Crazy for the Storm

by Norman Ollestad

  I was struck by how it sounded like an emergency and I wondered how he would have reacted when I was upside down in that tree well or sliding down that icy face or drowning in ten-foot surf. Real emergencies.

  My mom made me a cup of ice cream with chocolate sauce. I ate it while we watched a sit-com and Nick had his first vodka.

  Goddamn it, Norman, he said after a few minutes.

  My hand stopped mid-spoon. My mouth was open. I had been slurping.

  Sorry, I said.

  Go in the den.

  I won’t do it again. I’m sorry. I just want to watch the end.

  He grabbed my arm and the cup and walked me into the den. He slammed down the cup and jammed me into the chair.

  If you can’t control your slurping then you eat separately, he said. Until you learn.

  I wasn’t hungry anymore so I went downstairs to my room. My whole body shivered. I turned on the furnace and got into bed and buried myself head-to-toe under the blanket.

  The very next day on the way to the bus one of the neighborhood gang pointed out another kid in our grade named Timothy. I recognized Timothy as the boy who always looked down at his feet, muttered, sat alone, read comic books at recess, and startled easily. He reminded me of a beaten dog—sort of how I felt last night. One of the gang called to him across the street.

  Hey, Creepothy, he yelled and the other boys laughed.

  Timothy did not look up. He turned away from us, stopping so that we’d get far ahead of him. I kept glancing back at him, fascinated. He was skittish like me, but he couldn’t hide it. He probably has a mean dad or stepfather, I thought. I wanted to cross the street and walk with him. Then the idea repulsed me. I was the first one to walk ahead.

  Later that week Nick punished me again for chomping and I sat in the den and ate alone. When I was finished he handed me a piece of paper.

  A contract, he said.

  I looked at it, unmoved.

  Read it.

  I hereby promise to get control of myself and take responsibility for my actions. I will not chomp, slurp or eat with my mouth open. If I do I will eat alone.

  Do you understand it?

  I nodded.

  Sign it.

  I signed it.

  A few days later I saw Timothy at recess picking his nose. He sat on a bench in the corner of the yard. Somebody threw the kickball at him and he tried to duck it, tripping over his feet. It bounced off his face as he scurried to the other side of the yard. I wondered if they’d do the same to me if I stopped being good at kickball. I played my butt off that day.

  CHAPTER 21

  SANDRA’ S BODY SPILLED into the funnel. The only way to save her was to let myself tack with the slanting chute into the funnel. It would be polished to a slick. I had no edges, no poles, no gloves, just fingers and sneakers. In a flash her slow motion fall would become a toboggan ride to the bottom, wherever that was.

  I lifted the stick and my feet, pushing off my right hand into the funnel.

  Sandra was above me, plummeting now. I craned outward and her heel rapped my forehead. Then I axed the stick down. My toes dug and my free hand clawed. Under the half-inch of crust it was solid ice. I knew ice. I could ski it as well as any kid around. But there was nothing I could do now. We sailed as if in a free fall.

  The chute’s overall slant also ran through the funnel. So our momentum ran us across the funnel instead of straight down its gut. Another lucky break. Just below the rocky border was an embankment of snow that was angled in such a way that the snow was softer here. As we careened up the embankment I saw crags of rock and intermittent trees mottling it.

  I burrowed one sneaker into the snow and collided with something hard. I bounced off it and felt my trailing arm whack a rock. Fortunately it checked our plummet, slowing us down.

  Sandra was directly above me. I grabbed her ankle and hacked at the snow with the stick and fished for another rock with my foot. The stick had broken and wasn’t much use. I worked it down my palm to expose more tip. My foot tapped another rock and I rolled my weight onto that side. My toe caught the next crag of rocks, each catch a deceleration, until that foot planted against the blunt face of a larger rock. We came to a stop like a crushed beer can.

  Sandra was crying, wailing out. I looked up and her ankle was in my hand yet I could not feel it there. The skin on my first set of knuckles was gone. A pink liquid oozed out.

