by John Cariani
So he just watched his wife skate for a while.
And then he found himself staring out across the lake, past the illuminated makeshift ice rink, and into the darkness. He was lost—not in thought (because he wasn’t thinking), but in time and space. So he didn’t hear Marci when she called to him.
“Phil!”
Phil was looking her way but he wasn’t responding.
“Phil!” Marci called again.
“Huh?” asked Phil, shaking himself out of his daze.
“What are you doin’?”
“Oh, just…” And he didn’t finish his sentence, because he didn’t know what he had been doing. And he started skating over to his wife. “I don’t know.”
“Well, did you see that?” Marci was asking Phil if he had seen the impressive spin and jump that she had just done.
“What?”
“I just did a single axel!” A single axel is a jump in figure skating that requires a skater to jump up while skating forward, rotate one and a half times in the air, and then land skating backward. Marci used to be able to do double axels—but she hadn’t skated in years. So she was pretty happy she was able to execute a single axel. “I still got it, baby!” she boasted. “Did you see me?” she asked, skating over to Phil.
“Aah, sorry, I didn’t.”
“Oh.” Marci was surprised by how disappointed she was that Phil had missed her single axel.
“But that’s awesome!” cheered Phil a bit too enthusiastically.
“I haven’t done one of those in … who knows how long,” said Marci, enthused but rueful.
“Awesome!”
“I thought you were watching—it looked like you were watching.”
“I was,” lied Phil, without meaning to.
“Well, obviously you weren’t. What were you doing?”
“I don’t know.” Phil really wished he had just lied and said he had seen his wife’s single axel. “I guess I was just … thinkin’. About work,” he said, lying again. He hadn’t been thinking about anything. But he knew she’d believe him if he said he was thinking about work. Because he was always thinking about work lately. “Sorry.”
“Well, just try to be here now, you know.”
“Yeah. Sorry,” said Phil, wanting a cigarette again. And then he tried to make up for missing Marci’s single axel and said, “Hey! Why don’t you do another one! I’ll watch this time.”
Marci laughed and said she didn’t know if she could pull off another one. And then changed the subject and asked, “Want some hot chocolate?”
“Sure.”
And Marci and Phil skated back to their picnic table, and Marci pulled a thermos out of her tote bag and cracked it open and poured a couple of mugs full of hot chocolate, and they sat and sipped.
“Mmm. This is good,” said Phil.
“Thanks. I made it the way people used to make it. With actual melted chocolate.”
“It’s good.”
Marci was still excited that she had executed a single axel jump. And started talking about how maybe she should take skating lessons again. Just for fun. Her work brought her to Presque Isle a few days a month. Maybe the next time she was there, she could swing by the Forum and inquire about lessons.
Phil wasn’t really listening to his wife because he was actually thinking about work. It looked like Aroostook Pellets might be losing its largest single contract, the University of Maine at Fort Kent, because the university had started installing biomass boilers. And now Phil was worried that biomass was going to become the university’s preferred heating fuel.
“Phil!”
Phil jumped a little and wondered why Marci was practically yelling at him. He didn’t know that she had asked him—twice—what he thought about her taking skating lessons.
“What?” he asked, irritated—because his wife seemed irritated.
“Where are you? Where’d you go?”
“Oh. Sorry—just … we may be losing the university in Fort Kent—and … we’re gonna have to lay people off if we do. And that’s … not a good feeling.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Marci didn’t realize how grave the situation at Aroostook Pellets was and wanted to comfort her husband—but didn’t know how to.
And then Phil started unlacing his skates. Because he was done skating. And never wanted to go in the first place.
And Marci forgot about wanting to comfort Phil. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I thought we were done.”
“We’re just having a hot chocolate break, Phil,” said Marci, exasperated. “We haven’t even been here twenty-five minutes! And you told me to do another single axel—so you could see!”
“Oh.” Phil had forgotten that he had said that he wanted to see his wife do another single axel.
But he couldn’t bring himself to re-lace his skates.
Because he didn’t want to see her do another single axel. And he didn’t want to be at Echo Lake.
Marci saw Phil make no effort to lace his skates back up.
So she started undoing her skates—and made sure that he knew she was angry as she did. Because she didn’t want to leave. “I mean,” she griped, “we just got here.”
“You’re right. Sorry,” said Phil. And he started reluctantly lacing his skates back up.
“No. Forget it. Let’s go.”
“Sorry—it’s just … my mind’s not here.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And I’m kinda cold,” groused Phil. Marci looked at her husband and wanted to say, “Liar.” Because it wasn’t cold. It was nineteen degrees. And Marci wasn’t cold yet. And if she wasn’t cold, there was no way that Phil was cold.
He just didn’t want to be there. And Marci knew it.
“Okay. Fine,” said Marci, in a way that made Phil know it wasn’t fine.
And, even though he knew it wasn’t fine that he wanted to go, Phil couldn’t bring himself to make any effort to stay.
