by Kate Manning
Finally, it was bound to happen, that I would try to get out of it.
It was a race day in late January, snowing and windy. Jack had not had a good race. He lost time on the third gate where there was rock under slick ice. He edged badly and caught the basket of his pole on the bamboo gate. He came in second and his time was off from the practice run. “They changed the course on me,” he kept saying. “Goddamn, Charlotte, they changed the course.”
A guy named Franz had taken first in the slalom, some German ringer from the University of Vermont. Milo Robicheaux was first by entire minutes in giant slalom and downhill. Jack was second in all three. A U.S. Ski Team coach was on the hill. He was scouting. Jack was desperate to impress him, but everybody said: “Good run, Jack, too bad about that gate!”
I hadn’t seen it. I was waiting at the bottom, the girlfriend at the finish line. This was my talent. Loyalty and ornament. Eyes watching Jack like Patricia Nixon’s watching Dick. My mother admired her so, the way she stood by him. Pat’s the real hero, she liked to say.
All afternoon Jack would review the mistake for me on the way up the chairlift, clacking his skis. Then we were off the chair and down the slope again, freestyle runs. Jack’s furious schussing and aerial tricks off the bumps got hoots of envy from the regular-joe skiers on the way down. When he stopped short to wait for me, the power of his legs pushing snow sent up big sprays like peacock tails at the end of his fancy tracks.
“Charlotte!” he said, when I caught up to him. “Get your nerve. Get your nerve. You’re chickening on those moguls, you’re not bossing them, you’re not.”
“No,” I said, “I just want to ski.”
“You just want me,” he said, kissing me. “Say it. Say it, you just want me.”
“I just want you, Jack,” I said peevishly. “Only you. But I’m cold.” I pouted and smiled and kissed him. “It’s no fun, Jack,” I said. “I’m tired. I don’t want to ski down again. I’ll break something.”
Another guy from the team passed by then. Andy. “Hey, Jack, hey, Charlo,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, and started to follow him in.
Jack looked at me, snow melting onto his eyelashes. “Charlotte,” he said, half desperate, “it’s over for me—the Olympic thing, I think it is.”
“You’ll win the next one,” I said, and put my mouth up. He kissed me and nipped the chapped-lip skin so a dry flake pulled off bloody in the cold.
“Ow,” I said.
“Aw, Kitten, sorry,” said Jack. “Stay and ski with me. I need you.”
“I’m freezing and bleeding,” I said. “Hey, Andy,” I yelled after this other guy. “Andy, wait, I’m going in, too.”
“What do you mean, I’ll win the next one?” Jack said loudly. “What would you know about it?” Andy left and Jack started stabbing the hard-pack with his ski-pole tip. “You’re going inside to look for somebody. Some guy to whore around with.” This was the way he’d gotten lately. Worse even. The word whore was new.
“You like to go where you know they’ll all look at you, right, Charlotte? Because nobody can see you with that woolly hat on, right? And that scarf up around your face, and that big jacket? With all this snow coming down? No one can see you. You’re just going in there to get some looks, eh?”
“No,” I kept saying. “No. Stop it. No.”
I was getting my skis off, bending low over the bindings. He was stabbing the snow right by my head.
“Go sit by the fire, little ski bunny,” he said, singsong. “Sit by the fire in your big fur boots till somebody comes along. Hop along now, Charlotte.”
“Just stop it, Jack,” I said, and stood with my skis. “I’m just going to get warm.” I turned and started to walk away from him.
“Charlotte.”
“I don’t want to ski with you anymore,” I said. It could have sounded like I said be with you anymore. That’s what he thought I said. And I might as well have. He knew. He was right. I was leaving him.
But I don’t think he meant to hurt me. He said he didn’t. I was about ten feet away when he took his ski pole and threw it at me, chucked it like a spear. It hit me in the shoulder. I shrieked and started running.
He skated after me on his skis. He nearly caught me. He shouted and grabbed for my scarf so I thought I might die of choking but I just unwound it from my neck and left him holding it. People stared at us, then looked away to be polite.
