Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  “It doesn’t sound like you ran from it.”

  “I did. Believe me, I did.” He bent down and kissed my forehead. “But the worst is the relief. I feel the worst when I feel relieved.”

  I looked up and our eyes met, both sets filled with tears. “I know,” I said. “I know how that feels.” I rose to my knees and kissed him. I tasted his tears mingled with mine. I climbed into his lap and we held each other for what seemed like a long time, his fingers softly brushing my hair, my ear pressed to his heart. Finally I pulled away. “You don’t ski by any chance, do you?”

  The next Saturday was even more “awesome” than the previous Saturday had been. I watched the sun rise through the rearview mirror as Hilary, Richard, and I headed for Okemo. Tendrils of light reached up in a semicircle behind us and then merged together in back of the trees to become day. It was exhilarating to be on the road so early, to be skimming over the empty highway while the world slept.

  Richard took a swig of coffee from the thermos and handed it to me. I smiled at him and then turned back to the road.

  “You know, you guys make goo-goo eyes at each other all the time,” Hilary said from the backseat.

  “Shut up, Hilary,” I said, grinning.

  “Shut up, Hilary,” Richard said, grinning.

  “Shut up, Hilary,” Hilary said, grinning. “How about some coffee?”

  I watched them as Richard reached back and handed her the thermos. He looked a bit self-conscious, but on the edge of comfortable; she was grinning. Hilary had pulled me aside when Richard was putting her skis in the rack and whispered that he was “sweet.” Sweet as in cool, not as in candy. They didn’t have a lot to say to each other—but that was to be expected.

  I turned off onto the back roads that Clay had shown me. We drove past body shops and general stores and pickup trucks and trailers surrounded by Virgin Marys; we drove through small towns that seemed more suited to rural Maine than western Massachusetts. We crossed the Connecticut River at Bellows Falls and were almost immediately folded into the Green Mountains of Vermont. The road dipped and weaved; sometimes the light was cut off by the tall hills, sometimes we hugged a meandering river in a sunlit plain. There had been a big storm on Thursday, and the farms and front yards and even the gas station parking lots looked white and clean and new.

  I had forgotten how much I loved skiing. When we finally got on the chair lift and were hoisted above the snow, the air crisp and cold and fresh-tasting, the entire mountain spread in front of us, I knew it had all been worth it. All that early rising and driving and parking and shuttle busing and lugging. All those hats and Gortex mittens, all those glove liners and polypropylene socks and after-ski boots and neck gators. It was all worth it to feel so alive and free and so much a part of it all.

  I had been skiing since I was about thirteen, and Hilary since she was three, but Richard was fairly new to the sport. He had had a friend in law school whose parents had a trailside condo at Killington, and he had skied there about a dozen times. He wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t doing any moguls or black diamonds either. It was great to be the fast one—great to ski with someone who wasn’t constantly looking at his watch, calculating how many minutes of skiing I was causing him to lose.

  After a few runs together off the midmountain chair, Hilary began to look like Clay, just about tapping her ski with impatience as she stared up the mountain waiting for us. “Clay may have been a jerk, but he sure could ski,” she said when I reached her. “This guy’s too slow. We’re going to lose a bunch of runs waiting for him.”

  I looked up the mountain and watched Richard’s awkward stance, his body too far forward, his shoulders twisting with every turn. “Cute, though.”

  “Maybe to you.” She pouted.

  I punched my poles in the snow and leaned on them. “If I let you take off, promise you’ll ski in control and promise you won’t tell your father?”

  She grinned. “You got a deal.”

  “Be at the Sugar Shack at one or you’ll ski with us the rest of the afternoon,” I called to her back. She raised a pole in acknowledgement and sped toward the summit chair.

  Richard seemed to relax once Hilary was gone; he was skiing better and faster. “You’re really doing great,” I said as he pulled down the safety bar on the chair lift. I smiled at the father and daughter sitting next to us. The little girl buried her head in her father’s parka.

  “You’re a good teacher.” Richard leaned over and kissed my nose. “Very patient.” He put his arm around me.

