My Sister, My Love: The Intimate Story of Skyler Rampike

by Joyce Carol Oates

  This long-awaited evening, twenty-two girls aged six to eighteen representing the crème de la crème of girls’ amateur figure skating in New Jersey will be energetically competing for two titles: Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1996 (the older category), and Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1996 (the younger category). Since the competition of older girl-skaters is more eagerly awaited, the younger competition comes first. Such excitement! Anticipation! Tension in the air like the tension before an electrical storm! What would America be, without such breathless moments? Such urgent moments? Such almost-can’t-bear-it moments? Everywhere in the arena the audience is becoming ever more restless, excited. If you had the prurient cast of mind—as Skyler, prepubescent dwarf-clown certainly does not, to detect such undercurrents—you might sense a sexual urgency here in the flushed cheeks of the females, the shifty eyes of the males. Enormous families—“extended” it seems—of swarthy-skinned ethnic identities are sprawled in rows of seats and are occupied in passing refreshments avidly among themselves. The audience appears to be mostly female—all ages, all sizes, all skin-tones—though you might see, scattered about the arena, men of varying ages as well, though predominantly middle-aged. Some of these men are clearly relatives of the girl-skaters, seated with the sprawling families, while others, hoping to be inconspicuous, even as they cradle cameras, camcorders, and binoculars in their laps, appear to be alone. For invariably at such young-innocent-girl skating competitions there are such male spectators.

  Is he here? Gunther Ruscha? Has to be here at the Newark ice rink on the evening of November 30, 1996, but where?

  Don’t expect me to scan the seething crowd like a TV camera, my guts are too twisted. I am too anxious though this “historic” evening is long past and the terrifying sensation of déjà vu like a whiff of ammonia shouldn’t incapacitate me now. We can assume, radish-haired pasty-skinned Gunther Ruscha was in the audience that evening, in one of the front-row seats, eager to cheer on his adored Bliss Rampike but if Skyler chanced to see him, Skyler will not remember.

  Gripping his sister’s hand. Thinking Something bad will happen. When?

  Maybe Skyler can prevent it. Skyler is Mummy’s little man—Bliss’s big brother—isn’t he?

  Sitting protectively close to Bliss in their second-row seats in the reserved section of the arena where their mother settled them before hurrying off. Noise in the vast arena is increasing exponentially,* rebounding from the domed ceiling high overhead. In the crowded aisles vendors are hawking the usual neon-bright beverages and sleek-turd sausages, fuchsia-colored MISS JERSEY ICE PRINCESS 1996 velour T-shirts, tank tops, and caps, and glossy “picture” programs selling for three dollars. Skyler is holding Bliss’s cold little hand to comfort her but Bliss, lost in unfathomable thought, barely responds. Unlike her rivals, the other girl-skaters, who thrive upon the attention of the crowd, Bliss is stricken with shyness in public places; in a kind of panicked catatonia when not in her skates, and on the ice. Through this long day, Bliss has been quiet. On the drive to Newark in Mummy’s flashy new lipstick-red Renegade XXL minivan, Bliss was very quiet while Mummy spoke to her in a crooning murmur, as Mummy did at such times, assuring her You will skate perfectly, you will perform perfectly, Jesus has decreed it, Jesus has taken our earthly pain from us and replaced it with His grace. (And what does Skyler think of these statements of Mummy’s, that seem to have increased exponentially in the weeks/months since Daddy moved out of the house? Is Skyler a Christian boy, does Skyler “believe”? In the Rampike household in which, in times of crisis, such sister-Christians as Mattie Higley are likely to be comforting Mummy, it is difficult not to “believe”—in something. Though canny Skyler has decided that praying is mostly talking to yourself, preferably under your breath, and not expecting God to answer.)

  Skyler leafs through the glossy program to page eleven where there’s an eye-catching publicity photo of his sister, above the caption

  BLISS RAMPIKE, 6

  TOTS-ON-ICE DEBUTANTE 1994–MISS GOLDEN SKATE PRINCESS 1996

  Because Bliss would have difficulty reading the bracketed quote attributed to her, Skyler reads it aloud:

  I love ice-skating! I am SO HAPPY ice-skating! My mommy bought me my first white kidskin Junior Miss Elite skates (size one!) when I was four years old and took me to the ice rink and said, “There you go!”

  Skyler wonders: Is this so? He’s sure he has never heard his sister say anything resembling these words.

