The Chosen Ones

by Lisa Luciano

  He stopped.

  “What?” Brody asked.

  “It was like our child had died just as it was about to be born and Ratner had killed it. He just sat there grinning, enjoying every minute of it.”

  “So you reinstated.”

  Robby shrugged his shoulders. They were tight with tension.

  “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And when I had time to think about… time away from Brigitta… I realized I still had something to prove.”

  “Yeah,” Brody agreed, not just out of courtesy, but from something he felt deep inside.

  The next morning about an hour before they were scheduled to leave, Brody was summoned to his brother’s office. He gazed around like a child in FAO Schwartz at Christmas time. He hoped his eyes would not find his brother’s college diploma, which he was sure hung in a prominent place on the wall. That would be more than he could handle.

  “Keep the settings low,” Del said, fingering the knob of a silver machine covered with buttons and gauges, refusing to indulge in the small talk that had been one of the best things about their relationship and that Brody missed so badly. It’s more effective with small, but repeated doses. If you don’t see an improvement in two or three days, try combining it with twice a day whirlpool baths.

  “The Olympics is in three weeks. Will he be able to skate?” Brody asked.

  “Depends on how tough he is. The damage is done. It’s just a matter of how much pain he can tolerate.”

  “I don’t think the pain he’s worried about is in his back.”

  Del shut off the equipment.

  “I guess I should go call a cab,” Brody said, hoping his brother would give him a reason not to.

  “I already did,” Del answered.

  Brody headed for the door, but stopped at the sound of his brother’s emotionless voice.

  “You get everything you came here for?”

  “Yeah,” Brody said. “Del,” he added, not turning back to face him or to wait for a response. “If it makes you feel any better, you can relax. You won… again.”

  Chapter 11

  Carol was happy to dissolve into the shadows in the back of the tiny theater. She thought about retreating before she was spotted, certain she had made a mistake by coming. Then she remembered the words so casually tossed off by two judges at Nationals who didn’t know she was within earshot.

  “What does Donovan need to win?”

  “How about a personality transplant? He might as well be a robot for all the emotion he shows out there.”

  Paige stood on an illuminated stage with three other dancers. As she led them through the number, droplets flew from her body which was covered only by a hot pink leotard, see-through tights, and a pair of scuffed white jazz shoes.

  “It’s not happening,” one young man said between gasps.

  They all stopped.

  “Wait a minute,” Paige said, wiping her brow. “There’s got to be a way to make this work.”

  They tried the sequence again.

  “Okay. That was better,” she said.

  “Better?” he asked. “That was freakin’ outstanding! Wow. Where did you learn to be such a slave driver?”

  “From a lady who doesn’t know the meaning of the words, good enough,” she conceded with an air of respect that took Carol by surprise.

  “May we stop for lunch?” another dancer asked, pulling off his sweat-soaked headband and waving it with a flourish as he bowed at the waist.

  “You may,” Paige said. “Make it salad.”

  After their departure, Paige tried the steps once more by herself, but pulled up halfway through, still dissatisfied.

  “You’re waiting too long on the break,” Carol called out.

  Paige scanned the seats as footsteps filled the empty room. She used her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the spotlights. Carol slowly stepped out of the velvet haze and stood a few yards from the rim of the stage. Paige had learned long ago how to disguise her emotions. It served her well as she buried her shock under a veneer of coolness.

  “Is how have you been a good question?” Paige asked.

  Carol shook her head. Paige squatted on the edge of the stage, pushed her legs between her arms, and lowered herself to the ground.

  “No. I didn’t think so,” Paige said, grabbing a towel from a nearby chair and patting her face. “Well, you were never much for idle chatter, so why don’t we get straight to the point? Why are you here?”

  “Robby’s the best skater in the world.”

  At least we agree on one thing, Paige thought.

  “But he can’t win with the programs he’s got. Would it shock the hell out of you if I asked you to choreograph new numbers for him?”

  “Okay. Where’s the hidden camera?”

  But there was no big-toothed master of ceremonies lurking behind the curtains. This was for real.

  “I can’t believe this,” Paige said, her eyes almost as wide as her mouth, which was now wedged open.

  “I’m not a choreographer,” Carol grudgingly admitted. “When he was a kid, I gave him basic stuff. He practically did it himself. He was so technically good, it was enough to get by. Now he needs someone who can reach in and touch his core and then get him to show it to the world.”

  “You mean it? You’d really let me do that?”

  “If that’s what it takes. We’ve wasted enough time,” Carol said as she turned and headed for the exit.

  “Hey,” Paige called, leaning her weight on one leg and kicking the other out to the side as she wrapped the damp towel around her neck and held on. “I only have one question. Have you decided yet?”

  “About what?” Carol said, slowing turning back around.

  “Whether you want to be his mother… or his lover?”

  Carol began trembling so hard she was sure Paige could see it.

  “How long have you been waiting to say that to me?” she asked, trying not to let her voice crack.

