by Lisa Luciano
She told herself things would change once he turned pro. He’d move on and she’d finally have her life back. That should have been a good thing. Instead, when it happened she spent six months struggling to put one foot in front of the other, praying the phone would ring and she’d hear the words, ‘I need you’.
The call did come… three years later. As a professional skater, he didn’t require the services of a full-time coach. But then he decided to come back. No matter what his reasons, she would be there for him, to share in his success or to pick up the pieces. She felt good. Everything was in place. They were ready.
Summoning a burst of energy, Robby launched himself with the tip of his right blade. Strong, wide strokes propelled him across the rink. The wind swirled his thick brown hair as he glided backwards, lunged on one knee, then exploded, vaulting his frame several feet into the air. Suspended in the room’s frozen grasp just long enough to record the moment, his blurred, twisting figure landed securely, mortal once more.
Only now did the muscles of his twenty seven-year-old body feel each second of the hour long session. He stepped over the foot-high rail onto solid ground, filled with the unshakeable fear that all his efforts might be for nothing. Worse yet, if he was going to fail, once again it would be in front of the whole world.
It’s almost over, Carol thought, uselessly struggling to pry the idea from her mind.
Pain-soaked joints. Endless miles. Concessions and compromises. Soon, finally, everything would come down to a few irretrievable revolutions of a stopwatch. Carol had never come close to capturing an important title as a skater, but she did have one special talent. She could recognize greatness in others. She had to be satisfied with that. Making a champion was as important as being one, she kept telling herself. They’d nearly pulled it off four years earlier. This was their last shot and everyone knew it.
Despite that brutal disappointment, she realized how lucky she was. Being given the opportunity to mold an athlete as talented as Robby made her believe that there was either a generous God who would soon be cheering their victory, or a sadistic one in need of a good laugh, gleefully anticipating their failure. Philosophy was not her long suit. The simple truth was clear. Either you win or you lose. They’d done everything they could to prepare. The rest was in the hands of fate and a panel of nine. There was only one other person in the room who understood how she felt.
“You ready for all this again?” Carol asked as she eased over to the rail and stood beside Alex Forsythe.
“I feel like Toto running after Dorothy down the Yellow Brick Road,” he said, staring blankly at the scratches and ruts in the ice.
“How’s Glenn taking all the attention?”
“On the surface he seems fine. You know. He puts on that smug grin and charms the hell out of everybody, but…”
The third group began their warm up. Carol wanted to go to Robby, but sensed she was needed more right where she was.
“It’s like watching a light switch go on and off. He’s a child. He’s a man. He’s a champion. He’s a star,” Forsythe said rhythmically.
A few yards away, Willie Wasser stood frowning at the circle of bodies surrounding Glenn, then stepped forward.
“Enough! Enough!” he said, shooing them like stubborn flies. “Go drive somebody else crazy.”
Glenn smiled and gave a few more seconds to the press corps before retreating to the training room. He was happy to get away and didn’t want to risk Willie Wasser’s ire. Forsythe hated the time his finest student spent courting the media, but couldn’t deny it worked to their advantage. Judges read newspapers too. A good write up was worth at least a few tenths.
“I’ve always been the one person he’d come to if there was ever anything really wrong, but since he turned pro…” Forsythe said, rubbing the tip of his short, white beard.
“It’s hard to watch them grow up,” Carol offered softly.
“When I look at him, I still see the little boy who was so eager to please me. He’d do anything. Jump through any hoop just to get a reaction. Now I need an appointment to talk to him.”
“Fame changes people,” Carol said, biting her tongue to fight back a wave of tears that took her by surprise with their sudden appearance.
Not now, she thought. I’ll break down after it’s all over.
“The only thing that’s changed is now everyone knows he exists and expects something,” he said. “He’s scared out of his wits and it’s my fault. I didn’t see it coming. I found this diamond in the rough. Shaped it, polished it, showed it to the world. Now they’ve cut it up and they’re selling the pieces on a street corner.”
Before she could stop the words, Carol found herself asking Alex out to dinner.
What the hell, she thought, knowing she might never have another chance.
To her astonishment, he accepted. They’d eyed each other for years, exchanged pleasantries, came close a few times, but never acted on the feelings she knew they both shared.
Their good mood quickly disappeared when they noticed a judge had broken away from the pack and was heading straight for them.
“Time to kiss the ring,” Forsythe said.
“For a start,” Carol added.
She hated this part of the process, but there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Robby.
Once inside the training room, Glenn embraced Wasser.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Oh, what dem doctors know? Dey fulla crap.”
Wasser slapped his hand on the table. Glenn hopped onto it like a playful puppy and stretched out on his back. Wasser examined the swollen joint. Glenn could read concern in his eyes.
“How’s dat sweet little Kelly of yours?” Wasser asked, almost too cheerfully.
“Kylie,” Glenn said for the umpteenth time.
“Kelly. Kylie. Where is she?”
“Probably in her hotel room, plotting my murder.”
Brody suddenly began listening more carefully.
“You deserve it,” Wasser declared as he began preparing a cold compress. “You know, one time she chase him around the hotel with a knife,” he said to Brody. “Best footwork he ever do in his life.”