“Stupid girl!” He was getting his skis off as fast as he could but I was gone by then, into the base lodge, running through a seething warm stew of families and wet wool. My shoulder was going throb, throb, throb, though I didn’t think it was bleeding. I wasn’t in pain so much as shock. He threw his ski pole at me. He had never done that before. Never hit me or hurt me. In the bathroom I sat in a stall gulping, out of breath. I peeled off my big jacket and waited to think what to do. I didn’t want to go back with him to the campus, didn’t want to go back with him, period. I calmed down enough to be angry. I struggled my turtleneck up and twisted my head back and down to look at my injury. It was bleeding, the skin broken in a small red stab, not too deep. I just began to cry then.
Jack. You know, it seemed he should be such a flawless boyfriend, with his tously gold hair, his friendly demeanor, his fighting spirit on skis. He was a brilliant athlete. He could speak two languages. He had talents and abilities. I didn’t know what I had.
I thought about this, running in the parking lot through the snow, away from the base lodge, crying. What was I good at? Running. Looking for Claire’s car, trying to find it in the darkening parking lot, huge ski boots lumphing, leaving tracks. Jack would be coming after me. What I wanted was just to hide in Claire’s car, drive it away. I ran with the high boots punishing my calf muscles, searching for a white car in a parking lot of white cars, all of them covered in snow.
I didn’t want to explain to Jack. I didn’t want to talk to him or have to comfort him, try to make splitting up seem like a good idea for him, too. When I broke it off with Dave Mueller I could see little adjustments going on in his eyes as I yapped on, preaching about being too young to be serious, despite what happened. All those bubble-wrapped advice-column words about loving him but not being In Love. I think we should see other people. When I said that Dave’s eyes got wide and bright as Bambi’s, just before his mother gets killed by hunters.
Better, I thought, not to have to see Jack like that. Maybe I could transfer, go to another school, take a leave, leave altogether.
I found Claire’s car and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked, just cold; the thumb-catch was frozen so I had to thaw it out with my breath. I climbed in and sat sweating and panting behind the wheel, feeling under the mud mats for the key. But the key wasn’t in its usual place. I checked behind the visor, checked the glove compartment, where I found a can of frozen soda and a bag of chips. No key. My breath fogged up the cold windshield of the car, making frost flowers on the inside of the glass. When I stopped sobbing it was quiet, getting dark. The car was covered with snow that looked black from inside, or yellow sometimes, as the headlights of other cars passed. It was so still. The crackling of a potato chip, when I ate one, was loud as a brick through a picture window. I listened for footsteps and thought about what to say to Jack.
In the study lounge of my dormitory there was a poster tacked on the wall. It had a picture of two butterflies flying in separate directions. If you love something set it free, the poster read. If it comes back it’s yours, if it doesn’t, it never was. These words might work on Jack. He could set me free. It was funny: me and Jack as butterflies.
Now somebody was coming. Snow squeak and boot-buckle rattle and ski clack. No voices. I cracked my window down to see who it was and saw Milo Robicheaux passing with his heavy equipment, trudging to the team van parked not far away. He was by himself and whistling a little tune in the snow and the dusk.
“Hey, Milo,” I called out softly.
He stopped and looked around, couldn’t se
e where I was.
“Hey.” I cracked the door open so he saw me in the light.
“Charlotte!” he said, smiling. “Hey, man. Now what finds you here in the middle of such a vast parking wasteland?”
“Waiting for a ride,” I said. “From Claire.”
“Why don’t you come back with the team? Van’s parked over there.”
I just shook my head.
“We’re celebrating,” he said. “Though you must of course already know.”
“What?”
“Me and your man,” he said. “We’re anointed. We’re summoned for trials. Olympic trials. Both of us.” He was beaming. He was so happy.
“Congratulations!” I said. “That’s great!” I got out of the car and we stood there, snowflakes landing on his face like stars. “That’s wonderful.” His arms were full of skis and boots and poles, balanced on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” he said, shifting the skis down now, resting their heels on the ground. He couldn’t stop smiling. He was bursting with his news, about to tell it, but then he looked hard at me, his face serious all of a sudden. “You okay?” he said. “Charlotte?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.” My hand went up to my shoulder, rubbed it. “So,” I said. “That’s great! You did it.”