  “I know it from the other side. Clay would just order me to do things: Lean forward! Lean back! Shoulders immobile! Carve that turn! Ride your edges! Faster! Faster!” I snuggled into his chest. “It’s a wonder I still like to ski.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  I reached up and kissed him. “No.” As I leaned back against his arm, the spot on the side of my head throbbed. The throbbing grew steadier and deeper as we were carried higher up the mountain; it almost hurt. I couldn’t sense Isabel—there was no lavender and no breeze—but I knew she had to be angry. And she had to be watching me. Watching us. I shivered. Richard held me tighter.

  The little girl on the chair lift with us was whining to her father about the cold. He told her to imagine they were on a tropical island under a blazing sun, the sand hot between their toes. She would have no part of it. He patiently took her hands in his and rubbed. But that wasn’t enough. She wanted his neck gator. In exasperation, he yanked it over his head and pulled it down around her neck. She looked like a flabby turtle, but at least she was quiet.

  “Have any kids?” he asked us.

  I smiled. “Sometimes.”

  Richard dropped his arm and turned toward me, his face like stone. “What?” he demanded.

  I swallowed. “Hilary,” I said quickly. “Sometimes I feel like Hilary’s my kid.” I turned to the man. “My niece.”

  Richard leaned back, visibly relieved. He grinned. “Got me going there for a second.” He put his arm back around me.

  We were paying more attention to each other than to the chair lift, and were unprepared when we reached the top. Our poles and our skis and our legs got all jumbled up as we tried to get off; we fell in a twisted, laughing heap at the bottom of the ramp. Richard’s binding released and one of his skis flipped over his head. No one could get by us; they had to stop the lift to avoid a major pileup—thereby inconveniencing a few hundred people. But we were too tangled and hysterical to be embarrassed. The lift operator came out of his little hut and stood with his hands on his hips, tapping his boot. Finally we got ourselves upright and Richard’s ski on. The operator shook his head and then grinned; he went back into his hut, and the lift started up again.

  But our fall did something to Richard’s ski; every time he turned, his left ski came off. And every time his ski came off, he was down in the snow.

  “Do you think it’s the binding?” I asked as he pulled himself up for about the fifth time.

  “Must have broken the damn thing when we fell.” He slammed his boot into his ski and shoved his hand through his pole strap. “I’m going to have to go down without turning and get right to the repair shop.” But he wasn’t good enough to ski without turning; he fell another five times. He was swearing and I was silent when we reached the bottom. I had learned long ago that silence and self-preservation go hand in hand when men are angry.

  “Go do another run,” he ordered. “This could take a while.”

  “No, that’s okay, I’ll stay with—”

  “Do another run!” he yelled.

  I slid back on my skis. “Okay, I’ll meet you right here in about half an hour.”

  “Fine!” He yanked his feet from his bindings, swung his skis over his shoulder, and stormed off toward the repair shop.

  I looked at the lift line and realized there was no way I could get up and down in half an hour—the wait appeared to be about that long—so I took off my skis and went into the lodge. I got
a cup of hot chocolate and hunted for a place to sit. A difficult task.

  The problem wasn’t too many people—although there were quite a few—it was ski paraphernalia: it littered the floor and filled the long trestle tables and was heaped on almost all of the chairs. There were sweaters and turtlenecks, hats and mittens, boot trees and goggles, shoes and socks—even a pair of men’s long underwear was flung over the back of a chair.

  I tried to step around the debris. The air was overheated; it was thick and steamy with the smell of wet wool and french fries. I unzipped my jacket and ripped off my hat as I stumbled in my unwieldy ski boots. I spilled some hot chocolate on my hand and dropped my hat into a puddle.

  I finally found an empty seat. I sank into the chair and pushed two pairs of socks and somebody’s lunch to the side. I placed my soggy hat on my lap and tried to dry it on my waterproof ski pants; then I tried a dirty napkin. It was hopeless. I sipped the now tepid chocolate and listened to a mother yelling at her son for playing video games instead of skiing, and to a son yelling at his mother for refusing to let him ski Defiance.

