Right to Die

and penile frostbite gets to be a real possibility, eh?”
    “I understand.”
    “Second thing, go easy on the booze. Beer’s okay because it’s got plenty of carbohydrates. But lay off the hard stuff, dehydrates you too much.”
    “Right.”
    “Third thing, you got to drink water. Lots of water. Half gallon a day isn’t out of the question. Also, get used to sugar-electrolyte drinks like Gatorade or Exceed. They’ll have that stuff along the course, and you don’t want the tummy getting its first taste of it at mile fourteen the day she counts.”
    “Anything else?”
    “We have to put you on a program. You do any lifting now?”
    “Nautilus.”
    “Fine. Stick with that, but drop the weight on your leg machines and increase the repetitions at the lower weight. Want to build that redundant function endurance.”
    “Okay.”
    “Now, for the running itself, we’ll do six days on, one day off. Your body’s all wrong for serious training, but we got better than four months yet. You’ll train at the pace you’ll maintain during the race. We’ll do low mileage five days and give you a long run the sixth day for your confidence.”
    “I think I can handle that.”
    “You won’t ever do more than a twenty-miler before the race herself.”
    “Why is that?”
    “It’s best to leave the last six or so as unexplored territory till you have the crowd to help you through.”
    “Makes sense.”
    Bo thumbed his glasses again. “Mornings all right?”
    “That’s what I’m used to anyway.”
    “See you here, then. Tomorrow, seven in the a.m.”
    “ Thanks again, Bo.”
    “Give it a couple months.” He rose and began walking upriver as he had the day before. “Then thank me, you still feel like it.”

    After showering I made some phone calls while my hair dried. A receptionist at Mass General told me Dr. Paul Eisenberg would be unavailable all morning, but could squeeze me in that afternoon if I promised not to take more than fifteen minutes. I promised.
    I reached the Reverend Vonetta Givens directly. Nudging the truth a little, I said I’d covered the debate the previous night and wanted to ask some follow-up questions. Givens said she’d be happy to see me at her church and gave crisp directions to it.
    Directory assistance had Louis Doleman’s number in West Roxbury . He answered on the third ring. Without saying anything, I cut the connection, an odd noise in the background just as I depressed the plunger. It sounded like the birds from jungle movies of the forties.
    I shook my head and got dressed.

    “I’m here to see the Reverend Givens?”
    A black kid sat behind a table inside the entrance of All Hallowed Ground Church . He had a nose that almost touched both ears and a haircut like the front view of an aircraft carrier.
    “Your name, please?”
    “John Cuddy.”
    “Just a minute.”
    The kid dialed two digits. He was probably a football lineman in high school, going to fat at twenty.
    Into the receiver he said, “Reverend, you expecting John Cuddy?”
    He nodded at the phone and replaced the receiver. “Through the door behind me.”
    “Thanks.”
    Someone on the other side of the door threw some bolts, and a near twin of the kid at the desk pulled it open, gesturing with his head that I should enter. He wore a Boston Against Drugs, or B.A.D., T-shirt and brushed against me as I went by him. Then he caught my left wrist deftly, twisted it, and wedged me up against the wall. The desk kid came up and patted me down, finding the revolver and wrenching it from the holster.
    The hammerlock was good, immobilizing me just at the edge of pain. I didn’t try to resist.
    Desk said to Door, “Let’s take him in.”
    Door kept the hold on me as I was ushered before the reverend. She was already on her feet, one hand inside the center drawer of the old desk between us. There were diplomas and prints and photos framed on the walls, but no windows whatsoever. Door’s grip kept me from appreciating the ceiling, if any.
    Givens looked past me, I assumed to Desk palming my gun. She seemed to notice that I wasn’t struggling. “Arthur, yoa may release the man.”
    My arm came free.
    She kept her hand in the drawer. “And who are you, really, sir?”
    “John Cuddy, like I told you on the phone.”
    “I made some calls. Brothers and sisters in the media, print and broadcast They never heard of you.”
    “I have some identification in my left breast pocket.”
    “You may reach for