  I studied the larger rocks rising out from the crag of rock we were currently mashed against. How to climb up onto them, the chute’s border, and get us out of the funnel? Once atop the spine of rock I visualized us making our way downslope. Each five-foot drop to the next little ledge will be slick with nothing to grip, I thought. Then I saw us tumbling and bouncing down the rocky cascade and that made me abandon that idea.

  We have to stay against these rocks, Sandra. See how we can use them to slow down? See? See, the ice is a little softer here. Okay?

  Sandra said something about God’s wrath. Why is she suddenly so religious? I thought.

  Here we go, I said.

  Using the softer snow and crags of rock along the embankment, we moved down as a unit. With Sandra’s boots crutched on my left shoulder, my head braced her to that side. And miraculously she still had the stick in her good hand.

  Over the next few minutes we only slipped once. Right away, I leveraged my shoe tip against a rock, halting us.

  Good job keeping your feet against me, I said.

  Why are you doing this to us, Norman?

  Ask God, I said.

  I pulled down her boot soles tight to my left shoulder.

  Here we go, I said.

  We moved on our stomachs and it got darker from the ashen fog washing over our backs. Fifteen feet lower the embankment grew steeper and we had to fight against sliding back into the funnel.

  Then the embankment of snow dissolved into a vertical wall of rocks. I stopped and felt out a tuft-line of pliable snow maybe three inches wide, trailing along the foot of the wall. My numb hands cleaved to this supple thread. I begged the snow-thread to keep trailing downward or we’d be forced into the funnel. With the side of my head I braced Sandra’s ankle and we started moving again.

  Keep your upper body straight, I said.

  Keep your upper body straight, she repeated. Then again as if reminding herself.

  We scaled down at a snail’s pace. I hoped for the chute to end soon, or for us to come upon a tree growing out of a crack in the rock wall, low enough for us to grab. I needed to rest. But the scenery never changed. The fog pinned us to the thread of snow, our lifeline. A few feet later still nothing had changed. No sign of that wooded section. Just the nasty funnel at our hip. Don’t rush, I told myself. Inch at a time. Once you get going there’s no stopping.

  CHAPTER 22

  OUR LITTLE WHITE Porsche passed the Mammoth turnoff and kept going north on 395. I sat behind my dad giving him a head massage. Afterward I got in the passenger’s seat and we played Muga Booga, speaking crazy languages to each other like cavemen or apes. Then we switched on my dad’s new CB radio and talked to some truckers, getting weather reports and smokey sightings. After that we played License Plate and I found the one with the lowest number right before we hit Bridgeport and my dad turned onto a country road.

  Where’re we going? I said.

  It’s a surprise.

  A ghost town?

  He nodded.

  Cool.

  The town of Bodie was scattered on a mild slope amongst sage, a pale lime in the dry cold of winter. We wandered the barren streets. A lone brick facade seemed to waver in the wind. The other structures were steepled shacks and my dad said up to 10,000 people once lived in this place. I asked all the same questions I always asked when we came to ghost towns.

  The gold ran out, Ollestad. They moved on.

  Why do we like ghost towns so much, Dad?

  He shrugged.

  No traffic, he said.

  In the morning my dad waxed
my skis with the hotel iron.

  They keep talking about this kid, he said. Lance McCloud. They say he’s the best. Everybody tells me about him.

  How old is he?

  I don’t know. He’s a Junior 4 like you. Sometimes he races J3 to test himself against the older kids.

  I do that too, right?

  Yep. Anything to help you qualify for the Southern Cal Championship race.

  When’s that? I said.

  Little over two months. President’s weekend, he said.

  Does Uncle Joe still own this hotel? I said.

  Yeah.

  He ran the iron up and down the base of my skis.

  You got to go fast today, he said.

  I will.

  Why talk about beating the best kid when I have never even beaten the second or third best? I thought.

  I don’t weigh enough, I said.

  He stopped ironing my skis.

