Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (4 page)

"I don't see it."

"Maisy is terribly concerned about appearing
invincible to the public. Hence our concern about confidentiality
with Tommy and with you."

Bacall dropped both the tone and the pace of his
voice. "And there is another factor too. Some time ago, Tommy
told me about your wife, John. It's precisely because of your
experience that Maisy might let you look into this for her."

I shifted in my chair. "Spell it out."

As Bacall hesitated, Roja said, "Mr. Cuddy, we
respect your decision in your own life. What Alec means is that the
professor would not speak to most investigators we could find, but
she would be . . . interested in you."

"Because she'd see me as a whipping boy for her
own views?"

"No," said Bacall. "Because she'd see
you as someone who understood her views but hadn't embraced them.
She'd find that . . . interesting, as Inés said."

"And if I don't especially feel like being a
convert-in-waiting?"

Bacall sat up straighter. "I imagine that you
often have to pose as someone other than who you are. We aren't
asking that here. We're simply asking that you be yourself, the man
Tommy described to me, so that Maisy will receive the professional
help she requires despite herself."

There was a certain dignity in the way Bacall made
his argument. He seemed to care as much about stating his position
accurately as about ultimately persuading me of it.

Roja said, "Please, Mr. Cuddy?"

"Okay, I'l1 meet with her. Then it's her
decision and my decision from there."

Bacall said he'd call me at home that night with
details. Roja just said thank you.
 

=4=

MONDAY MORNING THE CLOCK RADIO WOKE ME UP AT
SIX-THIRTY. I had stayed at the office for a while Sunday afternoon,
then walked home via Newbury Street to do some window shopping toward
Nancy's Christmas. By the time I'd gotten back to the condo, Alec
Bacall had left a message on my telephone tape machine, telling me to
come to the law school by ten-thirty A.M. Monday and ask the security
guard for Inés Roja. The four hours gave me plenty of time. After
using the bathroom, I heeded the weather forecast by pulling on a
T-shirt and Puma shorts under an outer layer of sweatshirt and sweat
pants with elastic cuffs. I laced up the running shoes I'd broken in
over the prior few months and contemplated my first training run
toward the marathon.

The longest distance I'd ever done before was a
little under six miles, but that was in the summer, when I carried
less weight. I figured the seven or so miles to Harvard Square and
back would be just the ticket for burning off the extra pounds from
Thanksgiving. I figured wrong.

The condo I rented was in the rear of a brownstone on
the corner of Beacon and Fairfield. Coming out the front door of my
building, I could just about see the pedestrian ramp rising above
Storrow Drive to the running and biking paths along the Charles
River. The wind was blowing fifteen miles an hour from a northeastern
sky that understudied snow, the temperature in the high twenties.

As I approached the ramp, a homeless man sat against
the foundation of the expensive high-rise catercorner from my
brownstone. He was wearing a bunch of tatty sweaters under a brown
tweed sport jacket. The jacket's seams burst across the shoulders, a
wilted red carnation in the lapel. His soiled Washington Redskins
watch cap was pulled over the ears, his eyeglasses taped at the nose
and both temples. He waved to me as I passed him on the other side of
the street. I waved back, crossed over Storrow on the ramp, and
started west.

Halfway to Harvard Square. I'd already perspired
through the T-shirt and into the sweats. At the Larz Anderson bridge,
I decided to turn around instead of going uphill into the square
itself. Even so, as soon as I reversed direction, I was running into
the teeth of the wind. Soaking wet.

My hands got cold first.

My feet got cold next.

My legs chimed in third.

By the time I reached the Boston University bridge,
maybe a mile and a half to go, my head and chest both hurt. My pace
flagged, meaning more steps to finish, but I didn't see that I had
much choice. I wheezed to the Massachusetts Avenue bridge, breaking
down to a trot and finally a walk. A fast walk, because as soon as I
stopped running, my teeth began to chatter.

There are a few public benches upriver of the
Fairfield ramp. The bum in the Redskins hat was sitting on one of
them. As I drew even with him, my right calf cramped. I stopped
walking to stand still on it, then tried to stretch it, using a tree
as support for my palms. A voice behind me said, "A little of
that beforehand'd do you a world of good."

I turned my head. The bum on the bench nodded.
Without replying, I turned my head back to the tree.

He said, "Might also run into the wind first.
You won't sweat so much, and on the homeward leg, you'll be going
with her and feeling cozy."

I gritted my teeth and over my shoulder said,
"Right."

"But consider the source, eh?"

This time I turned completely around. The man's voice
had the singsong quality of Frank Perdue hucking chickens. The eyes
behind the glasses were alert, almost jovial. What hair I could see
sticking out from under the hat looked black and gray, the three-day
growth on his cheeks and chin grayer still.

I said, "Sorry. Thanks for the advice."

"Another thing?"

"Yeah?"

"You won't ever get to the marathon, much less
finish her, without changing your stride some."

Watching him, I put my fists on my hips and tried
walking gingerly. The cramp was still there, but not as compelling.
"The marathon."

"That's right."

"What makes you think I'm aiming at that?"

"Everything. It's cold enough, the fair-weather
folks are on treadmills or stationary bikes somewheres, comparing
their portfolios with the person next to them. You're out here, early
enough in the morning, but you obviously don't know how far you can
go in this weather and that kind of outfit. Or much about your own
endurance curve and how to build it. Oh, the shoes are beat up, so
you haven't been on your dead ass all year, but basically you don't
have a clue how to condition yourself."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. You're the right age too."

I stared at him. "The right age."

"Yeah. The age where you start wondering, 'Can I
really do it?' That wondering, that gives you the look."

"I've got the look too, huh?"