  “Since the day you kicked me out of practice five years ago and told me I wasn’t good enough to make it, when the truth was you were afraid Robby was starting to care more about me than you.”

  “I didn’t lie. You weren’t good enough.”

  Paige nodded, absorbing the blow.

  “But he did love me,” she said, answering it with one of her own.

  Carol set her jaw.

  “Yes. He loved you. I think, in his own way, he still does.”

  Paige’s body began to shake almost as much as Carol’s. Though not truly satisfied, each accepted that they were now equally bruised and bloodied. They also knew something else. More than anything, they wanted Robby to be happy.

  “Well,” Paige said slowly. “What do we do now?”

  Carol locked her eyes on those of the younger woman who she could tell desperately wanted to run from the room and break down despite the tough facade.

  “We help him win,” Carol declared. “I’ll call you,” she added, disappearing through the door at the back of the theater.

  Brody prayed the sputtering bomb of a rented car which was all he could afford would survive the trip to the Connecticut coast, though he seriously doubted anyone with any real power was listening. His first stop was the police station. That turned out to be a dead end. No one was able or willing to recall the events on the day of the accident, which had claimed the life of Anders Juergen two years earlier.

  He tried the local library. By rummaging through old articles on microfilm, he was able to pin down the exact location of the incident. It was a small inlet ten miles south that jutted out into the Long Island sound. He asked for directions and did the best he could to remember the three versions offered by well-meaning locals who were still arguing as he hurried off with a Xeroxed copy of a photo taken at the scene, folded and stuffed into his jacket pocket.

  Seamanship was not one of his great talents in life, but he had spent enough time fishing with his dad and brother down at Willow Lake to know how to ha
ndle a boat. With his last few dollars that should’ve gone toward lunch, he rented a small craft similar to the one described in the account of the accident.

  Watch the tides, warned the owner of the boat shop. Be in before six o clock or you’ll go aground. There’s a hidden sand bar just outside the mouth of the creek.

  The trip was uneventful as he cruised around the area looking for something that could have caused the disaster. According to the newspapers, Juergen was an experienced yachtsman. Piloting a small power boat should have been no problem. Markers were clearly in place around the small island that sat about a mile from the mainland and appeared during low tide. There was nothing nefarious or even vaguely suspicious that Brody could see. He checked his watch. Three o clock. The island was starting to make its presence known as its highest point broke the surface of the water.

  Brody returned to the dock, prepared to accept defeat, when he noticed someone in the distance. He walked down the beach that could be accessed from the main road and stopped beneath a row of massive pylons that were driven deep into the sand. A portly, white-haired man with a red and black plaid hunting cap pulled almost down over his eyes was standing on the porch of his waterfront home, gazing out at the waves that were chasing the sun toward the horizon.

  “Scuse me,” Brody said, trying to think of something to say and suddenly remembering the sign he’d seen on the way there. “I heard there’s a house for sale around here. You know anything about it?”

  “That’d be Old Hub’s place. Right over there,” he answered, pointing next door.

  Brody climbed the salt-blasted steps badly in need of repainting that lead to the landing.

  “You thinking of buying it?” the man asked.

  “If I can convince my wife,” Brody said with a you-know-how-it-is smile.

  “I hear ya. My wife Betty hated moving here after I retired. Complained every single day about it.”

  “She finally get used to it?”

  “Nope. She died,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  The old man was wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt under overalls that hung down over the back of a pair of worn work shoes. Nothing matched or looked like it had been cleaned recently.

  “Shame about Old Hub. He was a good friend, he said, leaning his elbows against the not-too-secure railing.”

  “What happened?”

  “Heart attack. And right after he’d done all those repairs too.”

  “On the house?”

  “No. The dock. Between the divers working on his pier and all the commotion after that bad accident, this place was busier than Times Square.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.”

  “Damn stupid way to die.”

  “So what exactly did Hub hire those divers to do?”

  “Everybody on the strip used to get on him about how cheap he was. Told him wed chip in and pay for it ourselves if he’d just secure that damn dock. Thought for sure it was gonna break loose and slip right into the water. That’s why we were so surprised when he finally did something about it. He must’ve come into some money. Maybe somebody died.”

  “Yeah,” Brody said.

  “Hey. You want to see what it used to look like?”

  The old man led Brody into his sparsely furnished living room containing a few battered cloth chairs, an equally exhausted looking couch, and fishing gear propped up in one corner that clearly hadn’t been used recently. He pointed to a framed photo on the wall. Four much younger men stood on a study pier with the Long Island Sound in the distance behind them.

  “That’s us. We were something in our day, the man said, standing up a little straighter.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Can I get you a beer?”

  “Yeah. That would be great.”

  Brody waited for him to leave the room, then grabbed the picture from his pocket. It was taken from almost an identical angle as the photo on the wall.

  Somethin’s not right, he thought. What the hell is it?

  He studied the two shots again.

  “Son of a bitch!” he said, shoving the paper back into his jacket.

  Every cell in his body was crying out for a drink. Instead, he thanked his guest for the hospitality and left. He had to get to Robby as fast as possible.