  Use your technique, he said.

  What difference does it make on the flats?

  Hey. That’s not an excuse.

  But I can’t go fast ’cause of my weight.

  Tuck the flats. Do anything you can.

  Tuck slalom gates?

  Don’t worry about going fast, okay.

  But you told me to.

  I know, but the wax will take care of that, Ollestad.

  He moved the iron onto the second ski.

  Why do I pee in my pants every time? I said.

  You get excited. Don’t worry about that.

  But the other kids don’t pee in their pants.

  How do you know?

  Dad put down the iron and set the skis against the wall.

  You really want me to beat that kid. Don’t you? I said.

  He looked at me, his mouth parted. Naw, he said. Don’t worry about him.

  Why’d you talk about him then?

  I don’t know. I’m just sick of hearing about him I guess.

  Then why talk about him?

  Just…to get it off my chest, Norman.

  He got the scraper out of his bag and shaved the top layer of wax off my bases.

  Fourth place, tenth place, first place, he said. That’s not what it’s about.

  But everybody’s trying to win, I said.

  I know. But we’re not. We’re just out here to make some good turns. Get a little better each time. We’re just out here for the hell of it.

  His mustache was unruly, bushing out in all directions, and his eyes looked groggy. He watched me closely, searching my face. I gazed right through him to some place beyond his eyes where his explanations might make sense. I couldn’t really understand what he meant by for the hell of it.

  You don’t care? I said.

  All I care about is that you keep going, Boy Wonder. Don’t get stuck on how you finished last time or the turn you just made. Go after the next one with all you’ve got.

  We signed in with the Heavenly Valley race department and the race official asked where the hell Mount Waterman was.

  Los Angeles, said my dad.

  That’s a long way from Lake Tahoe, said the official. He smiled and handed me a bib. Good luck, he said through his smile.

  I was the sole representative of my team so my dad and I slipped the course together, with him acting as my coach. It was a gentle slope with pretty tight gates and powdery snow.

  You got ’em in the powder, he said.

  I felt the pressure again and it was confusing. It was clear that he wanted me to win no matter what he claimed. He was trying to be sneaky about it—tease me into winning without feeling any stress. I was onto him.

  It’ll probably stop snowing, I said with spite. No more powder.

  Then the ruts will get big, he said. That’s no problem for you. You got ’em in the ruts.

  I scoffed. Maybe I don’t.

  He gave me a long look. I had made my point so I kept my mouth shut.

  A quarter of the way down he insisted on getting real close to the Heavenly Valley ski team in front of us. My dad would repeat to me what the Heavenly coach told his team and finally the coach addressed my dad.

  Excuse me sir. What team are you from?

  Mount Waterman, said my dad. The coach couldn’t make it so we were hoping to pick up a few pointers.

  These kids’ families pay a lot of money for ski team. I don’t think it’s fair for you to get advice for free. Do you?

  My dad’s jaw muscle flinched. Then he smiled.

  I’ll pay for it, he said.

  You’ll have to go work that out with the team president, said the coach.

  But you’re the coach. You must have authority to decide who can train with the team, said my dad.

  No sir.

  Let’s go, I said.

  My dad looked at his watch.

  The race is going to start soon, my dad said to the coach.

  The coach raised his head as if to get a better look at my dad. My dad leaned onto his poles, settling in. The team behind us appeared at our rear. Then the Heavenly coach shook his head and turned away, addressing his racers.

  My dad told me to listen closely to the coach’s inside info. My head was bent toward the ground and I nodded.

  The wind picked up and the snow fell hard and it was difficult to see by the time we got to the bottom. A voice came over the speakers mounted on the night-skiing lampposts.

  Due to diminishing visibility the race is delayed until further notice, said the voice.

  Son of a bitch, said my dad.

  He was pissed, I knew, because he believed I had the advantage in these stormy conditions.

  Well. Let’s go powder skiing, he said.