“You had a few women after you in your time,” Glenn countered.
“Had?” Wasser said with a devilish grin. “I ain’t finished till dey throw de dirt on my face.”
He handed the compress to Brody.
“You do.”
Brody applied it to Glenn’s left ankle, praying he wouldn’t be asked to do an ultrasound treatment. He hadn’t gotten to review that chapter.
“I be back,” Wasser said, before leaving them alone.
“He’s a tough old bird,” Glenn admitted. “But he’s saved my butt more than a few times. Just don’t cross him. He’s got something on everybody and he’s not afraid to use it.”
Surprised that Wasser hadn’t told the story himself at least ten times by now, Glenn filled Brody in on the legend that was Willie Wasser. He had been a competitive skater back in Poland during the 1930s. Unlike most of his compatriots, he read the ominous signals of the coming conflict correctly and left for the United States as soon as he could gather enough money for the steamship ticket and the guaranteed fee required of each person passing through immigration.
Almost broke, he took the only job available, skating in professional shows. But his real love was the amateur world, which at the time still was. Eventually, with his savings from years of touring, he went back to school and got his medical degree at the age of 40, then began working with the American team in 1965, where he’s been ever since.
“Man, that guy must’ve seen everything,” Brody said.
“Yeah,” Glenn admitted. “And the amazing thing is, he still wants to hang around us.”
Several minutes passed as Brody tried to think of a question that wouldn’t sound suspicious or reveal his lack of skating knowledge.
“Do you have any idea how many charities ther
e are?” Glenn asked suddenly. “My biggest decision used to be where to put one more triple. God, I’m so tired.”
This is the guy who sets the arena on fire? The Olympic champion? He looks like somebody shot his dog, Brody thought.
“Well?” Glenn asked, propping himself up on his elbows.
“What?”
“I’ve given my opinion on everything from world hunger to bugle beads. And the strange thing is, everybody’s listening. So before I turn into yesterday’s news, this is your chance. Four years ago I was a 5’ 4” non-entity. Now I’m Glenn Chandler, the all-knowing, all-seeing prophet. There must be something you want to ask.”
Man, this guy loves himself. Or maybe he’s just incredibly lonely. Either way, why blow an opportunity?
“What drives you? Why do you still do it?”
Glenn nodded his approval having expected something more superficial.
“It’s funny,” he began. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I’ve worked all my life to get where I am right now, but instead of enjoying it, I keep wishing I could turn back the clock.”
“What could you possible wanna change?”
“Wow. That’s a loaded question. You must be new. Okay. Once more with feeling.”
He looked away from Brody, preferring to stare at the paint-starved beige wall.
“My parents were killed in a car accident five years ago,” Glenn said mechanically, as if trying to distance himself from the pain. “They were on their way to one of my competitions. I should’ve been with them, but I was so anxious to get there, I went a day earlier with my coach.”
He paused, his mind once again trying in vain to alter the scenario.
“They never saw me win big time.”
“So you do it for them,” Brody said.
“No,” Glenn answered, with a fierce look. “I do it for me. Because if I stop and think about what I should’ve done, I’d never step on the ice again.”
“How do you know when it’s time to get out?”
Glenn shrugged his shoulders as if it was a great effort to do so.
“You just have to make sure you do before you stop loving it.” “Then I guess you still do.”
“What?”
“Love it.”
“Yeah,” Glenn said, dropping onto his back again. “So they tell me.”
“How much longer is he going to do this?” John Donovan shouted as the right front wheel of his 1990 Buick found the shoulder of the road.
“Pay attention to what you’re doing,” his wife warned. He’ll do it as long as he wants, so you’d better get to those shelves when we get home.”
The soft edges of Barbara Donovan’s mouth hung down like a fresh-peeled section of an orange as she lowered the overhead sun visor and squinted into a small, smudged mirror. She covered her lips with another coat of Modestly Mocha.
I should’ve had another baby. John could’ve taken him and Robby would’ve been mine to screw up.
John Donovan looked older than his fifty six years. His constant pained expression gouged deep lines in his face, accentuating his small eyes. Determined to keep his hardware store afloat, he held the world at arms length, concerning himself with little else other than bills and inventory. He was more an apparition than a flesh and blood father; a presence to be feared and respected just as his father had been, incapable of displays of joy or affection.
He smoothed back a few spaghetti strands of hair that spilled down over his narrow forehead, revealing an empty pink patch on top. His thoughts strayed from the traffic, which was increasing as they approached the downtown area, to the growing array of trophies and plaques piled in cardboard boxes along the foyer of his house. They had become an eyesore, but he gave in to his wife’s request to build a special cabinet simply to squelch her complaints that seemed to be multiplying with the awards.
“The house is starting to look like a damn shrine,” he said.
“Jealous because all you have is that dumb little bowling trophy and that award for hardware merchant of the year?”
“You want me to turn the car around and head back home?”
She was in no mood to fight. She knew she’d win. Instead, she turned on the radio and stopped the dial at the sound of a familiar melody.
