Luke
Iwoke up in Frankie’s guest room under a comforter made out of feathers and the usual invisible elephant sitting on my chest. The lady who led our group sessions at St. Joseph’s had said the “elephant sensation” might be anxiety. The idea of having anxiety just made my chest tighter, so I’d ignored her, but, yes, the elephant made things that were easy for most people hard for me. Things like being nice, enjoying substances or food in reasonable doses, believing the plots of movies, sleeping, making decisions. Never been able to get the hang of those things, even when I was a kid, and maybe never will.
Then again, some things that are hard for most people are easy for me, like waking up early, and running.
I found Frankie’s room because the door was posted with FRNKIE on a Texas license plate. I cracked it open. He grunted. I glanced at the photos on his dresser.
Frankie and his mom and dad, squinting at the Grand Canyon.
Frankie as a toddler in a cowboy hat.
Frankie and a little girl closer to his age, maybe a cousin, sitting in a sandbox.
I looked closer. The expression on the little girl’s face looked familiar, those full eyebrows, and the color of her skin, a shade darker than mine or Frankie’s. Cassie, the bartender. Huh. I didn’t realize she knew him that well.
“Running?” Frankie half whispered when I told him, lacing up my gray-green Brooks.
“Yeah, leave your back door open, okay?” I said, backing out of his room. I’d do six or seven, depending on the heat.
West Lake Hills was all downhill, dark, smooth pavement and giant, quiet mansions trickling by.
I was also good at thinking about things that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And thinking about them a lot. The thoughts usually began with a random phrase I’d heard during the week, passing through my head. Nice shot, Private. Nice shot. Nice shot.
Today it was, Well, good for you!
Well, good for me. That bartender had gotten under my skin. For once it was good, for me and for everyone. Frankie and Davies and Armando and I were out here pushing ourselves to the brink, about to face death, and it meant nothing to her. To people like her.
I realized I was running in the middle of the road. I veered back onto the sidewalk.
Why did I care what one of Frankie’s bleeding-heart friends thought of me anyway? Cassies were everywhere, especially in Austin.
The smooth pavement of Frankie’s wealthy neighborhood soon gave way to the cracked concrete of furniture stores, used-book shops, public schools. Three miles.
In sync with the sound of my feet in this thin space, lacking oxygen, my thoughts shifted. The washed-out yellows and browns of Buda rose up behind my eyes and I started hearing the voices of the people who always seemed to run with me.
Dad’s face pulsing with my breath, over and over, you dumbass, you dumbass, you dumbass. I couldn’t help comparing the Cucciolos’ spicy fresh pasta sauce from last night’s dinner to the little balls of meat he used to slap on a sheet pan. But they were hot, and they came at the same time every night. Mess-hall precision at six p.m., not one minute late. Burgers and A.1. between store-brand white bread, or nothing.
Nothing, I had started to tell Dad when I was fourteen, on my way out the door. I’ll just get something from the gas station.
On mile four, when the sun was fully up, I thought of Jake, sitting at the table alone with Dad after I’d left, night after night. I thought of Mrs. June, the history teacher who’d failed me, Coach Porter, the clerk at Mort’s.
I thought of seeing them now, what they would say. Wow, you’ve changed, Morrow. You’ve got your shit together.
Except for Jake. The door shutting in my face. I could show up in a limo as a fully ordained priest and he wouldn’t believe I’d changed. And until now, he had no reason to.
I looped back toward Frankie’s house, back up the hills, past the sprinklers turning on, past a French bulldog and a retriever and the women in spandex who walked them.
My muscles twinged but they pulled out of the grip of the sticky air. Weeks of carrying fifty extra pounds of gear, hauling my limbs over walls and under spiked wires, pushing off the ground for hours, splitting seconds until I threw up—after that, this was nothing.
Between breaths, I made my case to Jake.
I wasn’t a lazy, doped-up loner who passed out on Johnno’s couch anymore. I knew how to execute. People relied on me. I knew how to take risks and put the good of others above myself. I knew how to push away fear and do whatever it took to get the job done.
Prove it, his voice said back.
Frankie’s Spanish-style house came into view. I tapered my pace and checked my watch, panting. Seven and a half. Cut my fastest time by two seconds. The pleasure was white hot.
I’d go back to Buda as soon as I could.
