by Lisa Luciano
“When do you skate?”
“I already did. This afternoon.”
She turned on her husband like a rattlesnake.
“I told you we should’ve pulled over to get directions. If you’d only listened to me and taken that first exit, we wouldn’t have gotten lost. Now, we missed it.”
“There’s still the long program tomorrow night,” Robby said.
“See?” his father added. “No harm done.”
At least none that he could fathom. She dismissed him with an indignant glance before turning her attention back to her son.
“Well, what you did today is important, isn’t it?”
“It counts for one third of the total score.”
“How did you do?”
Robby would rather have ripped out his tongue than utter the words, then decided it would be more merciful to have his eyes gouged out so that he couldn’t see his father’s expression of total disdain.
“I’m in third place.”
John Donovan shook the keys in his pocket.
“Let’s grab a table. I’m starving.”
There was more mindless chatter, mostly from his mother, as they waited and were finally seated. He watched her scan the plates and cutlery. Acceptable.
She argued her husband out of a high-fat appetizer and gave specific instructions as to how the entree was to be cooked. The young waitress kept hooking a stubborn clump of hair that refused to stay in place behind her ear as she flipped over yet another page of her order pad and continued writing.
“Look,” John Donovan said. “Let me make this easy for you. Trim the fat off and cook it till you strip all the flavor out of it.”
Barbara Donovan waited for the girl to retreat.
“You want to keel over like your father did? Fine.”
At the moment, Robby didn’t see that as the worst possible scenario. He’d been watching these tennis matches for years. Meals were important to his mother. They gave her rank and status. Before the doctor put him on a restricted diet, she worked as hard to please her husband as Robby did to satisfy judges. The loving care of her home and family became her passion—after her husband convinced her that there wasn’t enough room under his roof for a wife, a mother, and a professional dancer.
Much to his mother’s dismay, Robby had moved into his own apartment. Since then he wondered if the event they called dinner had changed. The routine was like an ice dancer’s original set pattern. Everything had to happen a certain predetermined way. Meat was placed before his father to be carved, but only after he had reached the sports pages. The paper was folded once, then pushed aside to be finished later.
Robby was glad they eventually did away with saying grace. If they hadn’t, he would have had to continue to thank God for the meal and the people eating it, when he really wanted to thank him for the brevity of it and a place to escape after it was over.
Mr. Donovan would always be served first, not because he was the hungriest or the oldest, but just because that’s the way it was to be done.
“Pass the vegetables to your father,” his mother would say with such severity that Robby feared had his reflexes not been fast enough one day, those words would be followed by his immediate decapitation.
For the first ten minutes there was only the sound of knives scratching plates, teeth scraping silverware, and assorted slurps and gulps. As Robby endured this each day, he hoped his mother’s jokes about gypsies and milkmen who would one day appear and claim paternity were true. He didn’t feel connected to this man who shared his name and a vague resemblance.
Knowing she could delay no longer, the waitress returned. Robby could tell from his mother’s expression that something didn’t meet with her approval as the frazzled young woman set down the main course before her. His bet was three minutes. She set a new record. Two and a half.
“Do they realize people have high blood pressure? What are they thinking, putting so much salt in these potatoes?” Barbara Donovan asked no one in particular.
Robby thought he detected a satisfied grin as his father happily shoveled in another mouthful.
“That’s it? I break my back to earn the money to pay for this meal and that’s the best you can do?” John Donovan said, surveying the untouched portions of Robby’s plate.
How could anyone who chewed with his mouth open in public understand his son’s burning desire for immortality? That’s all it would ever be. It wouldn’t get better. He wouldn’t get smarter or become more interesting. This was as good as it would get and it was pretty bad. Worst of all, he had to listen to his father’s tales of the days events.
“This dame came in the other day and didn’t know what a Phillips screwdriver was. It’s pitiful how helpless some women are.”
“Well, who needs to know about things like that when you have a husband to take care of it for you?” Mrs. Donovan offered.
Robby listened to them chuckle. He wanted to run from the table and did as soon as he could manage it, feigning fatigue. His mother was nearly the strongest person he knew. He didn’t understand the reason for her pretense. He only knew that Carol would never have said that.
Alex had aged well. He could easily pass for an Ivy League professor in the tweed jacket he wore over a tan knit pullover. Just the slightest streaks of brown peppered his gray hair. Carol stared at the condensation on the outside of her glass and nervously stirred the cubes as attractive young men and women identically dressed in red vests, white shirts, and black pants scurried back and forth between tables scattered in front of the small stage. Cigarette smoke twisted in lazy swirls before descending to the dingy rug made even darker by the spills and footsteps of countless patrons.
“I feel a little out of my element,” she admitted as she looked down at her conservative gray pants suit.
“I haven’t been in a place like this since college. Except for the music, it’s pretty much the same,” Alex said, smiling at the memory. “It reminds me of the days when I thought beer was food.”
