The Pale Thane

by M.R. Hyde

contrast and focus for the aging athletes as they rose to be glorified again.

  Leif and Hannah Rothmorton entered the great hall amidst flashes of cameras and younger, purring women. It took only moments for the crowd to hear of, sense and recognize his presence. Most everyone turned to catch a glimpse of the man known for his physical prowess and renowned for his philanthropic work. His wife, once a legendary beauty, had her pale, silken hand slung loosely over his still powerful forearm. She was an accoutrement at this point. But she was familiar with his humanity, and he let her be so.

  Humanity was not on the program tonight, though. Leif had come to receive the Hall of Fame award. It was his long-awaited moment to stand in the eternal glow of fame and glory. He was ready to receive it all. His arms were open. His eyes were open. His heart was open. Hannah tripped a bit on her gown and her fingers dug into his virulent arm. Leif neither slowed down nor reached to steady her. She was at least grateful for something to grab onto. Her ankle hurt a bit, but she knew better than to detract from him. So, she walked steadily again by his side.

  The meal was good, but as with all large banquets, arrived mostly cold to their table. Old friends glad-handed Leif and patted Hannah on the back throughout the meal. Other former goddesses commiserated quietly with her as their husbands erupted in raucous laughter. It was a night of revelry and noise and noise.

  The M.C. interrupted the festivities just as the dessert and the final libations were being offered up.

  “Tonight we have gathered in this esteemed hall to honor one of the greats of our time. Leif Rothmorton, would you please stand!” The response of the crowd was deafening. The M.C. could barely be heard above the applause.

  “And, of course, his lovely wife Hannah! Hannah, please stand beside your fine husband.” The spot lights flooded their table while Hannah and Leif stood in the pantheon with fluttering pieces of silver and gold confetti obscuring their vision. The crowd stood all around them pressing the noise of applause into their flesh.

  It took the M.C. quite some time to quiet the crowd enough to invite them to be seated, for the program was just getting started. There were many speeches to be made, not the least of which would be Leif’s. With the voice of the M.C. booming through the microphone, the tales of might and power, strength and perseverance began to reverberate.

  “Leif Rothmorton was born a runner. At least that is what his father said. Never having crawled a day in his life, he fairly leapt out of his mother’s womb. According to his boyhood friends he was always the fastest and most competitive—even in the games of young men in dirt fields. When Leif was in college, he was an accomplished sprinter, a marvel to behold. It was expected that he would make the next Olympic team—and he did. Competing against some of the world’s finest athletes Leif won three gold medals and was highly regarded by his teammates as one of the finest athletes and gentlemen they had known. After graduating from college Leif was invited to be an assistant men's track and field coach. In his first decade of coaching alone, Leif Rothmorton accrued a coaching record that would be the envy of any aspiring or seasoned coach. In a remarkably short time, because of his discernment in picking talent and his ability to pull the most out of his students, Leif became head men's coach. Over his many years as coach, his teams collectively won thirty-two Olympic medals, seventeen of them gold. Leif’s teams were never satisfied with defeat and consistently achieved national championships, capturing a total of twenty-eight team titles. Leif was honored as the head coach of the U.S. Olympic men's teams three times, as well as serving as assistant coach in the Pan-American Games. Today Leif is never far away from the track, but his heart is always with those in need. His philanthropic work includes fundraising for the Children’s League, raising awareness and funds for several homeless shelters and in particular for the Rogene Swanson Battered Women’s Shelter. After the great natural disasters in the Northeast two years ago, Leif and his wife Hannah have made numerous trips to aid in the rebuilding of that region and have become honorary mayors of the town of Rosemont, most hard hit in that area. It is with great honor that I present to you now, Leif Rothmorton, this year’s inductee into the Track and Field Hall of Fame. Leif!”

  The crowd burst forth in sincere and fervent applause. Leif took the stage adjusting the microphone for his height, pulled some pages from his suit pocket and cleared his throat. There was much more to remember, much more to revel in, much more to report. Hannah went to the restroom.