  Bliss is staring at the glossy publicity photo of BLISS RAMPIKE in the program. A shyly/coyly smiling little girl who looks more like four years old than six, with wide dark-blue eyes and thick eyelashes, a rosebud smile, platinum blond hair falling in a wavy cascade to her narrow shoulders. The girl is posing on the ice, in beautiful white kidskin Junior Miss Elite ice skates and in the new strawberry satin-and-sequin skating dress with its perky ballerina tulle skirt, a snug bodice, flesh-colored fishnet stockings and just a peek of white-lace panties beneath. This is the “designer” costume in which Bliss will be skating in just a few minutes, to the sexy-peppy disco beat “Do What Feels Right” (an old favorite of Mummy’s) which she has been practicing for hours every day—day following day—under the rigorous tutelage of her new trainer Anastasia Kovitski and her new exacting choreographer Pytor Skakalov. Again! the adults urge. Again, again! You can do better, you must do better, you must win. Wistfully Bliss touches the photograph of BLISS RAMPIKE and whispers in Skyler’s ear, “Is that meant to be me? It is not,” and Skyler says with blustery big-brother authority, as Mummy would wish him to, “Don’t say silly things, that some stranger might hear and repeat. It’s you.”

  Since early that morning Mummy has been hinting at a “surprise”—“a good surprise”—beyond the victory that Mummy expects this evening and so Skyler has been thinking Does that mean Daddy is here? Is Daddy here? though this is a thought so familiar it has acquired a taste as of something rancid and so Skyler doesn’t crane his neck to look back into the arena, at the rows of seats.

  Bliss doesn’t look. Bliss never looks. If Bliss is (secretly) thinking Is Daddy here? Bliss has become experienced at giving no sign.

  “Bliss? Smile for us, honey!”

  Photographers hover in the aisle amid flashes of light. A brassy-haired interviewer for NJN-TV, who has interviewed Mummy and Bliss in the past, cajoles Bliss into smiling. Mummy returns, flush-faced and indignant. In northeast U.S. girls’ amateur skating circles Betsey Rampike has acquired a reputation for being one of the more aggressive mother-managers. Just now she has been protesting Bliss’s placement on the skating roster: Bliss is skating too soon in the “little miss” competition, unless Bliss is skating too late. Mummy is determined that Bliss will win the coveted Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess title this evening—“This is the victory we’ve been working for, for two and a half years.” And: “Miss Jersey Ice Princess will be Bliss Rampike’s ‘springboard’ into the nationals.” Mummy is hugging Bliss, whispering into her ear what must be a hurried prayer, and then again Mummy is on her feet conferring with Bliss’s trainer Anastasia Kovitski and with Bliss’s choreographer Pytor Skakalov as Skyler a few feet away tries not to see how the oily-eyed Uzbekistani with the bushy black mustache and shoulder-length shaggy hair stands disagreeably close to Mummy and brings his mouth close to Mummy’s ear. Worse yet, Skakalov’s hand falls onto Mummy’s shoulder, and does not move away.

  Skyler squirms in his seat. If Daddy is here! If Daddy sees!

  Yet: the last Skyler heard from Daddy, Daddy was on his way to a “business summit” meeting somewhere far away: Moscow?

  Skyler thinks that his mother has never looked so—intense?—determined?—as she looks tonight. Skyler knows that Mummy has been dieting in recent weeks and has lost weight and Mummy has had “work” done on her face in Dr. Screed’s office—nothing so drastic as a face-lift or liposuction—whatever “liposuction” is, Skyler isn’t sure—but “miracle injections” to smooth away wrinkles in Mummy’s forehead. Fo
r this occasion, Mummy had a new dress made for her of shimmery strawberry-colored satin, with a plunging neckline to show the tops of Mummy’s creamy-pale breasts; the dress emulates Bliss’s skating costume, with a flaring skirt. No wonder photographers and TV crews are drawn to Betsey Rampike of all mother-managers in girls’ amateur skating, as they are drawn to “angelic” Bliss Rampike of all girl-skaters.

  Oily-eyed Pytor Skakalov must have told Mummy something very encouraging for Mummy impulsively thanks him with a quick kiss grazing an edge of the bushy mustache.

  If Daddy sees!

