by Lisa Luciano
His wife often said she could bet the house he couldn’t go twenty-four hours without a negative comment. She sighed, knowing she wouldn’t be sleeping on the sidewalk any time soon.
Two young women crossed in front of the Donovan’s. They unfurled a bed sheet covered with black lettering indicating their adulation for Glenn and began to attach it to the railing overhanging the lower level.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Donovan shouted. “That’s blocking our view. You’ll have to put it somewhere else.?
Realizing their choice was to move or watch her tear their banner to shreds, they reluctantly deferred to her demand and returned to their seats.
“Did you really get the tickets for nothing?” asked one.
“Yeah. The guy who called said all I had to do was hold up the sign,” explained the other.
“Jerry must’ve really gotten pissed when you told him we were coming here.”
“Yeah. He lost it. So I said if this jealousy thing doesn’t stop, I’d leave him. Then he tried to get back in my good graces. But I wasn’t giving in that easy. I told him to let go of my tits or I’d break his fingers.”
“And did he?”
“No, thank God.”
Robby stood behind the rail on the far end of the rink. His mother craned her neck trying to follow his every move. Carol brushed her hands across his shoulders as if sending him off for his first day of school. She couldn’t believe how handsome he looked in his costume. The specifically chosen shade of indigo for the vest and pants complimented his skin tones perfectly. She tried to talk him into matching boot covers, but he abandoned them, preferring the natural look of his black boots.
He hugged Carol and removed his skate guards. He stepped onto the ice, then slowly circled waiting to be called. Mrs. Donovan tried to remember the last hug she got from him.
Rubbing his hands together, he was comforted by the heat the friction generated. He was tired of the cold. As he was announced, his mother said a silent prayer. She kissed her palm and waved to him. He looked in her direction. She was thrilled at the thought he was actually acknowledging her, forgetting that he was too nearsighted to see anyone more than thirty feet away. Carol begged him to wear his contacts. He promised to, then conveniently forgot them. He may have had to look at the audience, but he didn’t have to see them.
Robby couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was looking past him, anticipating Glenn’s competition-ending performance. He glanced one last time at Carol, took a few strokes, and elegantly glided to center ice with his lead foot just slightly raised, arms extended, palms up. Whether he won or not, he had been taught to carry the attitude of a champion onto the ice.
His mouth smiled, though his eyes did not. Everything was planned down to the well-practiced grin. Nothing could be left to chance. He pulled his back straight to the full extent of his 5’ 10” frame. Strength. Intensity. That was the message he wanted to send the judges.
His body was dwarfed by the huge white patch of ice. He was no longer the little boy his mother had watched skid across their homemade backyard pond for hours on end.
“He looks so small out there. He needs some sequins,” whispered Mrs. Donovan.
Her husband looked like he wanted to vomit.
As the hearty applause faded, Robby took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and waited for his music to start. Carol leaned against a wall several feet behind the boards. There was nothing more she could do for him except to be there. They shared the same thought. Everything will be fine after the first jump.
There were two false starts as a man of about thirty fumbled with the cassette player. Robby felt his legs beginning to stiffen. Finally, the Spanish guitar solo began. A comforting warmth rushed through his body as he prepared for the first move. He held on to the difficult jump combination through sheer strength.
Mrs. Donovan clasped her hands together, pounding them on her thighs with each successive triple jump. The crowd gasped at the height of his dramatic death drop. She cupped her hands to her mouth.
“How does he do that?” Mr. Donovan asked.
His wife slapped his shoulder.
“Will you be quiet? You want to learn about skating? I’ll send you for lessons.”
Carol prayed Robby was receiving her signals.
You’re trying too hard. Get control.
The rhythm slowed in the program’s second section. Robby relaxed as the unseen guitar player caressed the strings. Instead of just hearing it, he began to feel the seductive melody.
That’s it, she thought. Let the music flow through you.
The finale was at hand and he dug down deep. This time instead of fighting, he just followed the crackling maracas, matching their speed. The jumps were dazzling, higher and faster than any others that night. He had never been that close to the edge before and felt almost euphoric. He squeezed his eyelids shut and saw nothing but a red blur as the final scratch spin left him dazed.
I did it, he thought. I did it!
He was drained, but the roar of the audience held him up. Though he didn’t think he could ask anything more of his muscles, he managed a smile as he headed off, still waving to the appreciative crowd that didn’t seem to want to release him from their grasp.
“It was enough,” Mrs. Donovan repeated to herself as she stood cheering.
She looked at her husband who simply shrugged.
The bastard, she thought. Can’t he be happy for him? Is he so jealous of his son he’d begrudge him this moment?
Annoyed by his seemingly indifferent attitude, she didn’t understand that he was covering his frustration. He had no idea what had happened, and thus was robbed of the pleasure of the moment. He didn’t know how to feel because he was now certain that his son’s world was no part of his.
All Robby wanted was to feel Carol’s arms around him. He could tell from that how well he had done. But he was still stuck on the ice, accepting congratulations from people he didn’t even know. He appreciated their support, but they weren’t really a part of his life and couldn’t help wondering why they even cared.