They chuckled at the sight of two young men with shoulder-length hair who were propped up at the bar.
“I have the sadistic urge to walk over and tell them that in twenty years their heads are going to look like cantaloupes,” he whispered.
“You’ve done all right,” she said trying to remember a single reason why she chose Hank over him.
“You too,” he offered, pondering the same thing.
“I’ve survived. Sometimes I think that’s as good as it gets.”
After a leisurely dinner and some innocuous conversation, they purposely took the long way back to the hotel. Carol unlocked the door and entered the dark room. She was still groping for the light switch when she felt Alex’s hand on top of hers.
“No, don’t.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Just call me old-fashioned,” he said, gently spinning her around to face him.
He squeezed a section of her shoulder-length hair in his hand. He had waited so long. She knew he’d always wanted her and tried not to lead him on. But now there were no more roadblocks and no more excuses.
“I’ve always wondered whether it felt as soft as it looked,” he said.
She was embarrassed by the desire to blush and wished she had worn make up just his once. They both lowered their heads and chuckled.
“We’re acting like a couple of kids,” she admitted.
“Now all we need is the back seat of a convertible.”
“I’ve never been one to worry about the setting if the company’s interesting.”
Alex slid his hands from her narrow hips up to her waist. She placed her palms lightly on his chest and leaned toward him. They kissed easily, comfortably. She was annoyed that the thought of how her and Hank’s mouths never quite fit together properly invaded the moment. Her body sank into his. She felt an almost forgotten sensation rising in her.
A part of her that she refused to consciously acknowledge wished he would drag her over to the
bed for a night of mad, passionate lovemaking, but knew he was too much of a gentleman to even consider it. Just her luck. He respected her. That was something she never got from her ex-husband.
“Come on,” Alex said, his hands slowly climbing her back. You need to get away from your work as much as I do. Think of me as a microwaveable distraction. Ready in seconds.”
“Now I can see why you’re such a success. There isn’t a judging panel in the world that could turn you down.”
“It’s easy to fool strangers,” he said softly. “I’d never play those games with you.”
They kissed again, deeper this time.
“Isn’t this a conflict of interest or something?” she asked. “I mean, we’re competing against each other.”
“No we’re not.”
But they were. At least for another month. She couldn’t risk feeling something that might give her a moment’s twinge of compassion for him, and through association, for Glenn. The last time she loved a man, she gave up the only thing she loved more in order to hang onto him. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
She begged Alex to understand, reluctantly asked him to leave, and closed the door. As she undressed, she took a moment to look at the reflection of her slim body in the mirror behind the bathroom door. Cupping her tiny breasts in her hands, she pushed them up, sighed, then let them drop.
She tried to fall asleep, but couldn’t. Like a malevolent spirit that would not be exorcised, Hank’s voice filled the empty room as she cast her mind back to the day that changed everything.
“What was it this time? he asked.
Carol had tried to slip into the bed beside her husband without waking him.
“Can’t this wait till morning?”
“It is morning,” he answered groggily.
“I’m sorry. I have to take ice time when I can get it.”
“I thought I married a woman. Not some frustrated ex-jock.”
“I told you I needed time to make the adjustment.”
“How much? How much longer do I have to wait for you to grow up?” he asked, tugging at his half of the blanket.
“You haven’t even tried to understand how hard this has been for me.”
“You’re acting like somebody died. You just stopped skating. You knew it had to happen someday,” he said as he rolled on his side, turning his back to her.
“That doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Look, you don’t need to work these long hours. Why don’t you stay home for a while? Get away from the rink.”
“I don’t coach for the money. I do it because it keeps me sane.”
“Being a wife and mother isn’t challenge enough? What about the baby?”
“We’ll be fine.”
A week later, the doctor stood beside Hank as Carol lay sleeping between the crisp, white, hospital bed sheets.
“She’ll be fine. Her body’s suffered a tremendous shock. After a fall like that, it’s amazing she didn’t break something too.”
“Damn kids,” Hank said, bitterly. “If they’d have just watched where they were going…”
It was her choice to keep coaching. At least she was lucky it happened so early in the pregnancy.
Hank exhaled and shook his head.
“She just needs to rest,” the doctor assured him. “Don’t worry. As soon as she’s feeling better, you can try again.”
There was no next time. Hank blamed her for losing the baby as much as she blamed herself. Their marriage was over except for the paperwork.
Carol didn’t even remember getting up and opening the hotel room window. A blast of winter air chilled her to the bone. She slammed it shut. By the time she returned to bed, slipped beneath the sheets, and eased her head back, the pillow was cold.
The heater wasn’t working, but it didn’t matter. They had arrived. Glenn told the driver not to wait. After the cab pulled away, he looked around for uninvited observers, then moved quickly toward the heavy wrought iron cemetery gates. They were locked as they always were after dark. He hugged the rim of the property, looking for an opening. Frost cemented to the dead earth crunched with each step. Eventually, the gates gave way to a low stone wall which he easily vaulted.
