Runner in Red Read online

  “You’ll always be young to me, John,” she said, adding, “I’ve got a question, do you mind?”

  “For you, Bridget, anything.”

  “What do you remember about the Runner in Red?”

  “Not much. But Jock never believed Pop’s version of the story.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Jock never believed that Tim Finn was the runner in the red hood that the Canadians said they saw that day. I think Jock always believed the Canadians were telling the truth.”

  “Really? Jock said that?”

  “Not in so many words. He was livid that Pop’s D.A.A. won the team prize because he thought Pop had pulled a fast one. Jock used to say the only way Pop’s D.A.A. beat our B.A.A. boys was by putting a girl on his team.”

  “A girl? Jock believed Pop put a woman on the D.A.A. team?”

  “Jock never accused Pop directly, but he did call Pop’s victory a phony win. ‘Tim Finn’s Ringer’ he used to say. ‘Pop won in ’51 because Tim Finn brought a ringer.’”

  “Jock believed the D.A.A. team had a ‘ringer,’ a woman, on their team? Somebody fast enough to affect the final score?”

  “You know Jock and your dad. They were always going back and forth at each other. One would blast one, then the other would blast the other. We never took it seriously when they got into name-calling. So the Runner in Red is still just an urban legend to me, Bridget.”

  She was silent a moment as she absorbed his words, then she motioned to John to step out onto the concourse so she could direct him to the bookstore. That’s when I noticed a young boy at the back of the store slink behind a row of running jackets. He wore a Seattle Mariner’s cap backward, and his eyes darted side to side as he watched the clerk at the cash register.

  Chia didn’t miss him though. “Hey,” the owner shouted, as the kid shoved a pair of basketball shoes under his coat and bolted for the door. He would have been out of the store except for the obstacle presented by Bridget who was returning after saying goodbye to Young John.

  Over they went, Bridget and the kid, and I rushed to lift her up as the store owner reached for the Mariner kid, by the neck.

  “Thief!” he shouted. “Third time he robs me.”

  “Third time?’’ Bridget said, dusting herself off.

  “What’s with the schools? Where’s our tax money go? Can’t the schools keep these hoodlums inside during the day?”

  “You say this boy stole from you three times.”

  “Damn right,” said the owner who took out a notebook with dates on it. “This is a story you should cover. What are the schools doing with our tax money?”

  “I agree,” Bridget said, and she wrote down the dates as a mall security guard, heavy on tattoos, arrived in a rush to take the kid away by the collar.

  “Where we going?” I said to Bridget as she motioned to me to pack up my gear.

  “We’re blowin’ off the puff piece.”

  I parked our van in the lot beside the athletic field at Hyde Park High School. Bridget got out and in her Ann Taylor best stormed across the field—the same field where I had watched Ellen practice. Boys and girls formed small groups on the track as Pop directed workouts for each group. Bridget came to a stop in front of his toes before Pop acknowledged her arrival.

  “Where’s Tim Finn?”

  “Nearly thirty years you don’t talk to me and that’s all you can say, ‘Where’s Tim Finn?’”

  “Let me be more specific—where’s Tim Finn’s Ringer?”

  Pop’s eyes burned beneath his peak cap. “Oh, now you’re parroting Semple, are you?” He gathered the high school kids for the start of their workout. “We’ll go with the boys first.” Then he paused. “No, this time, let’s go with the girls first.”

  I could see Bridget bristle as a dozen boys, all shapes and sizes, stepped back on the track to let a dozen girls in Hyde Park t-shirts toe the line ahead of them.

  “If that’s your bone to political correctness, you’re thirty years late,” said Bridget as Pop fired his starter’s pistol and off the girls went on their first lap around the track.

  “I tried to make peace with you. But you’re filled with hate. Boys get ready,” Pop said.

  The boys stepped to the line and again Pop fired his pistol—off they went.

  “And what are you filled with, love?”

  “Yes, love for my race, that you took away.”

  “You created the situation yourself. But’s that’s always been your hallmark, your overarching pride.”

  “You bet I had pride. But you cared nothing for the rules.”

  “Your rules.”

  “No, the rules of the game. You never cared about rules, before it was fashionable to run.”

  “Fashionable? You think that’s why I ran? I was taunted for wanting to run, for being a woman.”

  “I was pelted with snowballs in the 30s.”

  “At least nobody grabbed your ass!”

  Incensed, Pop spun away. He crossed the track onto the infield where he could watch the boys and girls, the two groups, stride along the back straight-away.

  Bridget followed him. “I’m not here to argue proprietorship of the Boston Marathon. I want to talk about Tim Finn.”

  In the distance, Tim Finn, wearing tan cargo pants and a faded jean jacket, came walking toward them. But his smile disappeared the instant he saw Bridget.

  “Tell me, Tim. What do you remember about the 1951 Boston Marathon?” she asked as he arrived at Pop’s side and handed him a clipboard.

  “We won the team trophy.”

  “Do you remember Freddie Norman? He remembers you.”

