the upslopes and then drag on the downslopes. A few of us offered to spell him. The father smiled and shook a drenched head.
Mile twenty-one. Boston College and the top of Heartbreak. Exhilaration, then the incredible bunching pain in the backs of the legs from going downhill. My calves went mushy, and my feet kept tangling. My left side felt like somebody was plowing it with baling hooks.
No functioning water stations for two miles until just below Coolidge Corner, where a guy my age and his kids braved the rain outside a majestic synagogue. They poured from Belmont Springs bottles as fast as they could, all of us thanking them. I remember the daughter saying she thought I was her five thousandth cup that day, my legs warning me not to stop for too long.
The marker said '25' at Kenmore Square. Every joint below my waist had tossed in the towel, the bones sawing and grating against each other. The crowd chanted a single phrase. One more mile, one more mile.
At Hereford Street we made a right toward Boylston. The first ninety-degree turn for a while, I found I had to consciously plan how to do it. An older man in front of me took the corner too fast. His hamstring snapped like a dry branch, and he went down. Several people from the crowd pushed through police barriers to aid him.
I eased left onto Boylston Street, three hundred yards to go. The crowd was still enormous, easily two hours after the technical winners had passed. They screamed, clapped, and whistled, most of us summoning a little extra to acknowledge the encouragement.
The finish line itself was under a viewing stand. Yellow and white awning, beneath it bunting in orange, blue, and white, the colors so vivid through the rain. Crossing the line, I thought I heard Nancy calling my name, the official clock glowing 4:11:31. Not counting water stations, I stopped running for the first time in over four hours. Hands on hips, I kept walking to postpone the cramping. Scanning the crowd, I looked for an old Redskins cap and taped glasses. Not there. Other runners slumped on the sidewalk or trundled with tiny steps, wrapped in foil-like Mylar blankets to ward off hypothermia. Under the archway of the bank, Nancy waved to me, holding a little camera high with her left hand, as though she were taking a photo over the heads of people in front of her. 'I got you crossing the finish line!'
In yellow foul-weather gear, the peak riding down almost to her nose, she'd never looked more beautiful to me.
I stopped and posed in right profile. Nancy brought the camera to her eye, clicked a button, and put the camera in a coat pocket. I said, 'I heard you yell to me.'
'I couldn't believe I could finally go inside.'
'I want a hug.'
'Not on your life. You're the most disgusting creature I've ever seen.'
'What happened to the stretcher bearers?'
'Unionized. They went home at four.'
I tried taking another step, cramped, and had to grab a signpost to keep from falling. My hand away from the hip, Nancy got a look at my left side.
She hurried over and steadied me. 'John, your shirt's soaked with blood!'
'That's not the problem.'
'Then what is?'
'My legs hurt.'
'Revelation. Your legs should hurt after you drive twenty-six miles.'
'Maybe at your age.'
That brought a smile. 'You're a dunce, John.'
'If I can just rest my arm on you…'
Nancy took my hand and drew my arm around her shoulder.
'That's Dunce, capital D, and I'm worse for loving you.'
We moved off like that, medic and soldier, through the crowd still cheering for the people still coming in.
32
BACK AT THE CONDO I TOOK A LONG, SLOW BATH, MY REOPENED side and a blackened toenail the only visible damage. Pride made me crawl over the side of the tub rather than call out to Nancy for help. After I toweled off, I taped a new dressing on my side and got into some clean clothes.
Nancy and I celebrated with pizza delivered by Domino's and ale chilled by refrigerator. The six o'clock news gave extended coverage to the race. It was an out-of-body experience, seeing the start better from a helicopter's point of view than I had at the back of the pack, the winners crossing the finish line in half the time I took.
By eight o'clock I was walking well enough for Nancy to head home and prepare for her trial. Just after she left I thought about trying to see Alec Bacall, which made me think about Maisy Andrus. Fired or not, I cou1dn't seem to let go.
I picked up the receiver and punched in the number of the Andrus town house. The voice we all recognize said, 'I'm sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service at this time. P1ease – '
Depressing the plunger, I tried again. Same message. I thought back to Saturday, the hoarse voice. To Sunday, busy, like maybe she'd taken the phone off the hook. Now Monday, not in service, like maybe she'd left it off the hook.
I got the snub-nosed Chief's Special from the bedroom. What was seven blocks after twenty-six miles?
This time, though, I. didn't run it.
It was a moonless night, not much activity on the holiday now that the marathon crowd had dispersed. As I turned onto the little mews, there was no one in sight.
I hobbled to the front steps and used the knocker. Nothing. I waited, tried again. Still nothing. Then I heard it.
The sound of glass breaking, followed by a strangled cry. The door was locked. My legs didn't want to work, but I finally braced a shoulder against the hinge jamb and generated enough force to smash my right foot through the wood at the lock.
Inside the foyer, weapon in hand, I could hear the sounds of a struggle from the kitchen. I crossed to the swinging door, hitting it and diving onto the linoleum.
I slid to a stop three feet from Maisy Andrus, thrashing around on the floor.
Arms outstretched, back arched, her legs pistoned like a brat throwing a tantrum. Her eyes and throat bulged, and her mouth was locked half open, saliva cascading down her chin and cheeks. One leg kicked out, toppling a breakfast stool.
I realized that she was alone. A windowpane over the sink was broken, but only as if something had been thrown through it from the inside. Water drummed from the faucet.
Then Andrus began to choke, and I got on the phone for 911 and the closest hospital I knew before trying to help her.
Dr. Paul Eisenberg came around the corner, a chart in his hand. I worked my way up from the cheap plastic chair in the waiting room. 'How is she?'
The skin on his forehead wrinkled toward the baldness above it.
'Not good. Coma, signs very low. Where's her husband?'
'Europe. Tennis tournament in Paris, I think she said.'
'He should be notified.'
'What the hell is wrong with her?'
Eisenberg consulted the chart. 'You told the EMTs that Andrus was choking when you got there?'
'She was having a fit of some kind when I got there. The choking started after that.'
'How long before you got to her did the fit start?'
'I don't know for sure. I heard glass breaking, turned out to be a window in the kitchen. I was to her within
