The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.23 Scattered Ashes

June 6, 9:49 am

Richard wanted to run until his lungs were ready to explode; the way he used to run decades ago. He wanted to run with no goal and no destination. To run until the memory of Keith's wailing was drained from his exhausted mind and body.

If he had been thinking clearly, he would have run for the hills that towered over Salt Lake City. Or he would have set out for the Salt Flats, where he could be as alone as he would be in the Sahara desert. But instead he just ran without thinking, dodging cars and pedestrians, and even ricocheting off them, all with no apparent effect—like a pinball spiraling toward whatever oblivion gravity demanded.

Liberty Park was only two miles away from their house, and Richard made no conscious decision to go there. But when he finally stopped running, his lungs on fire and his legs weak and trembling, he saw he was on the northern end of the park.

I was running, he realized, with a start. I haven't been able to run like that in years. And I have never run so fast! Despite his panic, which still gnawed at his mind like a trapped animal, he also felt strangely exhilarated.

A double sidewalk ran through the spine of the park, creating a beautiful green corridor, lined by magnificent old cottonwood trees. Now that he was away from traffic and other people, Richard finally felt that he could try to calm his racing heart and mind. Weaving unsteadily in and out among the cottonwoods, he made his way to the center of the park. He knew from the crowds that it must be a weekend—probably a Saturday, since it was still early and there were a lot of Mormon families, just arriving to spread out their blankets. Dogs were running after frisbees, and young couples sat or laid together in the morning sunshine He found a bench that was out of the way of the main traffic, and sank down there, as his breath finally returned to normal, and the burning sensation quickly flowed from his legs.

Is it strange for a ghost to be out of breath? he wondered. It didn't feel strange. Despite the speed at which he could run, his body felt oddly normal. Perfectly real. The only true strangeness was in how fast he could run, and how quickly the exhaustion flowed from him. Faster, even, than when he was in his twenties. Back then, running felt like flying, and he could pound out ten miles on even a mediocre day. He would become so full of adrenalin on those runs that he wouldn't notice his legs chafing, or his nipples rubbing raw against his shirt. Afterward, he'd pay for those long runs with at least a day or two of discomfort. But as a ghost, it seemed that his body shed the pain and the exhaustion as easily as a duck would shake water off its back.

This world is a dumbfounding combination of the familiar and the strange, he thought.

His pounding heart subsided, and the aching in his feet was almost gone. Absently, he crossed his legs to rub his right foot. For the first time, he took stock of how he was dressed. His clothes would not be unusual for a man lounging at home, but they were very unusual for a day in the park. First, he had no shoes, so no wonder his feet felt like they'd been pounded past endurance. He had on the blue wool socks he habitually wore around the house. That, combined with the pajama bottoms and sweatshirt, would have definitely made him stand out in the park.

If I saw someone looking like this, I'd immediately figure they were down on their luck, he thought. Probably homeless.

He wished for the sidelong glances of distrust he should get in this state, but the people walking past him never turned their heads.

His inspection also showed that the blood on his sweatshirt ringed his head and shoulders like he was wearing a shawl. It looked fresh, but touching it, he discovered it was dry. In fact, he couldn't feel it at all. It was like the blood was simply a discoloration of the fabric. He was glad he hadn't been able to see his reflection in the mirror. It would have been a horrendous sight.