  He was clearly upset by the questioning and he didn’t meet her eye. “That was a long time ago, Bridget. All I remember is the day was a proud moment for America and for our D.A.A. team that made it possible.”

  Pop turned to face the group. He watched them complete their first lap and pass in front of him as he stood on the edge of the track. “Way to go, girls, stay strong—you’ll last long!”

  Bridget’s eyes reflected hurt as he offered the girls encouragement. When they had passed, she said, “You wouldn’t let me cross the line. Why the great interest in my daughter to see she gets across the line first?”

  “Ellen has a pure, natural talent.”

  “She’s not related to you, either.”

  “It wasn’t because you weren’t related to me that I said what I did.”

  “Then why did you say it?”

  “Because I knew it would stop you.”

  The look in her eyes showed the wound still cut deep as he drifted across the field to a place where he could stand alone. It was clear by his body language that he was finished with the conversation, and after a long moment, Bridget turned, and shaking her head, started back toward our van. I followed her, as did Tim Finn.

  “Why didn’t he do that for me, Tim?” she said, gesturing to the string of girls running on the track.

  “Nobody did that for you, Bridget. You and your generation get credit for opening the way for these young girls today.”

  “Did you call out to a runner, ‘Stay up, Delaney?’ Did you run the Boston Marathon in ’51 with somebody named Delaney, Tim? Freddie Norman says you did.’”

  He flinched and it was obvious her words hit a mark. “I paid my debt, Bridget. Five years in the slammer. I paid my debt to society for my mistake. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

  She nodded, signaling she was OK with that.

  “I’m not a strong man, Bridget. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m going to have to talk to you again, you know that.”

  “I wish I could help you,” was all he said as we arrived at the van. Then he turned and walked back to Pop.

  When we were in the van and moving down the road I said
, “What was that all about, five years in the slammer?”

  “Tim worked for the City of Boston in the 1970s. His job was to oversee the Child Services Department. He approved an application for an adoption that went bad. A baby from Central America. The father in the adopting family in Boston abused the child and that flew back at Tim, since he had falsified the application to move it forward. He lost his job, it tanked his career, and he did five years in Walpole Prison. But he’s a good man. He could have taken people at the Catholic adoption agency down with him, but he took full responsibility. He’s loyal and he’s always been good to me.”

  “How so?”

  “He was one of four Finn brothers on Pop’s D.A.A. team. He was second fastest to his brother, Joe, who’s now the governor. They lived in the neighborhood. Tim taught me how to ride a bike and he would take me to fairs. He bought me ice cream and won dolls for me. I called him ‘Uncle Tim.’ He’s a good man.”

  “What’s he do now?”

  “He takes care of Pop. His brother, Joe, the governor, has him on the state payroll as an administrative assistant—a gofer. But mostly he takes care of Pop, and he uses his own money to do that. Even Howie Carr, who spends his life impaling government gofers in his newspaper column, doesn’t pick on Tim because everyone knows Tim’s good people. There’s something going on here with Pop, I can smell it. But Tim won’t snitch. He’s loyal.”

  I thought of Tim Finn as the guy who had put a shoulder into my chest and moved me out the door at Pop’s house. But if Bridget was willing to give him a pass, so was I.

  Fraudulent adoptions. Walpole Prison. Gofer jobs.

  I was new to all this, the running game, but I was developing a deeper and richer understanding of how life worked in Dorchester.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I met another member of Pop’s D.A.A. team, Bailey, when I went to the front desk at the Ritz. A muffin of a man in his 60s, he was dressed in a starched Ritz uniform. He gave me Ellen’s room number, 721, and told me to go up. “Miss Maloney is waiting for you.”

  I knocked, tentatively, but when Ellen opened the door, dressed in black acrylic tights and red top, she smiled. “You found it, I see.”

  “Who’s Bailey, and what’s going on?”

  “Bailey works the front desk. He used to run for Pop’s Dorchester team. When I run the river he lets me change here.”

  “In a Ritz Carlton suite?”

  “He loves Pop. Did you bring your running stuff?”

  “Yeah,” I said, as I lifted my paper bag and she pointed to the bathroom where I could get changed.

  “I see you go for designer carrying cases.”

  “You’re not going to blow me away out there, are you?”

  “You’ll probably push me to a new world record.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Get dressed. We’re running the Charles today.”

  As I got dressed in the bathroom I wondered if my ankle would make it, but after everything I had done to get this far I would have hopped along the Charles to be with Ellen.

  “Bailey said, ‘Maloney.’ What happened to ‘Crutchfield?”’ I said through the bathroom door.

  “My divorce came through this week, finally.”

  “Wow, long time. What, three years?”

  “He didn’t make it easy.”

  “That bad, huh?” I said, as I stepped out of the bathroom.

  She looked at my bulky gray sweats and basketball shoes. “You’re not a runner are you?”

  “I guess I do look like Rocky Balboa.”

  “Yes, that bad,” she said. “But the nightmare is over, finally. Ready to run?”