“Sure you’re okay?”
Tell him what happened. What Jack said. The ski pole flying through the air. “I—See, Jack, we were—” My voice caught on the words. I was about to tell him, but I stopped and my eyes watered. Milo’s hand came up to touch my shoulder and I winced. The fabric of my jacket rustled where his glove brushed it. I saw worry in his eyes, like the glimpse of a bird in thick woods.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
But we heard a commotion heading toward us. It was the guys on the team. “Hey! Smilo!” Milo turned around so his back was toward me. He said, “Heeyyyy!” They started lobbing snowballs at him. Claire was with them. And Jack.
“Hey, Milo! Way to go, man! We were looking for you!”
Jack hung behind. I saw he had my skis with him. The others swarmed around pounding Milo on the back. Andy picked him up like he was carrying a baby in his arms and Scott was pegging him with snowballs. Claire gave him a big kiss. “Milo, you fast machine, you!” she said. “Olympic tryouts!”
Jack watched me. He stood back. Then he came and put his arm around my shoulder. “You heard about it?” he said.
“Yes,” I told him. “It’s so wonderful, Jack. Congratulations.”
He pulled my ear to his mouth. “I’m sorry, Kitten,” he whispered. “I never meant to hurt you. I was kidding. You know that, right? I just care so much, you know?” He was grinning at the guys when he whispered these things, so they would think he was saying something hot and private to me.
The thing to do, at a time like that, is to kiss the victorious boyfriend, as everybody there would expect. It was not the time to talk about freeing the butterflies or the ski pole flying through the air. When I kissed Jack all the men whooped. “Ow! ow! ow!” they snorted.
Then Jack went over to Milo and said, “Yo, bro, slap me down some skin,” and he held out his hand. Maybe I was wrong, but Milo had that smirk around the mouth, just for a second, till he slapped Jack on the back and whooped it up and said: “Lake Placid, watch out!” Everybody laughed. He was a nice guy, and they all liked him a lot.
“What were you talking to Milo about?” Jack wanted to know later. We were in his room. I was thinking about telling him. Breaking Up. About packing. Where to begin. He had just shown me the letter from the U.S. team. It was a form letter. “Dear______,” it said, with Jack’s name ballpointed in. “You are invited to tryouts for the U.S. Ski Team, in Lake Placid, New York, on February 20, 1974.” He kissed the letter. He took my hand and pulled me down on the bed, where he kissed me and then put his hands up around my neck. “Pretty,” he said, “Charlotte, my kitten.”
“Jack?” I said, pulling his hands away. I was just going to start my farewell speech.
“What were you talking to Robicheaux about?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing, Charlotte. I saw.”
“I just said congratulations to him. Same as you.”
“Not the same as me. And don’t forget it,” said Jack. “One. Of. Us. Is. Your. Boy. Friend. Right? And: It’s. The White One.” He had my wrists gently pinned on the mattress. “So, if you ever go near his black ass, Charlotte?” he said. He smiled with just one side of his face.
I waited for the punch line but he just winked at me. “Right,” I said carefully. Hair was standing on my arms. “I’m not interested in him,” I said. “Only you.” I decided to be safe. It was not the time.
Breaking up is fraught with peril. With Dave it was. I made my speech about being too young. I was kind and I held him and felt it was all so tragic and awful. “I’ll miss you, Dave. I’ll think of you all my life,” I said.
He got very sad and then he got angry. He said why had I been leading him on all this time? He put his arms around me, saying Let me hold you one last time. But then he wanted more than holding. You don’t mean it, he said. You’re mine. I pushed him away gently. I didn’t want to kiss him, I wanted it to be over. He wouldn’t quit taking off my sweater, pulling at my pants. No, I really don’t want to keep going.
But he was angry and wanted his money’s worth, or whatever. You think you can just dump me? He pulled and yanked, popped buttons. Mud got on my sweater. I was pushing him off while trying to be nice. You know I care about you, Dave. You’ll find another girlfriend. I’m not right for you.
