Right to Die

floundering out to be caught and steadied by the male partner.
    I said, “I’m carrying a Chiefs Special over my right hip. I have some ID in my inside jacket pocket.”
    She motioned for the ID.
    I took it out. Reading it, she said, “Heard of you. Nancy Meagher, right?”
    “I’m seeing her.”
    “Nance and I went to school together.” She arched her nose over a shoulder. “Gate of Heaven. Tell her Sheilah Boyle, she’ll remember.”
    “I will.”
    Boyle handed me back the ID. “They’re okay, Conn. ” The male partner said, “Thank Christ, it’s like Siberia out here.” Then to Bacall, “You gonna be all right there, pal?”
    “Yes. Yes, fine. Thank you.”
    “Have a good night,” said Boyle as she and Conn trotted to their unit.
    Back in my Prelude, Bacall had gotten his pant leg down and was stowing the hypo case. “Thank you, John.”
    “For what?”
    “This happened to me once before. The police... well, as I said back in your office, I don’t always bring out the best in them.”
    I started the car and drove Bacall to his house in Bay Village . On the way back to the condo I tried to convince myself that things would have gone just as smoothly with Sheilah Boyle and Conn if Bacall had spoken first.

= 13 =

    I woke up Tuesday relatively free of stiffness despite the punishing run the previous morning. The sky outside my window was overcast, the radio quoting a temperature in the high forties. I dressed for running and went downstairs.
    No sign of the derelict, but I remembered his advice. Some stretching exercises for the calves and hamstrings, not quite breaking a sweat. I started out slowly, going over the ramp to the river path in a gentle second gear. Then I began pushing off more, using the thighs and the ball of the rear foot, gradually lengthening my stride as he’d predicted. The pace didn’t feel faster, but my whole body seemed in tune with the rhythm my legs were setting. I turned around at the Boston University bridge so the run would be just about three miles.
    As I approached the Fairfield Street ramp again, the bum was sitting on the bench, a couple of layers of sweater off his torso and knotted around his waist like a backward apron. Nodding and smiling.
    I slowed to a walk in front of him. “Didn’t see you this morning.”
    “Saw you.”
    “You did.”
    “Uh-huh. Wanted to check first.”
    “Check? On what?”
    “On whether you were one of those know-it-alls, couldn’t take any coaching. There’re a lot like that.”
    “And?”
    “And you did just fine. The stretching, the pushing off, cutting your distance back after a tough one the day before.”
    I kept walking, my lungs settling down. “The run yesterday took a lot out of me.”
    The derelict shrugged, glasses slipping down his nose. “Wouldn’t have known it. You looked pretty limber today.”
    “Thanks.”
    He thumbed the glasses back up. “Got to get some new tape for the bridge here. They been sliding on me.”
    I extended my right hand. “John Cuddy.”
    “John.” He shook, but tentatively, almost mechanically, as though he hadn’t done it for a while. “Just call me Bo.”
    “Bo.” I used the sleeve near my bicep to blot some sweat off my forehead. “Bo, you really know anything about this coaching stuff?”
    A glitter behind the lenses. “I do.”
    “Feel like training me?”
    The lids lowered, and I thought he was going to get up and leave when he fixed back onto me. “Two conditions.”
    “What are they?”
    “First, don’t want no money from you.”
    “That doesn’t seem fair.”
    “I decide what’s fair here. I got my life, you got yours. I don’t want no money.”
    “Okay. What’s the other condition?”
    “I don’t want you turning me into some kind of project.”
    “Project?”
    “Rehabilitation. Or pity. Like bringing a Soldier home for Christmas dinner. Just me coaching, you listening and doing.”
    “You’ve got a deal. Shake on it?”
    “We already shook. You ready for some more advice?”
    “You bet.”
    “First thing, lose the sweat clothes and buy one of those fancy Gore-Tex suits. I know, I know, you figure you’ll feel like some kind of dilettante. But you’ll be able to wear just a cotton turtleneck and shorts under it, and the fabric wicks the sweat right off so you won’t get chilled when the real weather comes in. January, February, you’ll be running far enough we can’t always start you into the wind. You sweat down into your jock,