“Come on, come on,” Mrs. Donovan whispered, digging her nails into her husband’s arm and staring at the ominous black scoreboard.
It flashed the information. 5.7’s and a 5.8 brought shrieks of delight from Robby’s mother as she grasped her husband’s face and kissed him hard on the cheek. A lone 5.4 got her attention.
“Judge three is a bum.”
“Bennett was better,” declared an errant voice.
“Go to hell,” she yelled, then quickly added, “God forgive me.”
She watched Robby continue to collect flowers and kisses from several attractive young ladies.
“Now I know why he does it,” his father said, looking a bit happier.
His wife stared at the marks, not calculating, just looking. The scoring system continued to be a total mystery to her. Still, she hoped she could read something in those cold numbers or sense something from the crowd. A low buzz filled the room. She scanned the cluster of bodies just off the ice for Robby and Carol. Perhaps she could glean something from them. They had disappeared.
“Come on. I can’t stand this,” she said, rising quickly.
Her husband left the program that had fallen on the ground and followed her, his shoes scratching against the cement steps as they climbed toward the exit.
Chapter 7
“Show them who you are,” Forsythe urged Glenn once he finally ventured out of the locker room.
He hoped his face wouldn’t betray his real thoughts.
We’ve come this far. Don’t fall apart on me now.
Glenn took the ice, acknowledging the crowd that accorded him the respect due a champion. He wanted the huge ovation to last forever with every moment imprinting itself in his heart and mind, but he had a job to do. The music had begun; a classical etude that would end with a flourish of trumpets heralding his victory.
The first minute was fine. By the book. Like a surgeon,
he dissected each move will impressive efficiency. Then much too soon he felt his body weighing him down. Three minutes into the program his legs were transformed from supple branches into heavy wooden stumps. His breaths came faster and deeper. He was running out of gas, but there was one last source of energy he could call upon.
Come on. Just eighty more seconds. Somebody help me.
A white tuft of hair in the first row caught his eye. He smiled at the elderly lady who he imagined was very much like his grandmother had he taken the time to know her. She waved wildly back at him. It was like oxygen was being pumped into his lungs.
Okay. Here’s something you can tell you grandkids about.
He prepared for his signature move—a series of barrel rolls where he would crouch over, force his compact body to make a sharp left turn, and end up looking like a top spinning out of control. Though not particularly difficult, it was the speed with which he performed them that always elicited ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the crowd. He had never even come close to missing it in a competition.
Down low. Toes up, he reminded himself. You’re home free.
The first few turns were fine, then like a satellite knocked out of orbit by an errant meteor, he didn’t know where he was. He just knew he was too off balance to prevent a fall.
Before he could even think, his knees slammed against the ice. The shocked reaction of the crowd hurt more than the impact. He scrambled to his feet, covering it as best he could, but it was the last move of the program. That’s what the judges would remember. Worst of all, he would have to relive it. One of the few low moments of a staggeringly successful career would be picked apart not once, but countless times in slow motion.
This wasn’t like the Olympic performance four years earlier where he had made a lot of little mistakes, but still managed to win, because this time it wasn’t about winning. He knew he had the victory locked up. No. He wanted more. He wanted the quintessential moment. Something perfect and unquestionable. He didn’t have it then and more than anyone else in the arena, he was acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t pulled it off this time either.
As he fought to keep the corners of his mouth upturned, he jammed his hands into his sides just above each hip bone and glided off the ice, thinking of what to say. He was numb. He couldn’t even feel Forsythe patting his shoulder. They would ask. Why? Why? Why did it happen? Was there a reason? Technically, there was. He let his foot drag and caught his toe pick. But did anyone really care? Certainly not the screaming audience begging for a curtain call, many of whom were convinced the mishap was actually part of the routine.
Robby avoided the TV set lodged in a ceiling mount outside the locker room. Carol stoically stared at it. She would face the truth for both of them. He didn’t have to watch the best scores of the night come up. He knew Glenn had won. Carol’s face gave away nothing. Robby dropped his head, then let out an angry breath. That was the only show of emotion she would tolerate. At least in public.
Wasser stood calmly, nodding and stroking his chin. Brody circled like a skewered bull.
“I don’t get it. Glenn screwed up and still got the best marks.”
“I told you,” Wasser answered patiently. “What the skater does has nothing to do with where he places.”
“Why’d they choose Glenn?”
“Dey not thrilled with him. He’s a pro. And dey don’t want dem back. But at least dey can control him.”
“What do you mean?”
“His agency owns de marketing rights to all de amateur competitions. He who pays de band, picks de tune. If dey want him to win, he win. Dey tell him to lay down, he jump on his back like a dog begging for a belly rub.”
“He’d throw a competition?” Brody asked.
“He don’t have to. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut.”
“What about the Olympics? They can’t mess around with that.”
Wasser wanted to laugh at Brody’s naiveté, but didn’t.
“The winner will be TJ McNally.”
“Who?”
