Authors: Gary Braver
ELIXIR (27 page)
Tonight he would suffer tradition in a dark pin-stripe by the Brothers Brooks. As a concession to impending youth, he shocked his white shirt with a here-I-come polychrome Jerry Garcia tie. The final touch was an expensive pair of slick black dress boots. He hadn’t had a pair since the Roy Roger specials when he was nine.
When he finished, he looked in the mirror and in his best Jack Palance voice said, “Shane, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us!” and he snapped off the light.
He headed out to the garage and hopped into the Porsche. He checked himself in the mirror then drove across town feeling like Tom Cruise in
Top Gun.
Top Gun.
They were going to dinner. Le Bocage, the fanciest new restaurant in town. He and Sheila Monks, aka Wonder Woman.
“So you like older men? Heck, you had me fooled.”
“It was a bad day. I had just broken up with a guy and had sworn off the entire male race.”
“You mean that densely wadded dude I used to see you with?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Tory. After we broke up, he joined another club.”
Tory: The beefcake Alpha with the baseball biceps, bumped by middle-aged-but-on-a-comeback Wally Olafsson. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly came between you and old Tor?”
“His snowboard.”
Wally looked at her blankly. “His snowboard,” he repeated, as if taking an oath.
“Yeah, and his Roller Blades, tennis racket, golf clubs, shotgun, and mountain bike.”
“This guy some kind of sports-equipment fetishist?”
Sheila chuckled. “Kind of. All we ever did was some form of athletic competition. He was a nice guy, but he was more committed to his hunting dog than me. When he joined a rugby team, I cashed in. I lacked the leather balls.”
Wally smiled and sipped his champagne. Beauty, brains, and wit to
boot. Sheila was the producer and host of a local cable TV program with dreams of moving to the networks. Her latest show was on the failure of America to adopt the metric system. It wasn’t a barnburner, but next week she was interviewing Mikail Gorbachev who was coming to UW Madison to accept an award.
boot. Sheila was the producer and host of a local cable TV program with dreams of moving to the networks. Her latest show was on the failure of America to adopt the metric system. It wasn’t a barnburner, but next week she was interviewing Mikail Gorbachev who was coming to UW Madison to accept an award.
“I know how corny this sounds, but, frankly, I prefer older men. Men in their forties.”
Wally smiled.
Thank you, God
. December-May rapidly becoming November-May. It crossed his mind that if things continued with Sheila, they would eventually reach May-May.
Thank you, God
. December-May rapidly becoming November-May. It crossed his mind that if things continued with Sheila, they would eventually reach May-May.
Yikes! Then what?
But Wally was savoring life from moment to moment. And at the moment, it was very sweet.
“So how old are you exactly?”
Wally had expected that. Even though this was their first official date, they grew friendly at the club and had gone for coffee. He looked about ten years younger. But he couldn’t lie because if their relationship continued, she would meet his friends and son and learn his real age. If they became “serious,” he’d have to explain the “cell plateau” down the road. Fifty-seven would shock; forty-seven would be a lie. Already he was sensing dilemmas.
As they sat there smiling into each other’s eyes over champagne and trout amandine with white asparagus, Wally had to remind himself that although Sheila was a delightful young woman, there were many other delightful young women in the world—and so much time.
It was hard to comprehend, but Wally Olafsson’s life was becoming an infinite moment.
Suddenly Wally saw himself from afar, sitting in this elegant room full of other couples sipping from each other’s eyes, and it occurred to him just what a strange and wondrous thing he was becoming. They were mere mortals, while he was experiencing an apotheosis. He felt like an extraterrestrial sitting among them. No, like some kind of secret deity.
“Well?” Sheila said.
Wally giggled to himself. “I’ve never had a problem converting to metric.”
She frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
“You asked my age.”
“Yeah?”
“Twenty-nine Celsius.”
Sheila laughed and dropped the subject.
S
omething told Roger that he was being watched.
omething told Roger that he was being watched.
