Resolve (9 page)

I knew where Kaitlyn would be, so I headed in that direction being closely trailed by panting and tail-wagging. She inhaled sharply and swiveled her chair in my direction when she sensed someone entering her den. She had been engrossed in some psychology journal displayed on her computer monitor. A CD playing Brahms had drowned out my footsteps and Sigmund’s tap dancing.

“You scared me! I didn’t hear you come in.”

Sigmund was still attached to me, investigating my pant leg to make sure I hadn’t been unfaithful with some other dog.

“I decided to come home and get an early start on the weekend.”

I walked over and my wife raised her head enough for me to give her a peck on the lips. Her form-fitting jeans and low-cut top told me that she didn’t have any appointments this afternoon. It was already three o’clock and she rarely saw patients after five.

“I should be finished here in about an hour or so. I was thinking we could go grab some dinner at Garcia’s tonight. If we go early, we shouldn’t have trouble getting a table.”

Normally, I would never have passed up a trip to my favorite restaurant.

“I don’t know. I thought we might stay in. How about we try going there tomorrow?” I leaned over and scratched Sigmund behind an ear.

“You
don’t want to go to Garcia’s? Something’s wrong. Want to talk about it?” Pointing to the monitor, she added, “This can wait, I’ll make the time.” She gestured toward another chair in the room as if it were a couch set aside for her patients.

I love Kaitlyn with all my heart, but I should have been drawn and quartered for marrying a psychologist.

“It’s okay. Just a rough day. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Seriously, I’ve got the time. Have a seat.”

“Later.”

I walked out of the room and down the hallway to the kitchen. Sigmund apparently didn’t want to be analyzed either and joined me in my act of civil disobedience. I grabbed a Yuengling from the refrigerator, stood at the island in the center of the kitchen, and cracked open the beer. I tossed the cap down on the island and the metallic rattling sound caused Sigmund’s head to snap up and tilt to one side.

I took a couple of sips of the beer, and walked out onto the deck at the rear of the house. We chose this house because it backed up to a completely wooded area on the outskirts of the development, and the perceived isolation was blissful. The yard ran downhill from the house, which made mowing the lawn a brutal task; but the view that opened up over the small gully was worth it. Sigmund took off down the stairs of the deck in pursuit of some imaginary squirrel or groundhog. The clouds that blanketed the day had left town and abducted the cold wind in the process. The temperature had reached the mid-fifties, and the afternoon was as pleasant for a March day as could be expected in this region.

“How long have we been married?”

It was Kaitlyn’s turn to catch me off-guard. Her feet were bare and I didn’t hear any footsteps.

“About a decade. But every day with you is a honeymoon.”

I could still get away with cheesy comments like that. She’s always had the remarkable ability to not lose her temper with me even when I deserve it—which is pretty often.

She smiled and walked toward me as I leaned on the rail of the deck and continued, “And would you say that you know me pretty well at this point?”

I nodded.

“And has there ever been anything, anything at all, even the slightest hint in my behavior that would lead you to believe that I would let you stew in silence when something is bothering you?”

I smiled back.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then start talking. And just be grateful that I’m not charging you my standard fee.”

I took another sip of beer and told her the entire story, including what I didn’t tell Jacob. He didn’t need to know about Lindsay’s advances toward me, but I couldn’t keep that from Kaitlyn. Full disclosure is the only way to have a real marriage. I told her about Lindsay’s office visit, the interview with the police, their suspicions about Steven, and my carelessness in revealing his secret. She listened patiently, didn’t interrupt once, and carried the perfect look of empathy on her face.

I started to wrap things up by telling her about my plans to see Dean Silo on Monday, and how Jacob was going to try to soften him up before the meeting. I finished my account of the last two days along with my beer.

Kaitlyn slowly paced the deck as she worked through the details in her mind—the psychologist debating with the wife, trying to agree on what responses to give. A minute passed and then she finalized organizing her rolodex of thoughts on the matter.

“I assume if Steven files a complaint, the university will be concerned about liability.”

“Yep.”

“And if liability is an issue for an organization, the organization will have to demonstrate that it has taken steps to correct the cause of the liability.”

“Yep.”

“And you are the cause.”

“Yep.”

With a roll of her eyes she asked, “Don’t you get paid to talk to people for a living?”

“Yep.”

Another minute passed as she wore out the boards under our feet.

“And this girl, Lindsay—how old was she?”

“About twenty-two, I guess.”

“And how old are you?”

“Thirty-nine going on twenty-five.”

“Was she good looking?”

“Yep.”

“Why would she be hitting on you?”

I simulated Sigmund’s head tilt.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“Nothing personal, baby, you’re good looking and all, but a girl like that usually has an agenda. Girls who chase after older guys are usually . . . troubled.”

“I don’t know,” I said, as I looked out into the yard and watched the dog sniff a particularly interesting blade of grass. “She was a good student. I can’t imagine how she would have benefited. Other than the obvious.” I flamboyantly formed my right arm into an “L” shape and flexed a bicep.

The jab in my diaphragm turned the “L” into a backwards “7” and I found myself thankful that she was taller than Sigmund.

“Stop it. This is serious.” She stepped up to the rail beside me, and we watched Sigmund make himself comfortable on a part of the hill warmed by the sun. “Silo already hates you. And we’re okay with money, but not to the point that you can be unemployed long.”

I noticed that a small yellow bird had landed on a tree branch just outside of the fence line. I wondered if it was a finch and made a mental note to go online later to look it up.

