the Little Creek parking area on Doane Road. This site was used for the beach shuttle in the summer, so as not to have too many cars clogging up the area. Tourists and locals alike could park here and hop on an electric shuttle bus that would chauffeur them right to the beach. It was convenient, environmentally sound and wicked fun. It was here that I would hide my car, only about a mile and a half from my house. I could, theoretically, run from home to the Joe meeting point, but this morning was not about exercise.
Little Creek was not yet open, but I drove down the fire road and parked illegally. Even if I was caught, most of the rangers knew my Honda (thanks to my M.D. plates) and wouldn’t mind, I reasoned. It was off season, after all. My watch read 6:19. In approximately thirteen minutes, I would be talking to Joe Carpenter. Time to go.
Digger and I trotted easily down Doane Road, which led to two of the world’s most beautiful beaches, Coast Guard and Nauset Light. My goal was eventually to be able to run around my “block,” which was roughly four miles in circumference, past these two gifts from God, past the Outer Cape Senior Center and back home. But I was still at the two-mile stage, two and a half if I was lucky.
Heart pounding healthfully away, I turned onto Nauset. I trotted along, trying to lengthen my usual trudging stride, opening up so I would look more natural and less tortured. Digger enjoyed our brisk pace, as he usually had to adjust his fast little legs to an awkward walk-trot when we weren’t trying to impress a man. Now, as I glided along, he could actually canter, which no doubt looked much better to the idle observer. I looked at my watch. 6:30. Perfect. Joe would be leaving his house, perhaps already on Massasoit, headed my way. As I ran, waving occasionally at a walker or bike rider, I pictured Joe’s progress across town. Now he should be at the Route 6 intersection. If the light is green, he’ll be here in less than a minute. If red, maybe two minutes. Three, tops.
Mr. Demers was out in his yard, doing a little early morning gardening. He had been a friend of Gran, and I was happy to see him out and about. A tall, imposing, white-haired gentleman, he was from one of the Cape’s oldest families and had that regal sense of belonging. He knew everything there was to know about local history, from native tribes to shipwrecks to Hurricane Gloria, and occasionally gave talks at the library.
“Hi, Mr. Demers!” I called, waving.
“Good mawnin’, Millie Baahnes!” he bleated, his accent thick even by Massachusetts standards. He stood up from his planting. “Goin’ to be a beautiful day!”
“Yes, sir!” I answered. Happy with the world, I checked my watch. Any second now.
It was at this moment that Digger decided his bowels couldn’t wait. Right at the mouth of Mr. Demers’s pristine oyster-shell driveway, he entered into the telltale squat.
“No, Digger!” I snapped. “Heel!”
Digger didn’t heel. I was absolutely not going to have him poop on Mr. Demers’s driveway, especially with the homeowner watching with a frown. I dragged my still-crouching dog along until we were off Mr. Demers’s property. Then I relented, glancing anxiously down the road for a maroon truck, and let Digger have his way. When he was done, on we went.
It was now 6:36, and I was starting to breathe more heavily. That was okay. I was running, after all, I rationalized. It had been seventeen minutes, and only very athletic people can maintain this level of exercise. But I did slow down. I was a little sweaty, and I didn’t want to overdo the glowing thing.
No Joe. Where was he? I kept running. The senior center was about a mile up the road, which gave me a comfortable cushion of time. I could make a mile last a good ten minutes. Twelve, even.
Oooh! I heard a truck. Don’t turn around, Millie. I opened up my stride again, delighting my dog. Here came the truck…it had to be him. Stride, stride, stride. Truck passed. Not Joe.
Damn! Where was he? It was now 6:42. He was downright late. Maybe he’d stopped for coffee, I reasoned. That was possible, though not what my research showed. Still, it could certainly happen.
Things were getting pathetic. I was out of breath but had to keep running because this part of road was straight, and I would see a car or truck before I could hear it. Thus, I would be unable to break into a run before the driver spotted me, and hence, I would look stupid. I slowed down again. Again my dog stopped, this time to pee.
“Hurry up, Digger,” I instructed. He looked at me, wagged and continued peeing. And now that he was doing that, I realized I had to pee, too. Damn that coffee!
At 6:50, we started running again. And there was the senior center! Shit! I couldn’t go past it, or I’d miss Joe! I’d have to turn around and pretend to be coming from the other direction. And I’d have to do it fast, or I’d be caught. The thought came to me that Stephanie, Evil Patient Care Technician, might be getting to work about now. Didn’t the shift start at 7:00? Another thing to worry about.
I passed the senior center and, looking both right and left and listening carefully, ran to the other side of the road. Done. No one saw me. I was now in Joe range again. God, I felt stupid! It was really getting late. I forced a cheerful expression on my face and reached up to wipe my sweaty forehead with my arm. Not wanting to resort to my trudge, I kept bounding along. My Achilles tendons were starting to ache. I wanted to stop and stretch them and hence prevent tendonitis, but that wouldn’t do. Where was Joe? Where was Joe? It became the rhythm my feet pounded to. Where. Was. Joe. Where. Was. Joe. There. Was. Mister. Demers.
Oh, great. There he was, still gardening. He looked at me curiously.
“Everything all right, there, Millie?” he asked.
“Oh, sure,” I gasped. “Just, you know, going for a run. Bye!” I trotted past him again.
My bladder reminded me of its fullness. It was 7:00. I had been running for forty minutes! This was surely a world’s record! My tendons sang. A sharp pain pierced my left kneecap, and I pictured the meniscus shredding. Keep going, I told myself grimly. He had to be coming. My breath rasped in my ears, and I slowed down a little. Digger, the faithless cur, now walked beside me, so sluggish was my stride. But I was still running. I could pick up the pace when I saw Joe’s truck.
By now I was back at Doane Road. Which meant I had to turn around again. There was nothing to do but do it, so I loped in a tight circle to change directions once more.
Is this really necessary? I asked myself. Do we really have to keep doing this? Alas, the answer was yes. As I approached Mr. Demers’s house, I could see the consternation on his face. My own face felt hotter as I blushed. My T-shirt was wet under my arms and sweat-darkened on the chest. Cringing inwardly, I ignored Mr. Demers. Pretended to be interested in a mockingbird instead.
Digger stopped again, crouching in the unmistakable pose of a dog pooping, and I staggered to a stop. Gasping, I looked at my watch. 7:10. I couldn’t go on anymore. My legs shook, my bladder ached, my foot had a cramp in it.
As I used the hem of my now soaked T-shirt to wipe my face, exposing my shockingly white belly, and as Digger crapped in the poison ivy, Joe drove by. He didn’t slow down. Perhaps he didn’t recognize me (please, God). But no, Joe’s golden arm popped out of the truck, and he waved as he turned into the senior center.
I limped back to my car, my Achilles tendons squealing in pain, my face, no doubt, that attractive shade of brick. At the white-shell driveway, Digger sniffed at the site of his earlier attempted defecation.
“Have a great day!” I called to Mr. Demers, who stood watching me with his arms folded in front of him.
“You too, Millie.”
Not likely.
CHAPTER NINE
AS SO OFTEN HAPPENS IN LIFE, love came knocking when I least expected it.
Later that day, I was at work, staring at the anatomy poster in the small office, still smarting—no, cringing—from the earlier debacle. My ever-optimistic mind tried to put a good spin on things, but my black soul refused to forsake the throne.
“Hey,