by Ed Park
Now Mr. Lacey was saying as if bemused, Here, Erin—the edge. We’ll go no farther in this direction. For we were at the shore of Lake Erie—a frozen lake drifted in snow so far as the eye could see. (Yet I seemed to know how beneath the ice the water was agitated as if boiling, sinuous and black as tar.) Strewn along the beach were massive ice boulders that glinted coldly in the moonlight. Even by day at this edge of the lake you could see only an edge of the Canadian shore, the farther western shore was lost in distance. I was in terror that Mr. Lacey out of some whim would abandon me here, for never could I have made my way back to my aunt’s house in such cold.
But already Mr. Lacey was turning the car around, already we were driving inland, a faint tinkling music seemed to draw us, and within minutes we were in a wooded area I knew to be Delaware Park—though I’d never been there before. I had heard my classmates speak of skating parties here and had yearned to be invited to join them as I had yearned to be invited to visit the homes of certain girls, without success. Hang on! Hang on! Mr. Lacey said, for the Volkswagen was speeding like a sleigh on curving lanes into the interior of a deep evergreen forest. And suddenly—we were at a large oval skating rink above which strings of starry lights glittered like Christmas bulbs, where dozens, hundreds of elegantly dressed skaters circled the ice as if there had never been any snowstorm, or any snowstorm that mattered to them. Clearly these were privileged people, for electric power had been restored for their use and burned brilliantly, wastefully on all sides. Oh, Mr. Lacey, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, I said, biting my lip to keep from crying. It was a magical, wondrous place—the Delaware Park skating rink! Skaters on ice smooth as glass—skating round and round to gay, amplified music like that of a merry-go-round. Many of the skaters were in brightly colored clothes, handsome sweaters, fur hats, fur muffs; beautiful dogs of no breed known to me trotted alongside their masters and mistresses, pink tongues lolling in contentment. There were angel-faced girls in skaters’ costumes, snug little pearl-buttoned velvet jackets and flouncy skirts to midthigh, gauzy knit stockings and kidskin boot-skates with blades that flashed like sterling silver—my heart yearned to see such skates for I’d learned to skate on rusted old skates formerly belonging to my older sisters, on a creek near our farmhouse; in truth I had never really learned to skate, not as these skaters were skating, so without visible effort, strife, or anxiety. Entire families were skating—mothers and fathers hand in hand with small children, and older children, and white-haired elders who must have been grandparents!—and the family dog trotting along with that look of dogs laughing. There were attractive young people in groups, and couples with their arms around each other’s waists, and solitary men and boys who swiftly threaded their way through the crowd unerring as undersea creatures perfectly adapted to their element. Never would I have dared join these skaters, except Mr. Lacey insisted. Even as I feebly protested, Oh, but I can’t, Mr. Lacey—I don’t know how to skate, he was pulling me to the skate rental where he secured a pair of skates for each of us; and suddenly there I was stumbling and swaying in the presence of real skaters, my ankles weak as water and my face blotched with embarrassment, oh what a spectacle—but Mr. Lacey had closed his fingers firmly around mine and held me upright, refused to allow me to fall. Do as I do! Of course you can skate! Follow me! So I had no choice but to follow, like an unwieldy lake barge hauled by a tugboat.
