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The Immigrant First published in The Portland Review |
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Most afternoons there would have been other runners using the cinder track behind the University, but because of the drizzling rain I was alone.
I had already run ten laps, and was in a good rhythm, puffing out a wet cloud of breath every three strides, when I saw the teenagers come around the far end of the grandstands.
"Mister!" There were three of them. It was the orange-haired one in the torn green army coat that called to me. "Hey! Mister!"
I stopped running, and walked with my hands on my hips as the three came nearer.
"There's some guy under the bleachers!"
"So?" I didn't like his high-pitched voice, or the way he stood too close.
He scratched at the sparse orange whiskers on his chin and said, "He looks dead."
I was not about to follow those three under the grandstands. "Well, call the police."
He stopped scratching and stared at me in dumb shock. Then he glanced back at his two partners and one of them snorted, as if on cue. When he turned back to look at me --a thin, balding, university professor-- his expression was one of disdain. "No way."
"Then I can't help you," I said. I stepped around him, letting my elbow clip him on the arm as I resumed my run.
As I ran the backstretch of the quarter-mile track I glanced back and saw the one in the army coat leading the other two toward the grandstands. He wore heavy black combat boots and stomped across the wet ground as if trying to injure the earth. His annoying voice crossed the distance, "Why's he come here? This is our neighborhood!"
I wondered if he was talking about me, or the man beneath the grandstands.
When I was running in front of the stands, I thought I heard something, and looked behind me. There was no one there. I kept running, trying to regain my easy stride. Then I heard something again, and stopped. I looked into the dimness beneath the grandstands, and listened. Without any awareness of having made a decision, I vaulted silently over the waist-high chain fence beside the track and ran to the near end of the stands.
I caught sight of the teenagers beneath the stands. Throwing side-arm, their wrists snapping, the three were firing stones at a man tightly curled on the ground. Then the one in the army coat and boots ran up to the body and kicked it hard. I hunched forward and ran beneath the stands. Just as he was about to kick again, I lowered my shoulder and slammed into his side. He crumpled to the ground. I spun off of him, rolling on the ground once before I could get up. I jumped towards him but he scrambled backwards like a crab, got onto his feet and lurched away. He ran, stumbling with one arm pressed to the ribs I had slammed into. The other two threw their stones at me, missing wildly, and ran after him.
I went over to the curled up body and knelt on one knee beside it. He was wrapped in a long black wool coat and when I shook his shoulder, I did it without any hope that he would be conscious. When I rolled him onto his back his black eyes were locked open, staring into space. Beneath his matted black and grey hair there were gashes, but none of the wounds bled. More than a dozen stones were littered around the body. I lifted his wrist, the skin was blackened with dirt, thickened and cracked from sun, rain, cold. There was a smell of unwashed animalness. Even though my hand was shaking too much to detect a pulse, I knew he was dead. As I placed his stiff arm across his chest a book fell out from beneath the long coat. Absently, I picked up the book. I held it tight with both hands as I went to find a telephone.
That was when I saw the dog. He was flattened in the rough grass near the rusted metal supports of the bleachers. He made no sound, not whining or whimpering, but watched me.
I knelt in the cold earth and called him to me.
He came, limping.
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This story will appear in Velocity Nine Stories of People In Motion Autumn 2008 Published by Green Flash Publishing |