Runner in Red Read online

  “You’re letting anger rule your life.”

  “Anger doesn’t rule me.”

  “Then why is revenge so important to you.”

  “I’m looking for my mother.”

  “Yes, so you can embarrass Pop. But Roman is the one getting the revenge, Bridget, on both of us.”

  He pulled out a copy of a running shoe advertisement from his suit pocket. She glanced at the page, but was unimpressed.

  “I know all about this. So what if he bought a shoe company.”

  “He wants you to find the Runner in Red so the media will descend on Pop, showing how ‘Pop Lied,’ or some story along those lines. He’ll showcase his shoes under the white-hot glare of that story—making himself the advocate for women first. Then you know what he’ll do with you, he’ll flip you—the way he’ll flip the shoe company after he extracts his profit. I had him on ‘Runners’ Delight.’ I know how he operates.’” Jack paused before continuing. “But the real tragedy will be that you’ll kill your relationship with Ellen, and for what good purpose?”

  “I can never forgive you, Jack.”

  “What, for barging in on you two today?”

  “No, for what you did to me with Ellen in Oregon.”

  This froze Jack in his tracks, and he was powerless to follow her as Bridget pushed past him on the crowded sidewalk, and I had to quicken my step to catch her.

  “When are you going to the nursing home?” Stan said, as Bridget and I sat in her office at Channel 6 early the next morning. She kept eyeing the phone, as if that would make it ring.

  “As soon as Roman calls with the address, we’re going. I’ve got the car all gassed up.”

  “Ellen’s running the New York City Marathon tomorrow, you know. She called a little while ago to ask if you would be joining them.”

  Before Bridget could answer Ellen appeared in her office doorway.

  “Well?” Ellen said, but Bridget looked away. “You coming with us, Mom. Dad’s in the car outside.”

  “And Pop?”

  “He’s in the car, too.”

  “I have a project, Ellen. And a deadline.”

  Ellen shook her blonde head, as if trying to shake off shackles that entangled her. “I can’t believe it. I have a chance to win the New York City Marathon tomorrow and you don’t even want to be there to watch me.”

  “I didn’t say that, honey. I have an appointment.”

  The phone rang and it was Roman, on speaker. He gave the address of Sister Josephine’s nursing home in a small town in upstate New York near Albany. But before he hung up he said, “Bridget, time’s a premium.”

  Ellen handed a small box to Bridget after Bridget hung up with Roman. “Here’s your Boston Marathon medal back, Mom. I went to Philadelphia earlier this fall to return it to you, but the delivery got side-tracked.”

  She shot me a look, none too kind.

  “I gave this medal to you, honey, when you were in high school. It was my gift to you.”

  “And now I’m giving it back!”

  Bridget took the box and slipped it into her pocketbook. Ellen turned and walked to the door, but Bridget jumped up from her desk and took a position in front of the door to block her exit.

  “Wait,” Bridget said, and the two stared at each other a long hard moment, looking like two champions from different eras dueling on the hills.

  “Why should I wait for you, Mom, when you just showed me how easy it is for you to abandon me?”

  Ellen brushed by her mom and I ran to catch her as she stepped out the station’s front door, but she spoke before I could say anything.

  “It’s too late,” she said.

  “No, it’s not. I can turn her around.”

  “I don’t mean with her. I mean with you.”

  “Me?”

  “You haven’t done one thing to help. You haven’t taken one step to turn her around like you promised me you would.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you! I’ve become a damn marathon expert. It takes 41,600 steps to run a marathon, but you haven’t taken one step toward me.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Every step is away. You need time, you say, but I’ve gotten calluses on my fingertips from all the times I’ve rung the bell at Pop’s house to talk to you, but you don’t answer.”

  “You want to talk to me? Fine,” she said, and she pointed to the sedan where Jack sat behind the wheel and Pop sat in the back seat. “Come with me, you can talk to me in the car.”

  “I’ll come. But I promised your mom I’d do something with her first.”

  “Oh, same bullshit,” she said, and she elbowed her way past me. Then she climbed into the backseat with Pop and she didn’t look back as the car pulled away.

  “Does she hate me?” Bridget said, when I returned to her office.

  “You and me.”

  “I’m sorry to entangle you in this, Colin.”

  “You can’t hate Pop and love Ellen simultaneously, Bridget. Lines not parallel eventually cross and collide.”

  “You don’t have to take this job with me anymore.”

  “No. I made my choice, and I’m in the middle now. Damn it, I’m not going to quit. But do give me the Maloney luxury of throwing a public fucking fit.”

  I slammed the door, hard. Bang!

  The two receptionists at the front desk pretended not to hear and they smiled politely as I hurried past them on my way out the front door. But I didn’t get twenty feet into the parking lot before Bridget caught me, and took me by the elbow.

  “She’s falling in love with you,” she said.

  “Hardly.”

  “I know my daughter. She wouldn’t give a double-barrel blast to just any Joe.”

  I stared at her, letting the line sink in.

  “Walk around a bit, cool off. I’ll get the car, then we go to work.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The tiny nun who greeted us Saturday afternoon at the door of the nursing home in the sleepy mountain town in upstate New York west of Albany lamented how beautiful Sister had once been.

