced. We watched ’60s classics like They Saved Hitler’s Brain and Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. Before each movie this flamboyant host named Montrel Sinclair, dressed in a peach suit and purple feather boa, introduced the featured film with an in-depth explanation noting the faulty plotline structures and artistic flaws that viewers should pay attention to. Mary and I would sit back and critique it for ourselves. She had a keen eye for the set and costume-design complications, while I paid attention to plot and dialogue problems.
For the most part Mary and I were acting like old people, the kind who never get off their porches to do anything. That was, until Mary’s mother began dating some new guy. Then we started getting to know each other in new ways.
When Curtis started dogging me about starting up our training again, part of me was craving the structure and discipline of a daily workout. The other part of me dreaded going back out on the roads with him and running at full throttle.
He cornered me on a Monday morning at my locker after Ohlendorf’s class. I was starving, and I wanted nothing more than to head to the cafeteria. “Your time is up, Leo Coughlin.”
“My time is up?”
“You’ve had your month’s rest,” he explained. “It’s time for you to commence winter training.”
“Come again?”
“For track,” he explained. “You’re going to be the next state champion in the 1600, Coughlin,” he informed me. “The metric mile. Track and field’s premier event. We start tomorrow.”
“The last time I checked my calendar, track didn’t begin until March,” I reminded him.
“You’re getting soft.” He laughed. “Bring your running shit tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder as he headed off to his next class. He jumped up and down a few times in the hallway and shook out his arms like a prizefighter. “I’m getting a little restless, Coughlin. It’s time to start up again.”
After school the next day, when Mary asked me if I would help her make homemade tortellini, which she explained was basically little curly pasta pillows stuffed with cheese, my stomach began growling. I seriously considered ditching Curtis, but guilt got the better of me. I knew my gut was getting soft and it was time to get my body back in shape.
When I met him in the locker room, he tossed me a Gatorade and directed me to take a seat on the bench. I laced up my shoes and prepared myself for another one of his lectures.
“You have raw talent, but you still lack the base necessary to ascend to the next level. On the other hand, I’ve got some raw talent, but I basically won state with my brute strength and cunning. You need to work on your base this winter, then come spring we’ll sharpen your speed and you’ll dominate,” he told me. “This is the hard part, my young protégé. Just grinding it out and logging miles.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
Curtis pulled out his car keys. “Let’s take a break from our customary superblock, Leo. I propose we launch our winter training season by running someplace inspiring.”
Within fifteen minutes we were out of suburbia, heading west toward Chesterfield and the Missouri River. Winter had arrived, and the light had already shifted to the blue and orange of late afternoon. Curtis reached into his backpack beside him and pulled out a plastic folder. He tossed it onto my lap.
“What’s this?”
Curtis was looking blissfully through the windshield as if the barren Missouri landscape before us was the most beautiful sight in the world. “Open it up,” he said.
Inside was a collection of letters from collegiate cross-country coaches, expressing interest in Curtis joining their programs next year.
“Wow, these guys are actually offering you scholarships?” I asked.
“No offers on the table yet,” he said casually. “Just some expressions of interest. I really don’t have much to my credit besides that state championship.”
“Christ, Curtis. Isn’t that enough?”
“For all they know, it was just a fluke. Gorsky is going to help me out and make some calls. Besides, all we’re talking about is a partial scholarship, maybe. Cross-country and track don’t exactly bring in the cash for a university like football and basketball do. We’re talking about covering the costs of room and board at most.”
“Still, do any of them interest you?” I asked.
“Sure as hell would be cool to run for Mark Wetmore in Colorado, let that mile-high altitude make me some more red blood cells, which might be all I need to take this finely tuned machine beside you to a whole new level.”
I leafed through the letters once more, recognizing the names and logos of some prestigious colleges and universities, and felt envious. “This is pretty cool, Curtis. I’m happy for you.”
“We shall see, Leo. We shall see. I show these offers to you not to be a braggart. If you pursue this fine sport with the same intensity as the runner beside thee, I have no doubt you’ll be courted with even greater rewards.”
I stared down the highway, thinking about Curtis heading away to college and not being around next year. I was happy for him but also bummed out. As much as he was a freak sometimes with the way he spoke and acted, he’d also kind of become like a big brother to me.
“What made you start running, anyway?” I asked him.
“I run to keep my demons at bay, Leo.” He sighed.
“Demons?”
“Nothing serious. I used to have a few anger-management issues when I was younger. I might have gotten a little frustrated if school didn’t move at a fast enough pace. If I wasn’t in the mood for doing something pointless or inane, I might have gotten a little defiant. Sometimes I tossed a few chairs across the classroom. I threw an occasional punch if I lost my patience with another kid because he was bugging the hell out of me. Just the usual shit they don’t tolerate in school.”
“So when did you start running?”
“I finally had a counselor in middle school who suggested I go for a run every morning before school.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say that running took the edge off. Plus I realized I was pretty good at it. I was never too good at anything that had to do with throwing or kicking a ball, but I could run. By the time I was in eighth grade, I was the fastest runner in the school.” He glanced over, squinted his left eye, and wagged his index finger at me. “Still am the fastest, as a matter of fact, Leo. Don’t forget that.”