  I pointed my head into the wind and we rode several chairs before he led me into the trees. We hiked and he whistled and sang a Tyrolean song I remembered from our trips to St. Anton. We skied a long ridge-spine and the snow was thick and heavy, Sierra Cement they called it because the storms hitting the Sierra Mountains had too much moisture. Every few turns my dad hooted and sang as if it was perfectly light Alta powder.

  I followed him down a gully and the snow was awful. I was exhausted by the time we made it to the comeback trail.

  One more, said my dad as we schussed along the trail.

  No way, I said.

  Why not?

  The other kids aren’t going out of bounds looking for powder, I said. We might miss the race.

  Ollestad—we can do it all, he said.

  He opened his arms as if offering me the valley and the forest, maybe the entire world.

  It was snowing hard and the nightlights finally reached full glow when the course setter announced that the gates would be loosened up a bit because of the conditions. My dad groaned. Among the coaches and parents gathered around the race department, he was the only person unhappy with the decision. My chances were whittling away.

  I heard Lance McCloud’s name when I got to the starting tent and I circumvented the crowd and finally saw him. He was a small boy like myself and he wore a spiffy ski team suit and all his teammates listened intently as he spoke. His coach sharpened his edges and waxed his skis and I watched him stretching and joking with his friends, comfortable and relaxed. My dad kneeled beside me and reviewed the gates with me, then he looked over my skis like he was going to tune them up but we didn’t have any files or wax with us.

  Lance raced second and nobody else was close to his time. Finally they called my number and I poled nervously into the starting gate. The starter counted down—five-four-three-two-one-Go!—and I kicked off the pad and broke the wand. Instinctively I banked on two skis into my first turn, powder style. The rut was filled with snow and I felt my skis spring me into the next turn. I sailed through the pillowy ruts as if skiing powder bumps. It was not something I had planned and I questioned what the hell I was doing. But I didn’t have to jam the edges and the skis sliced right through each turn, running well.

  I crossed the red dye of the finish line and the first thing I saw was Lance McCl
oud’s face, twisted with envy. I knew I had beaten him. Checking the board I had the best time by half of a second. My dad appeared and waved me over.

  Pretty good, Ollestad, he said in front of the leering crowd. And we skied away.

  We waited in the starting tent for the second run to begin. Lance’s team kept their backs to us and whispered to each other. A couple boys from Squaw Valley and Incline Village congratulated me and I thanked them. My dad didn’t say a word. The kid who finished twentieth went first. I would go last. My dad hiked over to the starting gate and when he came back he was shaking his head.

  What? I said.

  They got a whole team of people scraping away the snow in the ruts.

  Why?

  Why do you think?

  Oh, I said, understanding that it was for Lance. He must not like powder.

  When it was Lance’s turn the tent got real quiet. I was right behind him and could see the army of people on the course side-slipping the fresh snow out of the ruts, making the course faster. Then Lance charged off the starting pad and I couldn’t see him through his vapor trail.

  They’ll be a little choppy this time, said my dad before he kissed me and told me to have fun.

  When I crouched in the starting gate I noticed that the army of rut-cleaners was gone. The ruts were filling with snow and that would slow me down. Everybody was supposed to have similar snow conditions to level the field. The course was faster without snow in the ruts, so Lance had had a huge advantage on his run. A few gates lower I saw my dad waving his arms and yelling at one of the race officials. Then it was time to go.

  The first rut took me by surprise. I had too much edge, too hard an angle, and my skis plowed into the snow. I jerked my knees up and out and was in the air, another tenth of a second lost. By the third turn I was back into my powder rhythm. As I moved into the flats the snow felt deeper and I did everything I could to glide instead of sink. The crowd roared as I came over the finish line and I knew I had lost.

  I came to a stop and looked for him. Lance was somewhere inside the hustle-and-bustle and I checked the board. His combined score was two-tenths of a second faster than mine, meaning he had beaten me by a healthy seven-tenths on the second run. My dad skied up beside me and he whistled and his face was dimpled.