He wandered the grounds reading headstones lucky enough to be illuminated by nearby streetlights. None were familiar. No matter. One was as good as another. He stopped as if he’d run into an old friend and spoke to the emptiness around him.
“Hi. It’s me again. Hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything important. But then, you’ve got all the time in the world, right?”
He choked back the urge to cry, surprised at how fast it came upon him. It usually waited until he was ready to say goodbye.
“Sorry it’s been so long since we’ve talked. You know me. I only stop long enough to pee and grab a pair of clean socks.”
He took a deep breath, trying to slow the rapid beating of his heart. Feeling no relief, he exhaled and watched the vapor gush from his mouth.
“Looks like I’m going back to the Olympics. I’d like you to be there if you can. It’s the last time. Then maybe Ill settle down. I can’t wait to tell Ralph. Hell stroke out.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small photo, and held it out like a proud parent showing off a new baby. His hand trembled as much from what he was feeling inside as from the cold.
“This is Kylie. I know I’ve talked about her before, but I don’t think you’ve ever seen her picture. You’d like her. She’s everything you’d have wanted for me. She’s great. She puts up with all my crap. And I guess I love her. I’m just not sure I want her. I don’t think I want anybody.”
“While you were busy doing all that thinking, don’t you think that’s something you should have told me?” came a woman’s voice from behind him.
Glenn spun around. He expected to see a ghost and would’ve been much happier if he had. This intrusion by the living enraged him.
Kylie was shocked by his appearance. He was so pale, she could see tiny blue veins like spiders’ legs creeping through the nearly transparent skin on his face.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said, his voice slicing through the darkness.
“Trying to find out what’s going on.”
“You had no right. This is private.”
“No. What it is, is sick,” she said, closing the gap between them with a few tenuous steps. “Is this where you go every time you say you need some air or have a yen for peanut brittle ice cream or whatever other lame excuse you come up with? I guess I should be relieved. I thought you were cheating on me.”
Glenn darted around her and headed for the gate. Kylie’s shoes skidded across the frozen dirt, but she was still fast enough to cut him off. She forced her body in front of his.
“No. You’re not going to run away again,” she said, grabbing him by the arms.
“You’re in my way,” he insisted, standing as stiffly as the stone monuments surrounding him.
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Leave me alone.”
“You already are,” she said as she released her grip.
She was near tears and furious that he wasn’t.
“Can’t you see that?”
“Can’t you?” he asked, leaving her to be battered by the unforgiving wind.
Elegantly dressed men and women chatted anxiously in the theater lobby, happy to have finally thawed out in the toasty warm room.
“They brought over the entire original cast from Zimbabwe,” said one.
“I know. That’s why it’s such a powerful play,” added another.
Freeman and Leslie waded through the mostly African-American crowd. She looked lovely in a straight cut long-sleeve pink dress that ended at her shin. She wasn’t thrilled about being there, but it was one of the few times she could wear her shoulder-length hair down in public. Noticing the expensive suits on the men, Freeman suddenly wished he hadn’t been feeling so defian
t and had worn something more upscale.
“I won’t skate for another country,” he said.
“You’re going to win Nationals, so just forget about it,” she said in that calm voice that always seemed to soothe him.
He was afraid to make eye contact, but thought it might appear more suspicious not to. Every one of these well-intentioned patrons of the arts could have been his mother and father. They were all stamped from the same cookie cutter mold.
“The music is just astounding,” one said.
“You’ve seen it?” asked another.
“Twice. It’s just like having a knife plunged into your heart.”
Leslie smiled fearlessly as she’d been taught to for judges and cameras, but knew people were examining her, not because she was famous, but because she was with Freeman. She squeezed his hand until his fingers ached.
“Relax,” he whispered.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t know what it feels like to be out of place.”
“Is this your idea of revenge?” she asked.
Freeman didn’t know anyone there. Still, he felt comfortable, having spent countless hours of his childhood in similar places in cities all over the world. His mother wouldn’t have shared that sentiment had she been there to see her only child commit the ultimate faux pas by attending the performance in a casual jacket, jeans, and sneakers.
She was the busiest person he’d ever known, yet somehow she always made time for the theater. It was her favorite outing. Her upper income version of a family picnic. However, the Bennett’s didn’t go to snack on fried chicken and potato salad. They willingly closed themselves inside of darkened rooms to feed their souls.
Hunger was something his mother understood. She’d told her son the stories hundreds of times because she couldn’t forget and didn’t want him to.
Her father’s face was still fresh in her mind as he returned from the bank empty-handed once again. A small loan to buy a few acres of land in order to farm a crop and support his family—was that so much to ask? It wasn’t about acquiring property. He was trying to buy back his dignity.
No questions were ever asked. The answer was always the same as was the ritual that followed. Papa’d simply sit in his chair at the head of the small kitchen table and light his pipe.