How loud the happy tinkling music was out on the ice, far louder than it had seemed on shore, as the lights too were brighter, nearly blinding. Oh! Oh! I panted in Mr. Lacey’s wake, terrified of slipping and falling; breaking a wrist, an arm, a leg; terrified of falling in the paths of swift skaters whose blades flashed sharp and cruel as butcher knives. Everywhere was a harsh hissing sound of blades sliced the surface of the ice, a sound you couldn’t hear on shore. I would be cut to ribbons if I fell! All my effort was required simply to stay out of the skaters’ paths as they flew by, with no more awareness of me than if I were a passing shadow; the only skaters who noticed me were children, girls as well as boys, already expert skaters as young as nine or ten who glanced at me with smiles of bemusement, or disdain. Out! out of our way! you don’t belong here on our ice! But I was stubborn too, I persevered, and after two or three times around the rink I was still upright and able to skate without Mr. Lacey’s continuous vigilance, my head high and my arms extended for balance. My heart beat in giddy elation and pride. I was skating! At last! Mr. Lacey dashed off to the center of the ice where more practiced skaters performed, executing rapid circles, figure eights, dancer-like and acrobatic turns, his skate blades flashing, and a number of onlookers applauded, as I applauded, faltering but regaining my balance, skating on. I was not graceful—not by any stretch of the imagination—and I guessed I must have looked a sight, in an old baggy oil-stained sweater and rumpled wool slacks, my kinky-snarly red-brown hair in my eyes—but I wasn’t quite so clumsy any longer, my ankles were getting stronger and the strokes of my skate blades more assured, sweeping. How happy I was! How proud! I was beginning to be warm, almost feverish inside my clothes.
Restless as a wayward comet, a blinding spotlight moved about the rink singling out skaters, among them Mr. Lacey as he spun at the very center of the rink, an unlikely, storklike figure to be so graceful on the ice; for some reason then the spotlight abruptly shifted—to me! I was so caught by surprise I nearly tripped and fell—I heard applause, laughter—saw faces at the edge of the rink grinning at me. Were they teasing, or sincere? Kindly, or cruel? I wanted to believe they were kindly for the rink was such a happy place, but I couldn’t be sure as I teetered past, arms flailing to keep my balance. I couldn’t be certain but I seemed to see some of my high school classmates among the spectators; and some of my teachers; and others, adults, a caseworker from the Erie County family services department, staring at me disapprovingly. The spotlight was tormenting me: rushing at me, then falling away; allowing me to skate desperately onward, then seeking me out again swift and pitiless as a cheetah in pursuit of prey. The harshly tinkling music ended in a burst of static as if a radio had been turned violently up, then off. A sudden vicious wind rushed thin and sharp as a razor across the ice. My hair whipped in the wind, my ears were turning to ice. My fingers in the tight angora mittens were turning to ice too. Most of the skaters had gone home, I saw to my disappointment, the better-dressed, better-mannered skaters, all the families, and the only dogs that remained were wild-eyed mongrels with bristling hackles and stumpy tails. Mr. Lacey and I skated hastily to a deserted snowswept section of the rink to avoid these dogs, and were pursued by the damned spotlight; here the ice was rippled and striated and difficult to skate on. An arm flashed at the edge of the rink, I saw a jeering white face, and an ice-packed snowball came flying to strike Mr. Lacey between his shoulder blades and shatter in pieces to the ground. Furious, his face reddening, Mr. Lacey whirled in a crouch—Who did that? Which of you? He spoke with his classroom authority but he wasn’t in his classroom now and the boys only mocked him more insolently. They chanted something that sounded like, Lac-ey! Lac-ey! Ass-y! Assy-asshole! Another snowball struck him on the side of the head, sending his glasses flying and skittering along the ice. I shouted for them to stop! stop! and a snowball came careening past my head, another struck my arm, hard. Mr. Lacey shook his fist, daring to move toward our attackers, but this only unleashed a new barrage of snowballs; several struck him with such force he was knocked down, a starburst of red at his mouth. Without his glasses Mr. Lacey looked young as a boy himself, dazed and helpless. On my hands and knees I crawled across the ice to retrieve his glasses, thank God there was only a hairline crack on one of the lenses. I was trembling with anger, sobbing. I was sure I recognized some of the boys, boys in my algebra class, but I didn’t know their names. I crouched over Mr. Lacey asking was he all right? was he all right? seeing that he was stunned, pressing a handkerchief against his bleeding mouth. It was one of his white cotton handkerchiefs he’d take out of a pocket in class, sh
ake ceremoniously open, and use to polish his glasses. The boys trotted away jeering and laughing. Mr. Lacey and I were alone, the only skaters remaining on the rink. Even the mongrels had departed.