  Carolita had moved her few belongings in to the third floor apartment earlier that day. She and her baby boy returned from the grocery store. He was anxious to stretch his legs and lungs so she put him down and let him go. She turned back to the door and closed it carefully inspecting the hinges and locks. There was a decent deadbolt and a chain lock just above eye level. She looked at each of these things again, knowing they could not stop Reggie if he was really angry. She took some comfort in the fact that she was at least three floors up and that he could not come in the window. Her fervent prayer was that he would not be able to find her. That is what she prayed for most of the time. Going to the kitchen she put the few things away from the grocery bags, checked on the baby and inspected the pallet of blankets she had put down on the floor. They would be a little more comfortable than the bare floor and would keep them off of the carpet that only appeared to be clean.

  With no radio or television she was left with her boy and her thoughts. Carolita loved her little one, but she felt badly she did not have what it took to even play with him. Her crushed ribs still hurt and her left hand, as bruised as it was, was at least more flexible now. She was very grateful that her little one entertained himself tonight with the few toys he had and the apartment to ramble around in.

  She thought about the car. Had she parked it far enough off of the street? Was it in a corner dark enough to obscure the license plates? She believed it was, but could not help fretting. She found another consolation in that the apartment complex was so huge it would take him a long time to find her if he wanted to. She made little or no conversation with other tenants and felt that at least for a little while she could rest, really rest.

  “Your father missed you at the banquet tonight.” It was his nameless mother. That’s how he always thought about her. Once upon a time she was arm candy to the king and everyone knew her name. But now she was nameless, faceless, faithful, and forlorn. She had not turned to drink, nor prescription medications, nor had she turned to gossip or pandering with the pool boy. She had fairly quickly resigned herself to the muted role of wife of the hero and turned to simple, momentary pleasures and daily tasks. She had few friends and rarely traveled with the king. She frequented the gynecologist’s office in constant fear of his unfaithfulness. Herpes she could live with, but there was the possibility of HIV-AIDS of which she just might die.

  “I had to show an apartment tonight, mother.”

  “I know. It just would have been nice to have you there.”

  He knew it would have been nice for her to have someone to talk with—and not about the king. The people always flocked around him as if he was Adonis or the very winged Mercury. He had seen her fade into the background his whole life. For years he had taken it upon himself to be her steady companion. They would have little, quiet chats standing against the wall at function after function. As he matured he had experienced a season of resentment towards her. Why hadn’t she made close friends? Why did she need him to talk with so much? Couldn’t she just stop being so selfish? But then he began to see why and why and why. The women really wanted Leif not her. Their dialog—or more often monologue—was about Leif and not her or their son or even the weather. And she really was not selfish and certainly not demanding—just a lonely woman with a weak child and a monolithic husband.

  So, her only child and son had stopped resenting her. But he still wanted some of his own life, however pale that might be. The hurt in her eye
s and voice faded over time out of respect for his individuation. Hannah knew she could not expect or want her son to compensate for the narcissistic man she had knowingly married.

  On the day that his son was born, Leif Rothmorton was poised for another moment of greatness. As his wife’s belly grew he had been dreaming of the glories of his progeny. His thoughts hovered over the likelihood that his son would be beautiful and strong. So, it was disappointing to hear the doctor say that this infant boy weighed only five pounds. This was not the stuff of legends! He wanted to boast that his son was a young beast ready to take on the world his father had prepared for him.

  “How’s that boy of yours, Leif, old man?”

  “Fine! Fine.” he would say with great conviction.

  “You need to bring him out to the track and let us see him start gaining on his ol’ Pop!”

  “Hannah’s a bit protective of him, you know. Still young.”

  All of it was lie upon lie. Leif would worry often, just before going to sleep and just waking, how he might introduce his son to his colleagues and athletes. He would try to shake off the terrible image of