  “Like a little flower. She was so young. So pretty.”

  “I remember,” Bridget said.

  “But she’s slipping fast and I don’t think it would be wise for you to visit with her today.” The nun told how Sister Josephine had experienced a rough night the night before and had been groggy all day. “Early morning is the best. Would it be possible for you to come tomorrow at 7 am?”

  We told her that would be no problem and we stayed at one of those economy hotels. We made an early night of it and returned Sunday morning at first light. The tiny nun welcomed us and told us Sister Josephine was doing much better.

  Technically Josephine’s religious order did not have to accept her into the small brick nursing home nestled in the thick woods across from the Massachusetts line. She had quit the religious life in the 70s after an incident in Boston, but influential people from southern California—where she had worked for nearly a quarter-century teaching children in south-central L.A.—had made arrangements for her to return home to her order in New England, according to the tiny nun.

  “You knew her well?” the nun said, as she led us to the second floor.

  “She was my lifeline,” Bridget said. “Is it Alzheimer’s? I read the report.”

  “Yes, but she can be lucid. She has good moments and she had one in California obviously, because she told them she wanted to come home. Hopefully she will be lucid today. Don’t be disappointed though if she doesn’t recognize you. Her sister came to visit last month, but after she left Josephine couldn’t remember the visit.”

  I looked at Bridget, who was thinking Delia Delaney—same as me—and I read the trepidation in her step as we entered Josephine’s dimly-
lit room on the second floor of the old house.

  “Bridget!” said Josephine, who raised her head off her pillow and held out her hands. “Look! It’s my dear Bridget.”

  The tiny nun put a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe this, she remembers you.”

  “Sister,” Bridget said, and she took her mentor’s hand, as tears appeared in both their eyes.

  “This is a miracle,” said the tiny nun.

  Bridget stood beside Josephine’s bed and touched her old friend’s cheek. “You look wonderful, Sister.”

  “Oh, I’ve had a time of it,” Josephine said, managing a smile.

  “It’s been so long.”

  “It has. Are you still mad at your father, dear?”

  “Yes, Sister. Unhappily, I am.”

  “And he’s mad at you still?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  She smiled. “You know what they say about an Irishman with Alzheimer’s, don’t you?” Bridget smiled that Sister could joke about herself. “They forget everything but their grudges.”

  “I can’t believe this,” said the tiny nun. “Wait till I tell Reverend Mother.”

  Bridget sat on the corner of Josephine’s bed and they talked, mostly about how much fun they had had in high school.

  “Did you do something with your talent, I hope?”

  “I’m a television reporter.”

  Sister beamed. “Oh, good. You’ve won awards, I’m sure.”

  “I have, Sister. But...”

  Sister had deep-set green eyes which were glossy from age and the effects of her illness. Her face was gaunt and deeply lined, but when she smiled at Bridget her eyes gained luster. “Yes, I know my top student. You’ve come to tell me something, yes?”

  “No, to ask you, Sister Josephine.”

  “Please. If you’ve come to ask me, do.”

  Bridget glanced at the tiny nun, who nodded, yes, and Bridget handed Sister Josephine the photo of the three nuns.

  “Oh,” Sister said. “Oh, my!”

  “Do you remember this?”

  “I do. It was taken the day we buried our father, rest his soul.”

  “Is that my mother with you, Sister?”

  A flash of light crossed Sister’s eyes, but a hint of pain also. “Yes. It is.”

  She and Bridget stared at one another, a mountain of memories to match the mountains out the window, as Sister Josephine looked away. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

  “That’s OK,” Bridget said, and she took the photo back.

  “Margaret never wanted us to tell you. I’m sorry if I hurt you by keeping her secret.”

  “Margaret?” Bridget said, and she handed the photo to Sister again.

  “Is this my mother? Delia Delaney?”

  “No, child. Delia’s your aunt. Margaret is your mother.”

  “I’m sorry, Sister. I don’t understand.”

  “Your mother, Margaret, is on my left in the picture. In the white robe. Delia and I have the black robes. Margaret is younger than me. Five years, ten. I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”

  “Are you sure?” Bridget said, her eyes showing concern that she might be pushing Sister too far.

  “I feel terrible I kept this from you when you were a girl in school. But that was Margaret’s wish. She didn’t want us to take any chance of hurting you.”

  Again Bridget hesitated before asking, “Can you tell me now?”

  “Yes. Let me tell you everything. Margaret wouldn’t mind, since Margaret’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Margaret gave birth to you when she was sixteen. She was so young, so scared. Poppa was furious when he discovered she was pregnant. Delia agreed to put her name on your form. Not the birth certificate, but on the Consent Form. That appeased Poppa somewhat, since Delia was older, and it would eliminate the crime issue.”

  “Crime?”

  “Yes. A girl, sixteen. Having a baby. Delia was nineteen. We tried to tell Poppa it was not a crime for a girl, but he wouldn’t listen. He insisted that Delia be listed on the form.”

  “They altered my birth certificate?”