It was very cold now. Earlier that day there’d been a warning—temperatures in the Lake Erie–Lake Ontario region would drop as low that night, counting the windchill factor, as -30 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind stirred snake-skeins of powdery snow as if the blizzard might be returning. Above the rink most of the lightbulbs had burnt out or had been shattered by the rising wind. The fresh-fallen snow that had been so purely white was now trampled and littered; dogs had urinated on it; strewn about were cigarette butts, candy wrappers, lost boots, mittens, a wool knit cap. My pretty handknit muffler lay on the ground stiffened with filth—one of the jeering boys must have taken it from me when I was distracted. I bit my lip to keep from crying, the muffler had been ruined and I refused to pick it up. Subdued, silent, Mr. Lacey and I hunted our boots amid the litter, and left our skates behind in a slovenly mound, and limped back to the Volkswagen that was the only vehicle remaining in the snowswept parking lot. Mr. Lacey swore seeing the front windshield had been cracked like a spiderweb, very much as the left lens of his glasses had been cracked. Ironically he said, Now you know, Erin, where the Delaware Park skating rink is.
The bright battered-face moon had sunk nearly to the treeline, about to be sucked into blankest night.
* * *
In the Bison City Diner adjacent to the Greyhound bus station on Eighth Street, Mr. Lacey and I sat across a booth from each other, and he gave our order to a brassy-haired waitress in a terse mutter—Two coffees, please. Stern and frowning to discourage the woman from inquiring after his reddened face and swollen, still bleeding mouth. And then he excused himself to use the men’s room. My bladder was aching, I had to use the restroom as well, but would have been too shy to slip out of the booth if Mr. Lacey hadn’t gone first.
It was three twenty a.m. So late! The electricity had been restored in parts of Buffalo, evidently—driving back from the park we saw streetlights burning, traffic lights again operating. Still, most of the streets were deserted; choked with snow. The only other vehicles were snowplows and trucks spewing salt on the streets. Some state maintenance workers were in the Bison Diner, which was a twenty-four-hour place, seated at the counter, talking and laughing loudly together and flirting with the waitress who knew them. When Mr. Lacey and I came into the brightly lit room, blinking, no doubt somewhat dazed-looking, the men glanced at us curiously but made no remarks. At least, none that we could hear. Mr. Lacey touched my arm and gestured with his head for me to follow him to a booth in the farthest corner of the diner—as if it was the most natural thing in the world, the two of us sliding into that very booth.
In the clouded mirror in the women’s room I saw my face strangely flushed, eyes shining like glass. This was a face not exactly known to me; more like my older sister Janice’s, yet not Janice’s either. I cupped cold water into my hands and lowered my face to the sink, grateful for the water’s coolness since my skin was feverish and prickling. My hair was matted as if someone had used an eggbeater on it and my sweater, my brother’s discard, was more soiled than I’d known, unless some of the stains were blood—for maybe I’d gotten Mr. Lacey’s blood on me out on the ice. Er-in Don-egal, I whispered aloud in awe, amazement. In wonder. Yes, in pride! I was fifteen years old.
Inspired, I searched through my pockets for my tube of raspberry lipstick, and eagerly dabbed fresh color on my mouth. The effect was instantaneous. Barbaric! I heard Mr. Lacey’s droll voice for so he’d once alluded to female “makeup” in our class, Painting faces like savages with a belief in magic. But he’d only been joking.
I did believe in magic, I guess. I had to believe in something!
When I returned to the booth in a glow of self-consciousness, there was Mr. Lacey with his face freshly washed too, and his lank hair dampened and combed. His part was on the left side of his head, and wavery. He squinted up at me—his face pinched in a quick frowning smile signaling he’d noticed the lipstick, but certainly wouldn’t comment on it. Pushed a menu in my direction—Order anything you wish, Erin, you must be starving—and I picked it up to read it, for in fact I was light-headed with hunger, but the print was blurry as if under water and to my alarm I could not decipher a word. In regret I shook my head no, no thank you. No, Erin? Nothing? Mr. Lacey asked, surprised. Elsewhere in the diner a jukebox was playing a sentimental song—“Are You Lonesome Tonight?” At the counter, amid clouds of cigarette smoke, the workmen and the brassy-haired waitress erupted in laughter.