Call it a sixth sense or psychic powers or conditioned paranoia, but he was like one of those delicate seismographic devices that picks up tremors just below the threshold of human perception.
It didn’t go off very often, but when it did he knew it—like that time last month when the two Feds had put the shop under surveillance. They dropped out of sight a couple days later, probably convinced they were tailing an innocent all-American family going about its business of being unremarkable.
Now the needle was jumping again while he and Brett stood in a line of other runners at the registration table for the 7K Town Day Charity Race.
He looked around, trying to determine the epicenter. Lots of people milled about—runners, spectators, photographers—but nobody seemed to be paying them particular attention. No one but Laura who waved from the gallery at the start and finish line.
False alarm
, he thought.
, he thought.
It had happened before in crowds. And this one was alive with nervous energy. Runners were jumping in place, pacing, stretching, getting in some last carbo kicks from PowerBars and O.J. Just the collective electricity of the mass, Roger decided, and got back to the moment.
As Brett exchanged his form for a numbered bib, Roger quietly admired his son. He had grown into a handsome, well-proportioned young man with sculpted musculature, a wasp waist, and hard round glutes. He looked like a young Greek god.
I love you, beautiful boy
, Roger whispered to himself.
, Roger whispered to himself.
The registration form asked for the usual data: Name, address, past running meets, and the like. It also asked to check off your “Age Group” because at the end they gave out trophies for each category: Twelve to eighteen years, nineteen to twenty-nine, and so on. Like weight classes for wrestling. The idea was to keep victory relative and not embarrass older runners. But it always created a dilemma because he felt like a cheat—like Rosie Ruiz, who in the 1980s took the women’s first place in the Boston Marathon until it was discovered that she had ridden partway on the subway.
Roger was riding Elixir. He checked the 30-39 box and was given a number.
Roger liked to run. On weekends he and Brett would do some miles on the track at Pierson. Brett once commented how cool it was to have an athletic dad. Lots of other kids’ fathers were out of shape and did little more than return a baseball. But
his
dad could wrestle, ski, lift weights, and run a six-minute mile.
his
dad could wrestle, ski, lift weights, and run a six-minute mile.
They did their stretches and took their places. There were maybe three hundred runners. Because it was a charity race, the protocol was a matter of etiquette. The faster runners were up front, while kids and older joggers took the back field.
Brett and Roger took places about three or four deep from the front string, made up of members of the track teams from North and Memorial High and the UW campus as well as people with no body fat and all legs who took town races very seriously.
At the gun, the front wall bolted away, Roger and Brett stayed in the field just behind, keeping up a steady and comfortable pace. This was for fun, so there was no need to push themselves.
The weather was cool and overcast, perfect conditions for the race which would make a large circle from the head of Carson Park, along the river and down some streets, then back to the starting point.
By the end of the fourth kilometer, many who led the pack had fallen back, letting Brett and Roger through. Older runners felt the distance and the younger ones lacked the stamina of a steady high pace. In fact, Brett himself was becoming winded. So Roger slowed down.
As they passed the sixth kilometer mark, the feeling was back—like a magnetic tug at the rear of his brain. Roger looked over his shoulder. A few runners were scattered behind them—a young couple in identical running outfits. A wiry black male. Two white women. All looking intensely absorbed in their running.
His attention fell on a white male. Number 44. A tall guy, in his
twenties, who wore a headband, white tank top, and blue shorts and who held steady about ten paces back. He had been pacing Roger and Brett since the beginning.
twenties, who wore a headband, white tank top, and blue shorts and who held steady about ten paces back. He had been pacing Roger and Brett since the beginning.
Then it came back. At registration. Roger had first dismissed it as idle curiosity. But suddenly Number 44 did not seem like just another runner gauging the competition. He was studying him and Brett. Roger caught his eye—an eye made for watching—but he looked away. From all appearances he wasn’t struggling. He could easily take them, but held his place instead.
Then Roger remembered something else. Earlier he had spotted him milling about the registration area with an older man in a windbreaker and shouldering a camera with a telephoto lens. Roger didn’t like cameras, especially ones with big zooms.