“A Canadian.”
“Why him?”
“Canada is desperate for a male champion. Dey never had one. So de ISU throw dem a bone. Dey figure the U.S. has had a good long run. Enough is enough. Besides… McNally’s a WTL client.”
Brody’s shoulders dropped.
“Is there anybody they don’t own?”
Wasser turned to look at Robby and Carol who were politely accepting condolences.
“Dey tried like hell to get him after de last Olympics, but he told them to take a hike. He had this crazy idea… He didn’t want to sell his soul.”
Brody didn’t like the sound of that. He’d been there himself.
“I know this is gonna sound crazy,” Brody asked. “But how far would they go to get what they want? Would they kill somebody?”
“It’s late. I’m tired,” Wasser said, retreating.
“Wait a minute. We’re talking about somebody’s life. You can’t just walk away.”
“I did my part. Now it’s someone else’s turn.”
They exchanged a long hard look.
“Okay,” Brody said. “If this person did exist, where would he start?”
“By remembering one thing. Nothing in skating happens by accident.”
Mr. and Mrs. Donovan wove in and out of the backstage area. Everyone looked alike. Exhausted and relieved. They finally spotted Carol. She patrolled stoically in front of Robby, her look indicating that no one was to approach the protective net she had cast around him as he sat on a metal folding chair, still in costume, staring at the ground, hoping it would open up and swallow him.
“How close was it?” his mother asked her fearfully.
“The judge with the tie-breaker gave him the third place ordinal,” Carol responded in a weak, but controlled voice.
Barbara Donovan had no idea what that meant. She didn’t have to understand. She didn’t want to. She only knew that winning a national title was somebody else’s reality. John Donovan didn’t attempt to conceal his disappointment, though he made no actual comment. Robby knew how his father felt from his one simple declaration.
“Come on. Let’s go,” he said, rattling the keys in his pockets.
Robby thought his father’s opinion mattered more than anything, but he was too angry with himself and the rest of the world to care about that right now. He would save that misery for later.
Mr. and Mrs. Donovan disappeared into the bowels of the arena. Carol was grateful. She had no energy for pleasant chatter. She squatted down in front of Robby and took him by the hands.
“So you didn’t win. It’s not the end of the world.”
He couldn’t imagine that she actually believed such a ridiculous statement. It was the end. He should have known better than to put himself in a position to be hurt that way again. It just wasn’t worth it.
“I was so sure if I was just good enough, I could win.”
Carol was glad he was still innocent enough to think such a thing was possible. It made her feel all the more guilty for caving in and getting him to change his program. She prayed he would never find out it was the result of a directive from a judge. She’d rather he think it was a shortage of wisdom rather than a lack of moral conviction or courage.
He shook his head, trying to avoid her glance, but knew it was useless. Finally, he looked into her eyes. He didn’t see the sadness in them he expected.
Don’t do this, she begged him silently. This is hard enough to take, but that look on your face is killing me.
“Next time, you’ll win,” she said without a hint of disappointment.
“I was good enough to win this time.”
“No, you weren’t. Or maybe you were. It just wasn’t supposed to happen yet.”
Robby felt an ache in his chest he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t a physical sensation of pain, but it was building. His eyes shimmered as he fought to keep from blinking.
“I get the feeling you wer
e never a cheerleader.”
“No,” she said, crossing her arms over her flat chest. “My pom-poms weren’t big enough.”
Robby erupted with laughter.
“It’s not that funny,” she said.
Robby continued to chuckle as he wiped the tears from his cheeks.
“Get dressed,” she suggested.
Only after he had walked away, Carol sighed, closed her eyes, and covered her face with her hands. She felt like she had run a marathon. She had put on an act for him, but couldn’t deny the truth to herself. Coming so close and missing again not only hurt, but it scared her. They only had a month left to figure out how to win.
Robby entered the locker room to find Glenn flat on his back, straddling the bench. Hardly the portrait of a legend with his legs spread, boots unlaced, and pants rolled up to the knee. His eyes were shut as he listened to the din of the crowd filtering into the room through the door cracks. He flinched when Robby approached.
“I thought you were a reporter. They stick one more microphone in my face and I’ll bite it in half.”
It seemed like an eternity since the first time they had met. To Robby, Glenn was no longer someone who had descended from Mt. Olympus. He saw him as he was. A very old, young man. Robby quickly yanked off his skates and threw them into his bag.
“Man, what do they want? I out-jumped everybody tonight and it still wasn’t enough.”
“It takes more than circus tricks,” Glenn said softly.
“Yeah, sometimes all you need is a reputation… and an agency.”
“You had your chance. You made your choice.”
“So did you,” Robby shot back.
Glenn had faced all the challenges he could withstand for one night. He knew how Robby felt, but time had dissipated most of the angst of his younger days.
“I understand where you’re coming from, but—”
“How could you possibly understand?” Robby asked, turning angrily on him. “You haven’t had to skate in your shadow for years.”
“Did you ever stop to think that neither of us would be as good as we are if we didn’t have the other guy pushing so hard?”