“Da da da da, de da de da,” the still attractive forty eight-year-old sang, her shoulders swaying to the strains of the opera Carmen that was valiantly trying to escape from the tinny speakers. For a few stolen moments Barbara Donovan wasn’t Robby’s mom or John’s wife. She was a seductive temptress casting off young suitors like a second hand dress.
“What the hell are we doing driving 200 miles?” her husband shouted, breaking the mood. “I thought this nonsense was over with four years ago. When is he going to grow up?”
She thought of how many times she’d watched Robby as a child zipping around and around the makeshift ice rink in their backyard. Before she could catch herself, she would be grinning in sync with the mindless smile that creased his face, unaware of the whirlwind of dreams circling feverishly inside of him.
“Somebody’ll have to take over the store someday,” John Donovan said, squeezing the steering wheel a little tighter.
“He doesn’t care about that.”
“It’s not normal.”
“What? That he doesn’t want to waste his life in that dirty, disgusting place?”
“What difference does it make where he is? He has no friends. The only people he sees are his coach, that guy… what’s he called?”
“The choreographer.”
“Whatever. Grown men waving their arms around. He’s as strange as the boy is.”
“The only thing that’s strange is that you can’t see how important this is to him,” she snapped, not even slightly swayed by his argument.
Barbara Donovan squinted at her reflection in the passenger window, then turned away from the newly discovered wrinkle in the corner of her eye. Her chiseled cheekbones still hinted at what her husband used to call a movie star mug. But he hadn’t said that lately.
“When I think of how I built that business for him…”
“John, he loves to skate.”
“Yeah, well I’d love to win the lottery,” he said, scratching the small bulge above his navel, but you don’t see me wasting damn good money for a crazy dream.”
“If you take this away from him, he’ll never forgive you.”
The hem of her wool skirt wrapped around her shapely legs as she crossed them with the still apparent grace of a former dancer. She wanted to be practical, but a voice inside her that grew more and more distant with each year that passed had not been completely silenced. As much as she wished not to, she still remembered what it was to dream.
“As soon as this is over, you tell him he’s got to get serious,” he demanded, weary of the discussion.
Barbara Donovan glared at her husband.
“He is serious. You want him to quit? You tell him.”
“Well, he’d better start making some real money.”
Robby wandered around the arena trying to avoid all the familiar faces. He was surprised when after the practice Carol said she wanted to discuss some changes in the program. He thought everything was set. Did she see something he didn’t? Whatever it was, she would fix it. She always did.
He passed a judge instructing a coach on how to make his skater’s program more acceptable. Robby involuntarily stood a little straighter, then relaxed, silently reprimanding himself and wondering if he would ever stop caring about what those demigods thought. In the distance, he spotted a young woman approaching.
It can’t be, he thought.
The lighting was bad. Maybe it was an illusion.
When a mere few yards separated them, only then did he allow himself to believe what he was seeing was not a ghost. Paige. He used to love to watch her skate. He could still evoke the sight of her doing a lighter-than-air layback spin, leaning and stretching her arms upward in a gliding motion. Gen
tle wisps of red hair piled on her head like a tiara would fly to the sides, then come to rest as if never disturbed. Paige. The last time he saw her she was a little girl. That wasn’t the case anymore.
He tried to loosen his tongue that was stuck to the roof of his mouth as she nearly hugged the stuffing out of him.
“It’s so good to see you. I can’t believe it. Five years,” she said, finally leaning back.
Her Raggedy Ann face lit up as it always used to when he was near. Robby had no idea how long it had been. Time was meaningless to him if it didn’t have to do with his skating.
“I was really glad when I found out you’d be here,” she said, her words coming in rapid bursts. “Are you still with Carol?”
“Yup.” he answered. “Hey. Weren’t you living in L.A.?”
Oh my God, she thought. He remembered I moved to L.A.!?
“Yeah, and a dozen other places. Wherever there was work. But I still think I had the best time of my life training with you and Carol.”
He couldn’t stop staring at her ivory skin and was dumbfounded by the urge to want to stroke it. Were her bubble gum pink lips as soft as they used to be?
“Come on,” she said, suddenly grasping his hand.
She led him to the concession stand where they watched a child demolish the last of a chocolate ice cream cone.
“I’ll treat,” she said, digging into the pocket of the skin tight jeans that cradled the curves of her hips.
“You think I should?” Robby said, looking around nervously.
“No,” she answered as she stepped up to the counter. “Two, please.”
Paige scanned the corridor out of habit before taking a lick and permitting a look of sublime joy to cover her face. She hooked her arm around his and led him to a stairwell set well off the busy main hall, then sat on his lap as they raced to beat the brown liquid dripping down onto their hands.
“You’ve got it all over your face,” said Robby like a mother hen.
“Where?” Paige asked, rubbing her chin.
“No, here.”
Robby wiped the goo from around her lips and then held his sticky hand in the air. He wished he hadn’t removed his fingers from her feathery skin so quickly. Before he could move, Paige clamped her tiny, but strong fingers around his wrist and pulled his arm toward her. Slowly, she brushed her tongue along each of his fingers until she could taste only his skin.