  The condo was filled with expensive European furniture and countless pictures of Glenn Chandler’s triumphs. Through the glass doors leading to the balcony was a spectacular view of Mt. Shasta, but neither of the inhabitants were concerned with that at the moment.

  Kylie lay naked in the queen-sized bed with one arm and one leg slung across Glenn’s chest and thigh. He pretended to be asleep, but she knew better. She jostled him just enough to get him to open his eyes, then rolled her tongue across her lips, wishing he would have done it first. He turned to kiss her when the phone rang.

  Ignore it, she said, grabbing his arms and playfully rolling him over on top of her. His body covered hers like a sleeping bag. They were about the same height. The ringing continued.

  “Let the machine pick up,” she begged.

  Glenn reached for the phone, but she beat him to it. Maybe she could get rid of whoever it was and get back to business. She knew he wouldn’t.

  “Hello?” she said, her smile immediately dissolving at the sound of the voice on the other end. Hang on.

  Kylie pushed Glenn onto his back and dropped the phone on his chest.

  “It’s your other half.”

  As Glenn sat up against the brass headboard, Kylie kneeled in front of him and clasped her hands over her breasts.

  “You sure you want to take that call?” she whispered, pinching the pink tips of her nipples between her fingers and rolling them in circles.

  Glenn watched her as he spoke into the phone.

  “Yeah… Fine,” he said, still listening.

  Kylie squeezed her breasts as if to squirt milk from them.

  “Uh, say that again,” he stammered, beginning to weaken.

  She leaned in, cupped one of the small ivory orbs in her hand and offered a taste of it to her lover.

  “Hon,” he said, pressing his hand over the mouthpiece. “Can you get me a cup of coffee? I have a few things to settle with Ralph.”

  She sat back on her heels.

  “Why don’t you just sleep with him and save us all a lot of trouble?” she asked, her words dripping with disgust.

  “Why don’t you be a good girl and get me my coffee?” he answered as if speaking to a petulant child.

  Kylie jumped out of the bed so fast, Glenn bounced up and down. She stood and grabbed her satin robe.

  “Make it quick,” she commanded, heading for the bathroom. “We have to be out the door by ten o clock.”

  “For what?”

  “Were meeting Tim and Grace for tennis at the club. Remember?”

  “Cancel.”

  “Any particular reason?” she asked, turning on the brass shower spigots. “They’re our best friends who don’t have skates surgically attached to their body. They’re entitled to an explanation.”

  “Because I said so. If that’s not good enough, the hell with them.”

  He waited for her to close the door. As soon as she did, she slipped out the other side and ran into the living room.

  “Thank God he’s so paranoid,” she said, opening the desk drawer and turning on the recording device built into the answering machine.

  She lowered the volume to avoid arousing his suspicion.

  “Tell me I heard you wrong,” Ralph said, sounding more frazzled than he would ever admit to. “Did you say you’re leaving WTL? You’re messing with me, right? After what we went through to set this up, you’re gonna take a hike?”

  “That’s the whole point,” Glenn insisted. “It is a set up and the whole world will know it. So what will the damn medal be worth then?”

  “Between 3 and 10 million dollars in the first post-Olympic year alone.”

  “What about honor and pride?”


  “Oh, man. Don’t go Andy Hardy on me. This isn’t about a bunch of lame virtues everybody claims are so important. This is about Madison Avenue. Once you’ve got the gold, we can yank them around by their dicks and make them dance to any tune we pick.”

  “Maybe it’s time for me to leave the dance.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you what, Glenn. If you’re so tired of skating for us and you think there’s something better out there for you, why don’t you try it? Better yet, why not marry that little chickie of yours? Hmm? Settle down. Have kids. Get fat and watch the world pass you by. If that’s what you want, then go for it.”

  “Say it,” Kylie begged softly. “Tell him to go to hell. Tell him you love me more than anything.”

  “I just don’t want to make a fool of myself,” Glenn said.

  Kylie felt her throat tighten as tears welled in her eyes.

  “You won’t,” Ratner assured him. “We’ll see to that.”

  “How? You know Donovan out skated me at the last Olympics and again last month at Nationals. How long do you think the public is going to swallow this crap?”

  “As long as we say they do.”

  “I’ve got a gold medal. How many times do I have to prove myself?”

  “Let’s put the cards on the table. You’re old news, Glenn. You think we buy judges, paper the seats in the arenas with your fans, and sweeten TV broadcasts with extra applause for your performances out of the goodness of our hearts? We can’t sell you anymore. What happened four years ago is ancient history to sponsors. You want to stay in the spotlight a little longer? Then this is your last shot.”

  Silence told him Glenn was not budging.

  “Come on. Are we asking for so much?”

  “Twenty five percent of everything I make isn’t enough?”

  “If it wasn’t for us, you wouldn’t be earning half of what you do. I think you owe us, don’t you? You’re a smart guy. You know how things work. Nobody wins without a little help. And we gave you a lot of help. We expect a return on our investment.”