  “Hel-lo ladiez ’n’ gentz ’n’ all the rest of you—”

  Abruptly in mid-note the high-decibel Tchaikovsky ceases. A mammoth lizard-faced man in a shiny black tuxedo—can this be Jeremiah Jericho?—appears in a spotlight at the edge of the ice. His intimate drawl stirs a chorus of whistles and friendly catcalls: “Wel-come! Wel-come to New-ark! Jersey’s answer to Athens-of-old! Our largest city and culture-hive bar none! Tonight—” Skyler listens numbed feeling the alarming sensation of déjà vu rising in him like nausea. Can there be a nausea of the soul? For Skyler has lived this before as Bliss has lived this before for there is no way out, time is a Möbius strip languidly turning in chill stale air though Master of Ceremonies Jeremiah Jericho does look slightly older and more bloated than he’d looked two years before at the Meadowlands. His genial/jeering face is conspicuously made up with an orangish-tan foundation base and his sleek black hair appears freshly dyed. Skyler feels a stab of revulsion for the man but has to concede, there is something comforting about Jeremiah Jericho. As if an old stupid thing is more comforting than anything new, you know that you have survived it.

  “—and now, ladiez ’n’ gentz letz rise—up on our feet!—for our most sacred of songs—‘national anthem’—go crazy, folks, for ‘O! Say Can You See’—” like a puppet-master misty-eyed Jeremiah Jericho causes the crowd to lurch to its feet, leading them in a fierce-bawling rendition of the anthem followed by deafening self-applause. Then, Jeremiah Jericho gives a hilariously risqué lewd-grandpappy introduction of that “stellar”—“non-puerile”—“kick-ass Jersey girl” Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1995 eighteen-year-old Courtney Studd of Hackensack who skates/undulates to a panting disco version of Ravel’s dogged old classic Boléro in a sparkly Vegas-showgirl costume, to deafening applause.

  “And now, ladiez ’n’ gentz,” Jeremiah Jericho rubs his meaty hands lewdly together, “—the first competition of the evening—eleven lusz-ous li’l gifted gals competing for the coveted title Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess! These fan-tas-tic li’l dolls are aged six to twelve and the first to skate for us is—”

  When Bliss Rampike is announced, the fifth to compete, there is a heartwarming outburst of applause, whistles and cries We love you, Bliss! that makes Skyler uneasy for it might be bad luck, if Bliss is the crowd’s favorite at the moment; for skating crowds are notoriously fickle. “‘Miss Bliss Rampike’—six years old—Fair Hills, New Jersey—here’s our brave li’l gal—1994 Miss Tot-on-Ice Debutante—your own Jeremiah Jericho was m.c. on that momentous occasion. Wel-come, Bliss! Wel-come to Newark! Go crazy, folks, for—” as the arena is filled with the hot thumping rhythms of that disco hit of bygone days “Do What Feels Right.” Skyler watches dry-mouthed and transfixed as Bliss seems to fly out onto the ice, skate blades hissing. And what a sight in her strawberry satin-and-sequin costume with the perky tulle skirt and peek-a-boo panties. And now she will turn her ankle, she will fall—but when Skyler opens his tight-shut eyes Bliss has not fallen but is performing a dazzling backward glide, Bliss is spinning on a single skate, Bliss is executing a spiral—a gyre—a “floating butterfly”—a “double toe loop”—as the crowd erupts in spontaneous applause. So small-boned is this blond child, seemingly so much younger than her rivals, and so angelic in demeanor, audiences adore her. For breathtaking minutes Bliss performs flawlessly to the quick-tempo beat of “Do What Feels Right,” small fixed smile on her face, wavy blond hair cascading to her (narrow, bare) shoulders, a final spin, a final “butterfly,” and a gliding bow to the wildly applauding audience as Jeremiah Jericho pants into the microphone: “Mag-nifi-co, Blizz! Fan-tas-ti-co! Here’s a li’l angel skates like a demon! Where wuz you, li’l sweetheart, when Jerry Jericho was eight years old, and hot to trot! Folks, you heard it straight from the old horsey’s mouth: Blizz Rampick will one day win an Olympic gold medal! One day, Women’s World Figure-Skating Champ! Folks, go crazy for our own Blizz Rampick of Far Hills, New Jersey—”

  And so the crowd at the Newark War Memorial on the historic evening of November 30, 1996, goes crazy for Bliss Rampike one more time.

  * “Exponentially.” Classy word, eh? You will find “exponentially” selectively employed in only the very best prose, by individuals who have not a glimmer of its actual meaning, or whether this meaning applies to the situation at hand. (God, I hate writing! One damned poly after another, to make the reader think Hey! this is real; this really happened; glad it didn’t happen to me.)

  THE GOOD SURPRISE II*

  “AND THERE MAY BE ANOTHER SURPRISE FOR US, TONIGHT.”

  Skyler’s heart thumped in his chest. Daddy?

  Bliss sucked at a finger, not daring to ask.