It seemed that Mr. Lacey had left his bloody handkerchief in the car and, annoyed and embarrassed, was dabbing at his mouth with a wadded paper towel from the men’s room. His upper lip was swollen as if a bee had stung it and one of his front teeth was loose in its socket and still leaked blood. Almost inaudibly he whispered, Damn. Damn. Damn. His coppery-brown eye through the cracked left lens of his glasses was just perceptibly magnified and seemed to be staring at me with unusual intensity. I shrank before the man’s gaze for I feared he blamed me as the source of his humiliation and pain. In truth, I was to blame: these things would never have happened to Julius Lacey except for me.
Yet when Mr. Lacey spoke it was with surprising kindness. Asking, Are you sure you want nothing to eat, Erin? Nothing, nothing—at all?
I could have devoured a hamburger half raw, and a plate of greasy french fries heaped with ketchup, but there I was shaking my head, No, no thank you, Mr. Lacey.
Why? I was stricken with self-consciousness, embarrassment. To eat in the presence of this man! The intimacy would have been paralyzing, like stripping myself naked before him.
Indeed it was awkward enough when the waitress brought us our coffee, which was black, hotly steaming in thick mugs. Once or twice in my life I’d tried to drink coffee, for everyone seemed to drink it, and the taste was repulsive to me, so bitter! But now I lifted the mug to my lips and sipped timidly at the steaming-hot liquid black as motor oil. Seeing that Mr. Lacey disdained to add dairy cream or sugar to his coffee, I did not add any to my own. I was already nervous and almost at once my heart gave odd erratic beats and my pulse quickened.
One of my lifetime addictions, to this bitterly black steaming-hot liquid, would begin at this hour, in such innocence.
Mr. Lacey was saying with an air of reluctance, finality, In every equation there is always an X factor, and in every X factor there is the possibility, if not the probability, of tragic misunderstanding. Out of his jacket pocket he’d taken, to my horror, a folded sheet of paper—red construction paper!—and was smoothing it out on the tabletop. I stared, I was speechless with chagrin. You must not offer yourself in such a fashion, not even in secret, anonymously, Mr. Lacey said with a teacher’s chiding frown. The valentine heart is the female genitals, you will be misinterpreted.
There was a roaring in my ears confused with music from the jukebox. The bitter black coffee scalded my throat and began to race along my veins. Words choked me, I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is. Don’t know what you’re speaking of. Leave me alone, I hate you! But I could not speak, just sat there shrinking to make myself as small as possible in Mr. Lacey’s eyes, staring with a pretense of blank dumb ignorance at the elaborate geometrical valentine TO MR. LACEY I had made with such hope the other night in the secrecy of my room, knowing I should not commit such an audacious act yet also knowing, with an almost unbearable excitement, like one bringing a lighted match to flammable material, that I was going to do it.
Resentfully I said, I guess you know about me, my family. I guess there aren’t any secrets.
Mr. Lacey said, Yes, Erin. There are no secrets. But it’s our prerogative not to speak of them if we choose. Carefully he was refolding the valentine to return to his pocket, which I interpreted as a gesture of forgiveness. He said, There is nothing to be ashamed of, Erin. In you, or in your family.
Sarcastically I s
aid, There isn’t?
Mr. Lacey said, The individuals who are your mother and father came together out of all the universe to produce you. That’s how you came into being, there was no other way.
I couldn’t speak, I was struck dumb. Wanting to protest, to laugh, but could not. Hot tears ran down my cheeks.
Mr. Lacey persisted, gravely, And you love them, Erin. Much more than you love me.
Mutely I shook my head no.