So he and Marci unlaced their skates. And the air got heavy with disappointment and dissatisfaction as they did. It felt like what the air in their house felt like when they had been arguing. Or like when they were just about to argue. It was a feeling similar to when the barometric pressure changes before a storm comes.
But they hadn’t been arguing.
Maybe that was just what the air around them was like now.
“I mean, if you really wanna stay, we can stay,” offered Phil halfheartedly, trying not to seem like the bad guy.
“It’s okay, Phil.”
“Well, I feel like it’s not okay. I feel like you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad!”
Phil wanted to say, “Then don’t act like you’re mad,” but wisely did not. And, instead, just said, “Okay.”
And Marci and Phil unlaced their skates in silence.
And soon, Phil had taken off his old CCMs and had put his Red Wings back on. And he took one of the towels from the old hockey duffel and wiped the snow and ice off his skate blades so they wouldn’t rust, and then slid his skate guards on them to protect them. Meanwhile, Marci had pulled off her skates. And she slid on one of her new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoes. And then went to slide on her other new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe.
But she couldn’t find it.
She looked underneath where she was sitting.
And she looked around her.
But it was nowhere to be found.
Which was weird.
Because it had to be there. Somewhere.
She was just about to ask Phil if he had seen her other shoe when he said, “We don’t have to go.”
“Phil, you don’t wanna be here, so let’s go.”
“Well, I feel like you’re gonna be mad at me if we go.”
“I’m not.”
“But I also feel like you’re gonna be mad at me if we stay, so—”
“Phil, I’m not mad!”
“Well, it feels like you are. Or—were.�
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“I’m not mad, Phil,” she said, realizing that she may have sounded mad. And she tried to assure Phil she wasn’t. “I was having fun,” she said almost brightly. “I had fun, skating. Did you?”
Phil wanted to say no. But he didn’t. He just nodded yes.
Phil and Marci had learned, like many educated and successful people, how to not quite tell the truth about their feelings in that way that only educated, successful people know how to do.
“Good,” said Marci, happy that Phil had had fun. She wanted to stroke his hair. Which was so gray now. And thinning on the top. And so cute, she thought. But she didn’t touch him. Because she and Phil hadn’t touched in a while. And the longer you go without touching the person you love—or once loved—the harder it is to touch them. Or be touched by them.
Marci looked again for her other new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe.
But still couldn’t find it.
Anywhere.
Phil didn’t know that his wife was having trouble finding her other shoe. But he did know that she was mad. At him. And he thought he knew why. So he tried to defend himself. “I mean, I’m sorry I missed your jump out there—”
“It was a single axel.”
“I’m sorry I missed your single axel jump, and—”
“It’s okay—”
“And I’m sorry I was late getting home tonight—but we’re trying to figure out how to … stay in business. It’s serious, you know.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do,” retorted Phil.
Marci was still looking for her other new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe and said, “Phil—I’m not mad at you. You had to stay late. You’ve got a lot goin’ on.”
“I do!”
“I get it.”
Phil was about to say “I don’t think you do” again when Marci preempted him and said, “Phil, where’s my shoe?”
It took Phil a second to process the off-topic question, and asked, “What?”
“Where’s my shoe? I can’t find it.”
“Well…” Phil scanned the area. And saw no sign of Marci’s other shoe. Which was odd. “It’s gotta be here,” he said, puzzled.
“Where is it?!?” Marci asked again, flummoxed.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s black. Like this one.” Marci held up her left foot and showed Phil the new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe that was on it. “So it oughta show up in the snow, right?”
“It oughta.” Phil grabbed one of the flashlights he had brought and searched the area for a moment. And then asked, “Is it … buried?”
Phil started kicking at the fresh snow around him to see if Marci’s other shoe would materialize.
And Marci grabbed the Coleman lantern and searched the area around her to see if she could locate her other shoe.
And then she stopped searching and turned to her husband and asked—with a little sass—“Is this you being funny?” She hoped that Phil was being funny. Because Phil used to be funny. So, so funny. And fun.
“No!” said Phil, defending himself.
“’Cause it’s not funny,” scolded Marci. “I’m cold!” And she actually was, now. And her stocking foot was colder.
“Well, you’re the one that wanted to go skating!”
“Well, if you didn’t want to go, you should have just said.”
“I did say! I said, ‘Wanna go to dinner at the Snowmobile Club instead?’ But you said you wanted to go skating. And I said that if you really wanted to go, then we should go.”
“Yeah, well, I really wanted to go.”
“Yeah! And we went! We’re here!”
“Yeah.” They were there. At least she was. But he wasn’t. She felt like Phil wasn’t really ever anywhere that she was anymore. And she almost laid into him and told him so, when her better nature suddenly took over. And made her say, appreciatively, “And I’m glad we’re here. Thanks for going with me.”
“Sure,” said Phil. And he felt like everything was okay for a second.
Marci also felt like things were okay for a second.
And then Phil got back to work looking for Marci’s shoe.
And Marci put the Coleman lantern back on the picnic table and put her skate back on, so she could be more mobile—and to warm up her stocking foot.