  Tough break for Richard. He’d been doing so well. All that falling would demoralize him. Ruin his day. He’d probably be happy to spend the rest of the afternoon in the lodge by himself—I felt a blast of warm air that smelled of hot chocolate and ski boots and perhaps a touch of lavender; I had the unmistakable impression that Isabel was laughing. That irrepressible little brat! I whirled around, but of course, there was nothing. I stood up and threw my cup into the trash and stomped outside to meet Richard. I slammed the wet hat over my ears.

  Richard was waiting at the lift for me. “They tightened it up and said it should be fine.” He gave me a hug. “Sorry I was such a grouch.” It was amazing to hear a man apologize.

  We figured we had time for one more run before meeting Hilary, but we were wrong. Richard’s binding kept releasing—not as much as before, but enough that he fell three times. It was one-thirty when we got to the Sugar Shack, and Hilary was beside herself.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve already eaten, and now you guys are going to want to eat, and I’ll have to miss all that skiing while I wait for you!”

  I glanced at the empty cafeteria line. “Calm down, it’s not going to take that long.”

  “I don’t want to wait! And I don’t want to ski with him all afternoon,” she whined as Richard walked toward the food. “He’s too slow.”

  “You’re in luck,” I said. “He’s not skiing anymore today.”

  Her face lit up. “Quick! Go get your lunch quick!” She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the refrigerated section. “Just get a yogurt or something. We’ll do Defiance. It’s awesome!”

  “Aren’t you at all interested in why Richard isn’t skiing?” I demanded as I pulled a yogurt from the shelf. What did I ever do to deserve two such irrepressible little brats?

  She looked down at her boots and shrugged.

  “His binding’s broken, and the repair shop can’t seem to fix it. That’s why we were late.”

  “Is he pissed?” She walked back to the table with me.

  I shook my head. “He said he’ll stay in and read until we’re done. He brought a book.”

  “Eat quick!” she ordered, starting to collect her things before I even got my spoon in the yogurt. “Lifts close in a little over two hours.”

  Once we were on the slopes and Hilary had gotten her way, she returned to her normal, semireasonable self. We skied Defiance (which was awesome) and the gladed double diamonds that are only open after a heavy storm. The sun shone all afternoon, and the snow was the kind of packed powder that makes a novice feel like an expert. Richard would have had a great time.

  Instead, he had been forced to spend the afternoon inside a hot, smelly lodge crowded with whining children. He claimed he had enjoyed it, that his book was good, the girl watching impressive, and that his thighs were tired anyway. He was a much better sport about the whole thing than I was.

  “You haven’t been celibate for two years, have you?” Richard asked one Sunday a few weeks after our trip to Okemo.

  “If this is sex, I’ve been celibate my whole life.”

  He leaned over and ran his tongue along the line where my breast and stomach met, a strangely erogenous zone that no one, including myself, had ever known existed. “Welcome back from the nunnery.” He gently pulled me to him. “A place where no woman as lovely, or as randy, as you should ever be left.”

  “Randy, am I? If I’m randy, it’s all your fault.”

  “I’ll take the credit and the blame.” He began to outline my ear with his tongue and rub the small of my back, pushing me closer to him.

  “No more, Richard.” I tried, without much conviction, to push him away.

  He ignored my feeble protests. The man knew my body as if we’d been married for a decade. The spot on the inside of my elbow, the hollow of my neck, even my toes, became hot-wired. He was everywhere—having sex with Richard was like being made love to by a dozen men simultaneously.

  “You northern ladies just need a few good southern men to demonstrate just what y’all are capable of,” he said as we both lay exhausted on the bed. “It’s a wonder y’all aren’t frigid from your cold winters and your afraid-to-talk-to-the-guy-on-the-street mentality.”

  “You can’t possibly be accusing me of frigidity?”

  “No, but I might have to transport you to Georgia to insure you stay hot.”