  “Ready,” I said, and I didn’t ask for details, though I was dying to know.

  We crossed Commonwealth Avenue, and at Beacon Street crossed the Arthur Fiedler footbridge to the Esplanade. Then we turned left and picked up the macadam running path along the river. Trees, gold and red with autumn, swayed overhead as she strode smoothly and I puffed along beside her under a blue October sky, my ankle A-OK, and I savored the moment, never dreaming I could have come this far in such a short time with her.

  “You run well,” she said, being kind. I told her about the Red Sox and she shot me a pained look. “I’m sorry.”

  “Way it goes,” I said.

  Traffic from Storrow Drive zipped to our left. On the right, the river wore diamonds as the afternoon sun slanted in the west and created sparkles. We ran past mothers with strollers, and lovers holding hands.

  “Can I ask you about something?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Why is Pop training you?”

  “Oh, right out of the starting blocks and into the big questions, I see.”

  “I thought he was the enemy of women runners.”

  Twenty, thirty yards passed and she said, “People change.”

  “Pop changed?”

  “I think he’s always been different with me.”

  “Really?”

  “Can I tell you a story?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “When I was small I loved to stay with Pop and my grandmother. I loved going with him to his neighborhood races in Hyde Park, Jamaica Plain, wherever. He wasn’t with the Boston Marathon then. That was after he quit. After they dropped him.”

  “Seems to me he earned his ticket out of town,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended.

  “That’s my mother talking.”

  “You think Pop was justified to block her?”

  “She hurt him.”

  “Oh?”

  “On Sunday afternoons after he had wrapped up his neighborhood races he would take me to Castle Island in South Boston. He always loved to walk around Castle Island, to be close to the sea. He missed the sea, he said, from his boyhood in Ireland. He said the sea made him sad, but the sea excited him too and he would point to the ships sailing out of the channel into Boston Harbor, heading for the open waters. He would tell me the big broad world out there could be mine.

  “‘Lassie, someday we’re going to send your ships out to the open sea,’ he would tell me. I learned to dream big dreams from Pop.’”

  “He was never that way with your mother.”

  “She hurt him.”

  “How?

  “I don’t know, but one time as we walked along the beach he stared at the water. ‘Your mother has given me great pain,’ he said.’”

  “So he was mad at her before 1971?”

  “Yes, obviously.”

  “Don’t you think she has a right to be mad at him?” I said, and she looked at me, then looked away.

  “I’m not exactly objective when it comes to my mother these days.”

  We ran silently for a stretch, the path passing below us as I stared into the distance, thinking. I was thinking about her mother, thinking how mad I would be if someone blocked me as I was about to set a world record, but when I glanced at Ellen again, she looked very sad.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “No. It’s just my mom is strong. She fought hard so I could have all this. She and the other women who fought to get the rules changed.”

  “They fought Pop.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “And he fought them.”

  “Yes, but my mother won’t let go of it. She’s made it her mission to get back at him, to keep hurting him. She’ll never give up till she can hurt him every single day.”

  I didn’t say anything, neither of us spoke, until I said, “You have a lot of feeling for both of them, don’t you?”

  “I love my mother, but I owe Pop a lot.”

  “Because of Castle Island?”

  “No, because he saved me. In Oregon, after I got hurt.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My marriage had gone bust, and I moved out to Oreg
on to try for a comeback with Nike. But that went bust, too. One day I got hit by a car and I thought I’d never see the light again. That’s when Pop reached out to me. He gave me the encouragement to pick myself up. The ships sailing for the open sea, that kind of thing. He encouraged me to come back to Boston and he offered to help me make a comeback. He continues to encourage me, every day. And that has put me in a difficult spot with my mom. That’s why this is so important to me, to win Boston. I want to do it for Pop. He never won Boston. I want to give him something back for everything he’s done for me.”

  “You think your mother is interested only in settling a grudge?”

  “I do. She’ll destroy herself. She will have obliterated me, my dad, everyone who means anything to her. For what? So she can say she found the Runner in Red.

  “Your mother never told you about her finish line encounter with Pop, what he said to her to that day?”

  “No, what did he tell her?”

  “I should let her tell you that. That’s not for me to say.”

  She looked at me as we followed the path below the BU Bridge. “All I know is that she is on a long spiral down. Why else would she let Roman use her? Roman knows she wants to embarrass Pop, and he’ll give her whatever she wants. He still wants her, despite the bad blood and the way she dumped him in college.”

  I changed the subject. “Pop could take the first step. He could apologize to your mother.”

  “No. Pop and my mom are the same.”

  “How so?”

  “Neither knows how to say they’re sorry.”

  I looked at her, puzzled, “What does that mean?”

  “Nobody can understand it, it’s just old Irish.”

  We came to a sign that said “Cambridge,” and she pointed to a bridge that crossed the Charles at River Street. “Let’s turn around here.”

  We crossed the bridge and ran along Memorial Drive on the other side of the river in silence, until she said, “Maybe you can help.”

  “I don’t know what I could do, really.”