They rounded First Avenue to River Street with less than a kilometer left. Brett was tiring, so Roger cut his pace even more.
Immediately 44 pulled ahead with a hard glance. Roger felt better. He wasn’t a cop after all, just a runner with an attitude. Trying to give you the Evil Eye. Whatever it took to psyche down the competition.
Brett didn’t like Roger dropping his pace. “Keep running,” he cried. “Don’t slow down.”
Roger shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“No. Do it!” Brett was struggling, but he wanted Roger to open up.
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
But he didn’t want to leave Brett behind.
Brett must have read his mind because he gasped, “Burn him, Dad. Burn him!”
That was all Roger needed.
For you, Brett
, he whispered, then kicked into a sprint that no other fifty-six year old could possibly summon—and very few thirty-eights.
For you, Brett
, he whispered, then kicked into a sprint that no other fifty-six year old could possibly summon—and very few thirty-eights.
In a matter of seconds he closed the gap on 44. Someplace behind him he heard Brett let out a howling “Yahoo!”
At about a three hundred meters before the finish, Roger pulled to approximately five paces behind 44, so close he could see the shamrock tattoo on his right shoulder.
Roger kept that up for several seconds as he readied to pull away. Then he moved until he was neck-and-neck with the guy about ten feet on his left. Ahead the road was wide open. They ran in formation like that for awhile. A couple times the guy looked over to Roger. Roger hooked eyes on him, and in that flash something passed between them. Roger didn’t
know what it was, nor did he care. All his concentration was on that bright yellow finish line a hundred meters ahead.
know what it was, nor did he care. All his concentration was on that bright yellow finish line a hundred meters ahead.
Cheers from the huge gallery rose up as a small knot of local track stars crossed the finish line first.
At about sixty meters, Roger pushed his throttle to the limit. Straining with everything he had, he moved past 44 without a glance and pumped down the road to the fat yellow finish, crossing a dozen paces ahead.
The crowd went wild not because they knew Roger, but for his breakaway. From over a hundred meters they had watched the two run in perfect stride until Roger made his stupendous sprint to the finish.
Laura ran out to Roger as he panted and stumbled around to catch his breath. She embraced him and gave him some water.
He knew it was irrational, what he had just done—yielding to testosterone. But, Jesus, it felt good to take that guy.
Standing on a bench in the Park across from the finish, Agent Eric Brown shot off two dozen frames from the Nikon with the black zoom and motor drive as Roger flew across the yellow line and into the cheering crowd.
He takes a cup of water from someone. He bends over to catch his breath. He raises a pained face to the sky. He takes a hug from his wife, who looks older than he in the zoom. He dumps a cup of water over his head. He towels off. He downs more water. He high-fives his son. He gives a wave to Bill Pike when he crosses the line.
And Brown caught it all.
“Olafsson’s right,” Pike said when he finally made his way to Brown. “The wrong guy.” He was still panting and mopping his brow with a towel.
“Yeah, but for thirty-eight, the bastard can run.”
“Tell me about it.” Pike’s face was drained and his lungs still burned. “I don’t know what his secret is, but he must have rocket fuel for blood, is all.”
“Roger, I’m sorry to call you at the shop, but it’s extremely important.”
Jenny tried to disguise the desperation in her voice, but he heard it.
And, yet, he still turned on her harshly. “If it’s about the orchids, m’am, I can’t help you. They’re not available.”
That was their code word. Whenever they discussed Elixir on the phone, her sister and Roger had referred to it as the “orchids.”
It was so unfair, Jenny thought. So unfair. And Laura was to blame.
She had poisoned his mind. Her own sister! “But you must,” Jenny pleaded. You have to. If you don’t—”
She had poisoned his mind. Her own sister! “But you must,” Jenny pleaded. You have to. If you don’t—”
“I’m sorry, m’am, I can’t help you,” he said, and hung up.
For a startled moment Jenny stood there with the dead phone to her ear. He had cut her off because he was afraid their lines were tapped, which was why he never even addressed her by name.
