Yellow Day

He dressed and completed a stretching and exercising routine to warm-up tired muscles. He stood and slid his arms into the windbreaker, then knelt to retie the loosened knot in his sneakers. After slipping on the stocking cap and gloves he started for the door, and then stopped, remembering the time in Texas when he locked himself out of a fully automated motel. With nobody around to help, a major commotion ensued for almost an hour before he got back into his room.

He walked back to the small desk, picked up the key, placed it inside his glove, and stepped into the hallway. Through the clear plastic bags hanging on each doorknob he read the words, USA Today. The stairs deposited him in an empty lobby with a vacant reception desk. Crossing the lobby he stepped into the cold February air. A misty fog, common at this time of year, rose from the damp snow lining the driveway, producing halos around lights that hung from invisible poles. The limited sight distance, about fifty feet, and the morning darkness created a mysterious atmosphere. What would the morning bring?

At home, Jim jogged two and a half miles around a neighborhood loop every other day, and tried to fit in a morning run when away on travel. The aerobics and full sweat of strenuous exercise made him feel good, and missing a run caused a guilt trip. His travels had produced a variety of different and interesting running experiences, including the mall in Washington, Grant Park in Chicago, the beaches of New Jersey and Cape Cod, and overseas in Paris, London, Warsaw, and the Scottish Highlands.

While Jim had stayed at the Larchwood Inn several times, this would be his first opportunity to run in its surroundings. Estimating distance on strange and hilly terrain was difficult, and time provided more certainty to the length of the run. He checked his watch, 6:20, and stepped from under the canopy of the inn onto the driveway, beginning the outbound leg of his 25-minute loop in a slow trot. He trudged along at about one mile every ten minutes. Looking over his shoulder, the lights of the inn faded from view. Remember the landmarks and look at the street signs.

Behind him, the inn faded into the fog. A historic nineteenth century mansion near the ocean in a small Connecticut town, it had four guestrooms. Its personal touches included a welcoming note on the unlocked door and quiet tones of classical music when entered the small lobby. Passing the registration desk, which reminded him of the British Comedy Series, Fawlty Towers, he'd settle into his favorite, the Lincoln Room, with four poster bed, memorabilia, and furnishings of the Civil war era. A bottle of wine and a surprise desert set out for guests each evening added to the pleasure of the visit. The Larchwood was comfortable, like home.

No matter where he ran, after the outward leg of twelve or thirteen minutes Jim would turn to retrace the course and complete the run. The fog continued its surrounding grip as he made a few turns, mentally tracking them between glances at his watch. At 6:32 he looked for a landmark ahead, a definitive point where he would turn and begin the return. Choosing a stop sign at the next intersection, he crossed over the road and completed his U-turn, keeping on the left side of the road. Today it didn't seem to make much difference; there had been no traffic.

After several winding turns, puffing his way up the hilly suburban road, he arrived at an intersection and looked up for the street name. Davison, is this where I turn? No, not yet. At the next intersection he looked up again and decided to keep going. Another familiar sign said McCalum. Jim hesitated, and then turned under the sign. The mist and darkness of morning provided few navigation clues. Now everything began to look different; new hills he didn't remember, and new houses replaced those he saw on the way out. Was it just the fog, or are they different?

Jim trotted downhill as a dog barked in the distance, causing him to tense. Then his foot moved backward, of its own will and as if a roller skate, and his body lurched ahead. As Jim's face accelerated toward the street he thrust out his arms to break the fall. Crashing into ground, he winced at the pain in his knee and wrist. He felt foolish, and cursed his stupidity in a whisper. "Damn I didn't need this." He felt a sting in the palm of his hand and removed a glove. The key edge, like a saw blade, had sliced the flesh between the forefinger and thumb.

He sat up, moved the wound to his lips, tasting blood while surveying his injuries. The distant barking grew louder so he tried to stand. A shadowy figure moved across the misty lawn to his left. The dog sounded big. A Doberman twice his size attacked Jim, at the age of three, and the fear of that incident never went away. He tried to raise himself from the street as the barking grew louder and more ferocious. The shadow drew closer. Jim's fear won over the pain and he rose to his knees to face the racing animal as it approached, now about ten feet away. As Jim lifted his arms to cover his face, the dog let out a piercing yelp and slid to a halt, made a few whimpers, and then started barking again. In the faint glow of the streetlight, a short distance from where Jim knelt, he spotted the row of small flags separating him from the snarling dog.

On hands and knees, Jim backed away with slow, cautious movements. Then he heard a faint sound of approaching footsteps. The barking resumed with a tone of increasing anger. Jim forced his attention away from the dog, toward the direction of the footsteps. From the darkness he noticed an emerging image, faint, coming up the hill. He watched a slender figure become visible through the gray mist, drawing closer, and stopping the other side of the road, about twenty feet away.

Jim called, "I could use some help!" The dog's barking and snarling competed with his plea as he awaited a response. The blurred image crystallized into a figure moving toward him in black pants and a yellow windbreaker. Dark hair protruded from under a ski cap; still no sound of a voice. The figure approached with caution, maintaining distance.