"Like Rocky in that first training scene, where
he gets to the monument steps and looks like he's maybe gonna
infarct."

I laughed. Which made me shiver and reminded me how
cold I was. I shook my head and turned to go.

"One suggestion about that stride?"

I stopped. "Yeah?"

"Man your size has to lengthen his stride a
little, cover more ground. Otherwise, you're gonna pound your knees
to powder, all the steps you'll be taking in training. Only two ways
to lengthen the stride. One's to lunge with the front foot. Bad in
more ways than you got time to hear. Other way's to push off with
your back foot a little more, use the quads at the front of your
thighs to kind of launch that back leg into the next stride. Try
that, the longer distances'll come a little easier."

Made sense. "Thanks again."

The man stood up. In a quieter voice he said, "Better
get yourself inside and warm now," and began moving upriver,
hands in the side pockets of his jacket.

I said, "Hey?"

"Yeah'?"

"Why all the free advice?"

The man stopped, turned partway. I didn't think he
was going to say anything, then he spoke quickly. "When I was
sitting against that skyscraper over there?"

"Yes'?"

A shrug and the quieter
voice again. "You waved back."

* * *

After showering I wolfed down a couple of English
muffins and a quart of ice water. I put on a suit and tie, then
started walking to the South End.

Boston has law schools like New York has museums,
seven all told. Harvard is Harvard. Boston College and Boston
University are both solid institutions often confused with each other
by people from out of state. The schools with the most interesting
histories are New England (founded to give women the opportunity to
study law) and Suffolk (founded to give male immigrants the same).
Northeastern's co-op program fills the niche for people who want to
alternate school and on-the-job training.

Mass Bay thought it could fill a niche too. In the
late sixties some entrepreneurs figured they could prosper on the
baby boomers' abject horror of graduating college and having nowhere
to spend their parents' remaining money. Even though both New England
and Suffolk offered long-established evening divisions, Mass Bay felt
it also could cash in on full-time employees who wanted part-time law
study. After getting back from Vietnam, I was one.

Given that my stipend under the G.I. Bill would cover
most of the tuition, a career counselor at Empire allowed as how it
wouldn't be a bad idea for me to do one year of law school. I chose
Mass Bay because I hadn't been what you'd call a scholar during my
undergraduate days at Holy Cross. Also, I did about as well on
standardized tests like the LSAT as Ray Charles would shooting skeet.
The only standardized number Mass Bay cared about was 98.6, and the
school was located within blocks of Empire's office tower. At the end
of the year my grades were a little better than average, but I knew
the law and I would not enjoy each other over the course of a
lifetime. So I simply didn't register the following fall.

Mass Bay's first and only building was a converted
armory, the facade of pink granite and turrets still impressive. The
security desk was just inside the entrance, only a few students
sitting on plastic chairs in a linoleum lobby.

"Help you?" said the guard, a pensioner
with a green uniform shirt, khaki pants, and no tie or badge.

The clock on the wall told me I was ten minutes late.
"I'm here to see Inés Roja."

The guard moved something around in his mouth. "Good
luck to you." He pushed a button on an old — fashioned
switchboard and said into the receiver, "Inés, you expecting
somebody? . . . Didn't say . . ." He looked up at me. "Yeah,
yeah, that's him .... Right."

Hanging up, he pointed to the elevator at the back of
the lobby. The only elevator. "Take that to three and turn left.
Can't miss it."

"Thanks. Kind of quiet, isn't it?"

"Kids are out for Christmas already, you can
believe it. We're in special session now." He spoke the phrase
the way a prison guard would say "rehabilitation therapy."

When the elevator doors opened on three, Inés Roja
didn't give me a chance to turn left.

Pulling back the cuffed sleeve of a copper-colored
suit, she checked her watch. "The professor teaches at eleven. I
will take you to the classroom. After that you and she can return to
the office to talk."

"Wait a minute. I'm going to sit through a whole
class hour before I talk with her?"

"It will not be as long as an hour. It is the
initial meeting of special session, so it will be short. The
professor wants you to see her in the classroom. Please?"

Roja got on the elevator with me, and we rode down to
the second floor. She indicated a door marked 205. The room I'd sat
in for my first-year courses.

"Please, go in and make yourself comfortable."

From what I remembered about 205, that would be quite
a trick.
 

=5=

"TAKE YOUR SEATS, PLEASE.”

Shuffling mixed with comments and laughter as thirty
or so students arranged themselves in the classroom that could hold
seventy-five. Unlike my day, the ratio of women to men was now almost
fifty-fifty.

The room itself hadn't changed, though. Floor flat
rather than pitched, tiled rather than carpeted. Fixed, narrow tables
in straight lines. Fixed, narrow benches as well, the backs too low
and at right angles to seats too shallow. It was as though an
extraterrestrial designer had been told the function of the room
without being shown the human bodies that would occupy it for hours
at a time.

A slightly raised Stage was centered at the front of
the room, a blackboard on the wall behind Maisy Andrus. She looked at
her notes on the podium, then looked at us and said, "Welcome to
the special session course, Ethics and Society."

Andrus came down off the stage and began moving
around the room, a trial attorney opening to the jury. She was even
more imposing at floor level. Nearly six feet tall in one-inch heels,
she had auburn hair swept up from her ears and back behind her neck.
sprigs of gray here and there. The face was boxy but attractive.
Germanic or Scandinavian in cast.

Andrus wore a yellow sweater-dress gathered loosely
by a teal sash at the waist, the hem riding a bit above her knees.
She spoke about the required text, office hours, and other
housekeeping details of the course. Her manner reminded me of a black
Special Forces captain in basic training who ran the TTIS, the
Tactical Training of the Individual Soldier, the most miserable
obstacle course I ever experienced.