He got rough. He was going to go through with it.
I just lay there saying Please.
He said You should say thank you.
That time he did hurt me. I was sore, crying. He wouldn’t drive me home.
So I knew it was not the right time for talking to Jack. It wasn’t safe. We never talked. Not about the ski pole he threw at me. Not about why I wanted to leave: how it felt like he was lying when he said he loved me. When he held my face in his hands, it felt to me as if he was holding his face. You’re my Charlotte, he said. This is my face, my hair, my girlfriend, my Charlotte.
He meant it to be sweet but it didn’t feel sweet.
I just waited for an opportunity, biding my time. Jack was heading for tryouts at Lake Placid. The school was letting him take a leave for as long as he stayed in contention. I would write him a note, I decided, use the butterfly line, leave school when he was gone. We talked about how hard it would be for me to be apart from him. I knew what he wanted me to say so I said it. I told him I was so happy for him. He was going to win. He was going to be really fantastic. The night he left we celebrated by getting drunk on champagne, popping corks whizzing around his room. It was funny. Also fun. I knew it was the last time. He drank champagne out of my belly button while the room whirled around my head. It was wild. I was one wild girl.
After he was gone, I wrote the note and left it on his bed. I didn’t even pack all my things. I left the heavier sweaters behind and some books. I went back to my room, and in the study lounge of my dorm, I saw that the poster of the butterflies had been altered. Somebody had blacked out the last phrase and changed the words so it made me laugh. It said: If you love something set it free. If it comes back it’s yours. If it doesn’t, hunt it down and kill it.
6.
Fifteen years later Jack still looks the same. He’s frozen in time. I didn’t see him again until recently. Just before it happened. The assault.
We went out for dinner, me and Jack. Was it the day before? I don’t remember precisely. I know the timing matters; I’m trying to decide what exactly to tell the police. Or if I should.
Jack called and said he had just moved back to the West Coast after years of being away. Milo was furious. Good, I thought. Fine, be furious. Be enraged. I rubbed it in. I made it worse. I let Milo think whatever he was thinking about Jack and me. Insinuating things. I never loved Jack at all
but let on I always had, always would. Why? Because I’d had some news about Milo. Because Milo deserved it. He deserved jealousy and suspicion and hurt. Also, a broken heart, cuts and scars, shattered nerves. I always did want equality in all things for me and for Milo. We were created equal. So it was only fair that he have what I had: regret, guilt, sorrow, penance. Equal justice.
But more than anything I wanted Milo back. In my arms, in our family. Wanted reconciliation, wanted to be reborn in the cleansing spirit of his love. Milo’s. Ours.
This was, of course, before the, whatever, incident, before I almost died. Before I woke up in the bed in L.A. County Hospital all intubated and sedated and wrapped like a mummy, throat and hands cut up with chips of bottle glass still in the skin, Mommy and Daddy there by my side, Mommy saying I knew it, I knew it would come to this. Dear God, my child.
The night Jack called, Hallie was some kind of miniature banshee, pitching tantrums and wolfing food. Ketchup stained my shirt and rice grains were sticking to my little pencil-leg black jeans like maggots. The phone rang through the bedlam and I picked up and said, “Hello,” sullen and heartbroken because of my husband and what he had told me.
A voice, a man, said: “Charlotte?”
“Hello?”
“Charlotte-san, o genki desu-ka?”
“Jack?” I was flustered. “Is this Jack Sutherland?”
Just then Milo came downstairs into the kitchen.
“Jack!” I said, for Milo’s benefit. “Oh, my God, it’s you! Oh, Ja-ack. I always knew this day would come.”
I could see Milo’s eyes slitting down and his nostrils winging out in anger and disgust.
“Hey, Kitten,” Jack said brightly.
Oh, boy. That voice. It brought Jack right back before my eyes, the way he smiled sideways, his bold gaze. My God, the sound of his words got to me so my legs were weak in the kitchen. Even the name didn’t bother me: Kitten. It was an endearment, and it seemed a long time since I’d heard an endearment.