And then, with one skate on and one shoe on, she grabbed the lantern and joined Phil in the search for her other shoe.
After a few seconds, she stopped searching and turned to Phil and said, “You know … we used to do this all the time.”
“Look for your other shoe?” asked Phil, being funny.
“Ha-ha, no. Go skating.” She was hoping hard that he would understand why she wanted to go skating so badly. “Why don’t we come here anymore?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s fun.”
Phil didn’t quite agree that skating was fun. But didn’t say so.
And then Marci realized that it had been a really long time since she and Phil had done anything fun.
And she wondered why that was and asked, “Why do people stop doing the things they used to do for fun, huh?”
“I don’t know. They get busy, I guess.”
“Well … that’s no reason to stop doing fun things.”
Phil shrugged. And didn’t know what else to say about why people stop doing the things they used to do for fun. And he really wasn’t interested in thinking about why he and his wife didn’t have fun anymore, so he changed the topic and got them back on task and asked, “Where the heck is your shoe? It’s gotta be here.”
Marci watched Phil as he resumed his search for Marci’s other shoe—which he was expanding to include the entire picnic area.
And then she felt like she needed to extend an olive branch—maybe to preempt the fight that she felt was coming. “Phil,” she said tenderly, “I’m not mad. I was never mad.”
Phil stopped searching and turned to his wife and felt like Marci was about to apologize for being so hard on him lately. But instead she said, “I just … I thought you’d be more excited about bein’ here tonight.”
“Marce, I’m sorry, but I told you, work’s been—”
“I know! Work’s been rough. And I thought you needed some fun! And I thought it would be fun—to come here. Help us forget all the … stuff. Get us away from the kids, get us back to where we used to be. We went skating, you know, the first time you kissed me. On a Friday night just like this one. ’Member? Right here. Echo Lake.”
Marci had made her way over to Phil and reached out and linked her pinkie finger in his, hoping Phil would remember. And he did. He had met Marci in high school at a party in Presque Isle. He had arrived with Lori York and left with Marci McCrumb. And they started dating. And Phil had to convince Marci’s parents that a boy from the hick non-town of Almost was worthy of their daughter. And that took some doing. But he did it.
And on their third date, he took her to Echo Lake.
And they kissed.
And knew that they loved each other.
And they promised to always remember the way they felt on that night. And Marci linked her pinkie finger in Phil’s.
But when Marci linked her pinkie in Phil’s on the night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen, Phil pulled his pinkie—and all of himself—away from her and grumbled, “Where the heck is your shoe?”
Marci was stunned by her husband’s rejection.
“Maybe it’s in the truck,” reckoned Phil. And he scanned the picnic table area again with his flashlight and started toward the Sierra.
“It’s not gonna be in the truck, Phil,” mumbled Marci. And she made her way back to the picnic bench and put the lantern back down on the picnic table and sat down and stared into the blackness beyond the illuminated patch of ice they had been skating on.
She heard Phil open the truck’s passenger-side front and rear doors. Then she heard nothin
g as he searched. And then she heard him close the passenger-side front and rear doors.
And then she heard the scrunch of footsteps in the snow as Phil walked around to the driver’s side. And then she heard him open the driver’s side front and rear doors. And then she heard nothing while Phil searched.
Marci shook her head. She knew he wasn’t going to find her shoe. Because she hadn’t taken it off in the truck. She had taken it off at the picnic table, with him.
And besides, he was never going to find it, because he couldn’t find things.
She looked up at the sky as if it might tell her what was going on with her husband of nineteen years.
And then she closed her eyes and prayed that they would be okay.
And that things at Aroostook Pellets would be okay.
And that Phil would be okay.
Her prayers were interrupted when she heard Phil slam the doors to the Sierra, having thoroughly searched it for Marci’s other shoe.
And she opened her eyes, still looking at the sky. And heard him make his way back to the picnic table.
“Well, it’s not in the truck,” conceded Phil, dropping his flashlight on the icy picnic table and sitting down. “I wonder—”
Marci suddenly jumped up, interrupting Phil and shushing him. “Oh-oh-oh! Shh-shh-shh! Shooting star, shooting star!” she cried, and she sat back down and closed her eyes and wished on the streak in the sky she had just seen as if her life depended on it.
Phil looked up, excited. “Wha—where, where?!?” But he was too late to see anything but the regular stars. “Where?” Phil asked again, disappointed he had missed the shooting star.
Marci’s eyes were still closed. “Shh!! I’m wishing, I’m wishing!”
Irritated that his wife had just shushed him, Phil searched the sky for the shooting star. And then stopped feeling disappointed that he had missed it, because all he had actually missed was a piece of falling space debris. Because that’s what shooting stars are. Falling bits of rock that are burning up in the atmosphere. “Oh, well,” he said. “I missed it.”
Marci finished wishing and looked over at her husband, her eyes resigned and a little dead. “Yeah, you did,” she said, in a way that made it difficult for Phil to determine whether she was agreeing with him or berating him.