  “—it isn’t certain but it may be. ‘Our cup runneth over’—it may be.” Mummy laughed gaily swiping at her tear-splotched eyes.

  Skyler asked hesitantly, “Is it a good surprise, Mummy?”

  Mummy laughed again. Despite Dr. Screed’s effort a sharp line like one made by a knife blade had appeared between her eyebrows. “Of course it’s a ‘good surprise,’ Skyler. All Mummy’s surprises are good.”

  Was this so? Skyler gnawed at his lower lip and made no reply but the thought passed between him and his little sister in the front seat of the minivan: No! Not all Mummy’s surprises are good.

  “…happiest day of my life. At last!”

  Mummy wasn’t speaking to Bliss slumped in the passenger’s seat beside her or to Skyler in the seat behind her but to herself as if she’d forgotten that her children were with her. And her words were murmured as much in wonderment as in triumph for here is the mystery of Betsey Rampike’s life: a small cup quickly runs over.

  In the morning they would be returning to Fair Hills, in triumph. A celebration was planned there in honor of Fair Hills’s celebrity-child Bliss Rampike who had just been crowned Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1996. There would be gala events in town, there would be more interviews. Photographers, TV camera crews. But tonight Mummy had booked a suite for them in the Garden State Marriott at an exit off I-80 twelve miles north of Newark for Mummy was giddy with happiness and with exhaustion and could not risk driving another hour to Fair Hills, at night. After the delirium of her daughter’s victory Mummy had limited herself to one or two—no more than three!—small plastic glasses of cheap red wine in the drafty foyer of the war memorial and though Mummy was far from intoxicated it did appear that the minivan was giving her difficulty for the damned steering wheel seemed to be teasing her with a predilection for easing to the left; and her foot on the gas pedal was too heavy, or too light. “Mum-my. Watch out.” Peering over Mummy’s right shoulder at the rushing roadway splotched with rain-on-the-verge-of-sleet Skyler thought with grim satisfaction that if he had to, he’d grab the wheel. If Mummy skidded the minivan. If Mummy lost control. Nine-year-old Skyler would save them and no one would know, not even Daddy.

  And if they died, Skyler thought, it would be Daddy’s fault.

  In the shifting glare of oncoming headlights shimmering with rain Skyler’s mother’s face was damp with tears of gratitude and seemed to glow from inside with a strange lunar beauty.

  “…happiest day. My life.”

  SO HAPPY! HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY SKYLER’S THROAT WAS RAW WITH HAPPINESS, for the judges had scored his sister 5.9 out of 6 and no other skater in the six-to-twelve-year-old division had received a score higher than 5.7. So happy! Mummy had screamed and wept and would h
ave fallen to her knees to pray to thank Jesus except her assistant Dale McKee (female, young) dissuaded her. Delirium of deafening applause. Cheers, whistles, cries We love you Bliss! Mammoth lizard-faced Jeremiah Jericho was moved by Bliss Rampike, you could see. Even that lewd-winking old-grandpappy in the sleek black tux straining at his belly. Even he! Predicting that the li’l blond gal from Far Hills—excuse me, Mr. Jericho: Fair Hills—would one day win an Olympic gold medal and become a World Champion and (Mummy knew: Mummy would see to it) one of the Disney-on-Ice superstar performers, a multi-million-dollar talent. Betsey Rampike stirred the crowd’s sentimental-Jersey heart, for Betsey Rampike wept with such gratitude, her inky mascara ran down her fleshy face, tear-rivulets corroded her heavy makeup. Here was a mother so sincere. Here was a mother so vulnerable. Here was a mother so deserving of her daughter’s victory. “‘Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1996—may God bless you.” For this instant, Jeremiah Jericho’s mocking voice quavered as with reverent hands he set the child-sized “silver” tiara on the child’s head. A fuchsia-bright satin sash LITTLE MISS JERSEY ICE PRINCESS 1996 was positioned—carefully!—slantwise across the child’s flat little chest. Still weeping, Betsey Rampike accepted from Jeremiah Jericho a large bouquet of bloodred plasticine roses and a framed certificate commemorating her daughter’s title and an envelope containing a “token of our esteem” (how much? Skyler would one day discover it was only $500) and to the delight of the crowd Betsey Rampike blushed becomingly as Jeremiah Jericho planted a smacking wet kiss on her flaming cheek—“Meet me tonight in dreamland, Mz. Ranpick!”—as deftly the lizard-faced M.C. ushered mother and daughter off the ice and out of the spotlight to make way for the more important crowning of Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1996.