“It will be alright,” I said unconvincingly. “I’ll talk to Silo on Monday and, if necessary, throw myself on the mercy of the court.”

“And don’t be a smart ass.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And don’t insult him in any subtle way. Don’t even imply.”

“Don’t worry. If I insult him I’ll be perfectly up-front about it.”

The bird flew away, probably sensing the stare of death being sent in my direction.

“I’m kidding. I’ll be good. Besides, maybe Steven won’t make a formal complaint. Maybe he won’t even be that upset. Hell, I could luck out and he won’t even hear about it.”

And maybe Sigmund would get nominated to the Supreme Court.

Mile 6

T
o make sure people don’t take shortcuts during the race, electronic timing mats are strategically placed on different parts of the course. We crossed one at the beginning of the race and the timing strips attached to our shoes allowed a computer to start the clock on each of us. The second mat is stretched out across Brighton Road as we make our exit out of West Park. A computer records the times of those of us still running. Our participation will be electronically accounted for in this perspiring roll call to guarantee the integrity of the race.

Just past the mat, three scaffolds are erected in the middle of the street. On the scaffolds stand the official race photographers. They take still shots with machine-gun speed and make sure to get a photo of every runner. In a few days, the photos will be posted on a website with the word
SAMPLE
emblazoned across it. People will be able to buy the unscarred photos for a hefty price. I weave around one of the towers and nod to a sniping photographer.

After being scanned like items at a grocery store and photographed like mafia dons under FBI surveillance, we move past a children’s museum and make a turn toward the Andy Warhol Museum which sits in front of a bridge also named for the famous artist. I have to tick off mile markers and landmarks in this way. If you start thinking about the fact that you have twenty miles to go, the concept is too overwhelming mentally and you’ll never finish.

Mental, physical, environmental—all of the challenges you face in a marathon can be put into one of those three categories. You can train to overcome the physical. You can do your best to dress right for the environmental. But, conquering the mental aspect is tricky for most people. For some reason it clicked with me from the beginning. The systematic and disciplined way you have to envision things on long runs appealed to me immediately when I took up this hobby. Which is strange considering
systematic and disciplined
was nowhere in the room when this madness was conceived.

I
n a short amount of time, Kaitlyn had vastly improved my life. We bought a small house and quickly adjusted to living together. Both of us felt we were a perfect fit for each other, and for once I loved going home after work. Going to work, on the other hand, still made my stomach tighten; and while I didn’t take any more sick days, I was still looking for a profound idea to present itself.

One night I was attending an informal group counseling session at a local bar with one of my coworkers (I had started socializing with people again). We were deep into a highly intellectual conversation with our career consultant, Mr. Johnnie Walker Red, when one of us noticed a running shoe commercial on the TV over the bar. There were people jogging—young people, old people, black, white, tall, short. They all looked weirdly happy as they bounced around, bounded over park benches, and laughed while their happy dogs trailed behind.

One of us, I don’t remember who, slurred, “Wee should start wunning!”

A voice replied, “Are you kidding? I bet yourr couldn’t wwun a mile!”

And then a voice lisped, “I . . . I’aam gonna run a marathon! Am you’re gonna do it wit me.”

I’m pretty sure Johnny W. must have said that last thing.

I wasn’t anything close to being a runner at the time. I mean I had run when I had to at the police academy or in pursuit of a suspect, but mostly for me it was all about hitting the weights or the heavy bag a few times a week. Running long distances? That was what cars were invented to prevent. However, the idea of facing a new challenge somehow resonated with me.

I started my training over the next few weeks. First, I began by doing what I’d always done with anything new to me. I studied it to death. I mean I studied
everything
I could about distance running. I gulped down everything on the internet. I gorged on every relevant book in the library. I inhaled every running magazine I could find. I became bilingual: in addition to speaking “Human,” I learned to speak “Runner.”

I became educated on all of the technical terms and acronyms for every injury and treatment I might possibly encounter. Iliotibial band syndrome = ITBS. Chronic exertional compartment syndrome = CECS. Plantar fasciitis = PF. Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, a.k.a. Ibuprophen = NSAIDs. Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation = RICE. So if you are hoping to set a PR and have ITBS, CECS, or PF and they can’t be treated with NSAIDs and RICE, then you’re SOL. Got it?

My coworker had long given up by the time I signed up to run the Marshall University Marathon. I affixed a spreadsheet to the refrigerator and Kaitlyn watched in disbelief as I chalked up my weekly mileage. Each week I added two or three miles to my weekly total. Before I knew it, I was knocking out six-mile runs on my
easy
days.

I can’t say exactly why, but this undertaking made absolute sense to me. It was so simple, yet challenging. You move forward, tick off another mile, move forward some more, repeat, repeat, repeat. It changed everything.

From that point on, when I was handed a thick stack of folders representing new probationers, I found myself thinking,
No problem. I can run ten miles. I can handle this.
I exhausted myself during the days and slept like a sedated narcoleptic at night. I started to eat better. I drank less alcohol. In short, I became a better man. My body transformed from bulky to lean. Even on the days I didn’t run I lifted weights and crunched my abs into submission.

The MU race offered me views of the West Virginia portion of the Ohio River Valley along with a mixture of city streets and inviting parks. The major selling point of this small marathon was finishing inside of the university’s football stadium while carrying a football for the last hundred yards. For a first-time marathoner, having your name announced over the stadium speakers and seeing yourself on the jumbo-sized video board in the end zone is well worth the registration fee. Who am I kidding? I would still think it was cool if it were my fiftieth marathon.