  I sat up and pulled the sheet around my breasts. I looked at Richard, who reached over and lightly touched the end of my nose. His clothes were strewn all over the floor and the chair, his bathrobe hung over mine on the back of the door, and his briefcase lay against the side of my bureau.

  How had it happened? It had been so fast and so smooth that I’d hardly noticed the changes. But now that I looked, I saw he was always at my place and we were spending all our time together. Somewhere along the line, my job, my friends, my family, and my “roommate” had taken second, third, fourth, and fifth place. And somewhere along the line, I had stopped telling myself he wasn’t my type; I was now saying that, although I wasn’t ready for love, I could handle lust. But now that I looked, I saw it was beginning to pinch.

  “I thought you liked Boston.”

  “I like it well enough,” he said, touching the end of my nose again. “Well enough to stay here after law school and well enough to play the partner game at Conners, Johnson for a while. But well enough to put my roots down? That I’m not so sure about.”

  The room suddenly felt small and crowded. I jumped out of bed and headed for the shower. “I forgot to tell you—I have to go into the office for a few hours.”

  “Office?” He raised himself on one arm and looked myopically at me. “But it’s Sunday …”

  “Before I met you, I always worked on Sundays. I have to get back to the real world, Richard. Otherwise I’m going to wake up and find I haven’t got any friends or relatives or business left.”

  “I’m keeping up with friends and business and you.” He put his glasses on, but they failed to hide the hurt in his eyes.

  “I guess you’re better at time management than I am.” I squared my shoulders and walked from the room, trying to appear composed and sure of myself, though I was completely naked. If I hadn’t stumbled on the corner of the rug, I might have pulled it off. Richard laughed, but I didn’t turn.

  I climbed into the shower and caught a whiff of lavender; I smiled. As I washed my hair, eyes closed against the shampoo, I saw my living room, or rather, my living room as it had been in 1884. A tall bookcase stood next to the fireplace, its glass doors closed over rows of leather-bound volumes arranged on the shelves in descending order by height. A small rolltop desk was pushed into the bay, its mahogany legs arching gracefully on either side of a high-backed chair. In the chair was Isabel—her back was to me, but I knew it was she. The cold winter sun filtered through the windows and highlighted her tiny hand, poking dem
urely from a lacy cuff, as it held the corner of a butter-colored book. Isabel closed the book slowly and then turned; she looked straight at me. She smiled. Her perfect small teeth flashed in a smile of joy, of welcome. But there was something else. Something in the tilt of her chin and the directness of her gaze somehow reflected triumph.

  * * *

  Isabel’s triumph was short-lived. I found that getting back to the real world wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped. The problem was, hard as I tried, I just couldn’t stay away from Richard. Instead of becoming less consumed with the relationship, I fell deeper in lust. I would have thought that after a month or so of constant sex, the ardor would cool, the heat abate, the genitals fall off from overuse. But not in our case; our body parts seemed only to get stronger as the days went by.

  Richard did loosen the reins a bit, and I was able to do some work and get a little sleep, but that was about it; there was still no time for Babs or Hilary—or Isabel. Just Richard and his wonderful lips, and his wonderful chest, and his wonderful hands, and his wonderful tongue …

  Everybody knew exactly what was going on, but only Hilary—a teenager with her own overactive hormones—really understood and forgave me for my negligence. When I told Babs what a fine legal mind Richard had, she snorted. “Yeah, and a fine legal ass too!” My mother’s response was more genteel, but her point was the same. “Widows are known to be more, more, uh, uh, permissive,” she stuttered in an uncharacteristic burst of motherly concern. “I hope he isn’t taking advantage of your uh, uh, need and innocence.” I didn’t even bother to try to explain to Isabel.

  What did they know? Babs hated cops, judges, politicians, and attorneys—her favorite song had a lyric about a boat full of lawyers sinking. My mother was frustrated yet again with my inability to find a Jewish man. And what did a Victorian woman know about the all-consuming power of good sex?

  Richard’s birthday fell on the Ides of March, and it was the perfect excuse to take our first vacation together. In my erogenous haze, I decided a little cake and a little sex before our departure would be a nice touch.