  “No, they altered the Consent Form, don’t ask me how. Poppa knew men at the firehouse who could get things done.”

  “Then what?”

  “Poppa would not permit Margaret to stay in his house again. We had lost Momma to pneumonia two winters earlier and there was no one to placate Poppa. He refused to consider Margaret as his daughter anymore for the embarrassment she had caused him at the firehouse, to have a baby at sixteen. The way the men joked about it at the firehouse, playing him for a fool, not the firemen but the hangers-on.”

  “Who’s my father, Sister?”

  “I don’t know. I never knew, dear. I think Delia knows. She might, since she offered to let them use her name. I’m sorry, it was so long ago, I’m sorry, I have a difficult time remembering everything.”

  “How did the Gallaghers get me?”

  “Denis Gallagher offered to take you. That I know.”

  “Pop offered? “

  “Yes. He knew Poppa from Knights of Columbus. He knew Poppa was in a fix, that he was going to make Margaret give up her baby, and Mr. Gallagher offered to help Poppa.”

  “He offered to adopt me? Pop did?”

  “Yes. It was unheard of in those days, for a young girl to keep her baby after she got in trouble. I was at the convent then, and I don’t recall much. But I remember Pop Gallagher came to the house one night and I was there. I remember Margaret’s tears, and Delia comforting her. Mr. Gallagher offered to help, thank God for him, that at least you went to a family where I could watch you grow.”

  “So Pop Gallagher took me?”

  “To help. You were sent to the Gallagher’s and Margaret was sent out of the house by Poppa. She joined the convent, though she didn’t join my order, or Delia’s. She wanted to be a missionary, to go away. As far away as she could. She was headstrong about it. And we never saw her again, except for Poppa’s funeral, and that photo.”

  “You said Margaret is gone, Sister?”

  “Yes, dear. I’m sorry to tell you. Margaret is dead.”

  At that moment another tiny nun, older and more stooped than the first, walked into the room. She was round, with a pink face. She carried a tray with orange juice and a muffin. “Sister Josephine, I’m sorry this took so long with your juice.”

  But Sister Josephine continued. “Margaret became a missionary after Poppa banished her. She spent her life in El Salvador working in the missions, doing good for the orphans. She was killed during a civil war down there, when they raided her convent.”

  “I’m sorry, should I come back?” said the round nun.

  “No,” said the tiny one. “Not if Josephine asked for the juice.”

  “Sister, your juice is here.”

  “I didn’t order juice,” she said, looking perplexed. The weariness showed in her wan face despite the earliness of the hour, and Bridget leaned forward. She reached across the shriveled figure Josephine presented and touched Josephine’s cheek.

  “I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time remembering,” Josephine said. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful to you.”

  “We should step outside,” the tiny nun said to me, and the round nun and I hurried out the door behind her.

  “I’m sorry this had to turn out as it has,” the tiny nun said once we were in the corridor. “Do you want Sister’s juice?” “No,” I said, as I continued to watch Bridget stand by Josephine’s bed with her fingertips pressed against the sleeping nun’s cheek.

  The news that Pop had wanted Bridget shocked both of us.

  “I can’t believe it. He won’t tell you any of this stuff?” I said as we got into her car, a Jeep Cherokee, and headed back to Boston along country roads in the earl
y morning light.

  “He never talks about me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know what motivates Pop, or has embittered him so deeply against me. But it’s always been that way.”

  Again I could see why she had wanted so badly to find her mother, whom moments earlier we had learned was dead: she wanted to be released from a bitterness she did not understand.

  It’s interesting how a car ride as it goes along can promote conversation. It doesn’t happen immediately, but a winding road such as the one we drove back along through the low mountains of New York creates a monotony that is relaxing. Eventually, like a stone skipping over the flat surface of a glassy pond, talk moves from mundane topics to issues of substance.

  “You ever been in love?” Bridget asked me as the slanting light of the new day played along the undulating road.

  “I’d like to be. With your daughter.”

  “I’m glad you’re chasing Ellen. I hope you catch her.”

  “You do?”

  “I know what it’s like to want love and find it so elusive.”

  “You ever been in love?”

  “I loved Steve Roman once. I believed I did anyway, which may be the same thing. I’m not sure. I know I should love Jack more.”

  “You don’t love Jack?”

  “I do, but I should love him more.”

  “Why did you go with Roman?”

  “I don’t know, it started in high school and lasted through college.”

  “You loved him?”

  “Love, now, ah, there’s a word. Steve was everything I dreamed of. A tight butt, of course, but I was attracted to him for his confidence, ambition, self-sufficiency.”

  “He seems like an arrogant son-of-a-bitch to me.”

  “I thought of it as self-confidence. I was such a young fool. A schoolgirl in love. But when I returned to my dorm room after the Boston Marathon in ’71, after Pop blocked me, he was there waiting for me. He had a gaggle of news reporters lined up outside on the lawn, they all wanted to talk to me, and he had promised them he would set that up. I told him to forget it, I was in no mood to talk, but he said it would help him advance his career. I said forget it, I couldn’t have been more emphatic, but he took my medal, the Boston Marathon medal in my pocketbook. Here, I’ll show you.”