“No more anger issues?”
“Nope. Running made me a changed man. How about you, Leo? Tell me about your demons.”
“I don’t have any demons,” I lied.
“C’mon, Coughlin. Everyone has demons.”
“No demons in my life yet,” I assured him. “I guess when they show up, I’ll be able to kick your ass.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Curtis turned onto a dirt road and parked at a trailhead.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“We’re near the boundary of one of our county’s most unique golf courses, my friend—the Landings at Spirit Golf Club,” he explained in a snooty tone. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret: for eight months of the year, this is a closely guarded piece of real estate, but for the next few months we have the opportunity to take advantage of these plush fairways for some prime training.”
“That sounds like trespassing,” I told him.
“Correct.”
We parked the car and began our run. The ground was firm, and the dead grass and bare trees against winter’s gray sky provided a fantastic backdrop for the next hour. “We’ll do a little half-hour jog, then do tee to greens—running at an aggressive pace from one tee box down the fairway to the green, then a short recovery jog to the next tee box,” he explained. “Think of it as a round of golf without clubs. As far as I’m concerned, this is the only good use for a golf course.”
It didn’t take long for us to pick up the pace and push each other. By the eighth hole we were hauling ass. The grass felt awesome under my feet, and the winter air felt clean and crisp inside my lungs. We were going flat out down the last fairway when a four-point buck darted from the forest just fifty meters in front of us.
“Check that out,” Curtis said. “That’s why I come here.”
The buck was in midstride when it suddenly stopped and fell to its side. The shaft and quill of an arrow were plunged deeply inside its heart.
Two men in camouflage came hooting and howling from the woods in celebration. They were big guys with round guts and long hair, unshaven, with bows slung over their shoulders and toting a couple of Budweisers.
Curtis and I halted. I looked at the fallen buck, its torso still rising and falling slowly, its legs still clawing at the earth as it clung to life. One of the guys pulled a pistol from his pack, ready to finish off the job.
“What the hell!” Curtis yelled, his voice echoing in the cold air.
The men finally realized they were not alone on the golf course. One tossed his empty can onto the grass, reached into his backpack for another beer, and popped it open with a loud hiss.
“This isn’t your business, boy,” he told Curtis calmly. “So why don’t you and your little faggot friend just run along.”
“You can’t just frickin’ kill a deer here on this golf course!” Curtis screamed.
The two men just looked at each other and laughed. One reached into his pocket and removed a card from his wallet. “This here license sure seems to say that I can.” He took another sip of his beer.
“Let me see that,” Curtis said, walking toward them. I stayed still. These guys were starting to make me nervous.
The other guy pulled an arrow from his quill and casually ran his fingers along the shaft. “Run along now, boy.”
“I doubt that crappy piece of paper allows you to pop a deer on this property,” Curtis said.
“I do believe you’ve made my friend upset,” the other said. “Now before things get ugly, I suggest you turn around and run on back where you came from, and forget about anything you might’ve seen here today. We’re just a couple of honest men trying to put some food on the table for our families.”
The guy with the arrow in his hand pointed it at us. “Go on,” he said. “You all be good little boys and go on home.”
Curtis slowly turned toward me. “Let’s go,” he mumbled. When we were far enough away to feel safe, he couldn’t help himself. He turned and yelled, “Assholes!”
Three seconds later an arrow whistled into the three meters separating us. We took off running, hearing rolls of laughter behind us as a final stab of humiliation.
We reached the safety of the forest bordering the golf course and turned back to look. One man had hold of the deer’s front legs, the other guy held its hind ones, and they were dragging the deer across the fairway toward the forest. Their empty beer cans lay crushed on the grass.
I didn’t say anything to Curtis until we were back in the car heading home. “That sure was a great place to run,” I said, trying to make light of the situation. “Maybe we can come back here tomorrow and run with bows and arrows and capture our dinner,” I suggested.
Curtis pounded the steering wheel. “Assholes,” he repeated.
As we rounded the bend, we saw an old pickup parked on the shoulder. Curtis pulled over. He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a tire iron. I closed my eyes and shook my head. I heard glass shatter once and, a few seconds later, again. I heard his feet crunch gravel and the tire iron clank into the trunk. Curtis was whistling a happy tune when he climbed back into the car.
“I thought running was supposed to help you with your anger management,” I half joked.
“That wasn’t anger, Leo,” he calmly stated. “That was justice.”
“So that’s winter training?” I asked.
“Look at it this way,” he said. “It can only get better.”
Five miles from the school, we spotted a lone figure loping along on the side of the highway. Caleb.
“Who runs on the shoulder of a highway?” Curtis asked.
“I think we did the same thing once. Only we were wearing swimsuits.”
“Point taken,” he admitted before glancing out the window and realizing who the runner was.
“Holy shit,” he said. “Is that Caleb?”
I nodded.
“Should I pull over?”
I shook my head.
“He’s pretty damn far from your house,” he reminded me.
I nodded.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Whatever,” he said. “Running must be in your family’s blood.”
I watched Caleb’s image disappear in the rearview mirror, and I hoped that running might start to help him keep his demons at bay.