But that was ridiculous after all these years. Roger and Laura had new lives, and Jenny had moved out of Kalamazoo years ago. Even Ted didn’t know where she and her daughter were living.
Jenny put down the phone, thinking how selfish and inconsiderate of him. Her own brother-in-law. And after all she had done for them.
The music still wafted down from Abigail’s room. Thank goodness she hadn’t heard the conversation.
Jenny felt the panic grip her again. The last injection of serum could not hold her much longer. Any day now she could begin to change. Laura had said it was awful what happened to the monkeys.
What will happen to me?
Jenny’s brain screamed. They said you turned old and died in a matter of hours. It was too horrible to contemplate.
Jenny’s brain screamed. They said you turned old and died in a matter of hours. It was too horrible to contemplate.
I can’t leave her like this
.
.
“Mother!” Abigail called from upstairs.
“Yes, darling?”
“How do you say
kangaroo
in French?”
kangaroo
in French?”
“I don’t know,” she yelled, “but I’ll look it up.”
As she made her way for the dictionary, Jenny looked at her face in the mirror. “God, help me,” she whispered.
“It’s the second time this week she’s called. She sounded a little crazy,” Roger said from the bathroom.
As usual, Wendy was in bed propped up with a book. It was what she did every night before going to sleep.
Jenny had turned fifty a few months ago, and Wendy knew it had hit her hard. She had called them several times about Elixir, to the point of begging. Having been a registered nurse, she assured them that she could administer needle injections to herself, that she would be no problem to them at all, that they could even Federal Express a few vials to her. But they had flatly refused.
Roger snapped off the bathroom light and headed for the bed. He had touched up his beard and grayed his sideburns.
“She wasn’t just irrational,” he continued. “The way she talked. Her tempo was all off. She took long pauses before responding. I wasn’t even sure she got what I was saying. At one point she called me Mr. Bigshot and threatened not to be my friend anymore. It was like talking to a child.”
Laura didn’t want to get into more Jenny-bashing. “She’s been through a lot,” she said.
“But I don’t think she’ll let it go. She sounded almost threatening.”
He got into bed beside her.
Tonight Laura was reading a mystery novel. For years she had avoided the genre because they reminded her of her own lost career. Ironically, her fugitive status had made
If I Should Die
a best-seller years ago. She had thought about getting back into writing under a pseudonym, but there were too many risks in going public. They still lived in fear of seeing recognition flicker in a stranger’s eyes. Also, some hawk-eyed reader might picked up on quirks of style and connect her to Wendy Bacon. So, sadly, she had abandoned her passion and became just another reader.
If I Should Die
a best-seller years ago. She had thought about getting back into writing under a pseudonym, but there were too many risks in going public. They still lived in fear of seeing recognition flicker in a stranger’s eyes. Also, some hawk-eyed reader might picked up on quirks of style and connect her to Wendy Bacon. So, sadly, she had abandoned her passion and became just another reader.
Roger reached over and pulled the book out of her hand and gave her a kiss. He had that goatish look in his eye. He rubbed his hand down her thighs.
“Not tonight.” She could see the disappointment in his face. Brett was already asleep in his room, so that was no excuse. She just didn’t feel like it. She gave his hand a conciliatory squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
“Not as much as I am.”
There was a time he would have protested—when they were both younger. When they were biological equals. But he had become resigned to rejection. These days they made love just a couple times a month.
He took her face in his hands. “I love you, you know.”
“I know,” she said. She still liked hearing that, but she no longer took refuge in the words. “And I love you. Tomorrow night, I promise.”
Roger nodded. “Sure,” he said and kissed her lightly on the mouth.
She dimmed the light and lay quietly against him for several minutes. The silence was charged with bad feelings. Several times when they were out she’d catch him looking at younger women. And how could she blame him? Even though she kept up aerobics, ate right, colored her hair, used vitamin supplements and all the hot anti-wrinkle creams on the market, a quarter century of biology separated them. Technically, she could be his mother.
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