“Then how can you ignore this? You’re making a terrible mistake, Wylie.” Sky leaned forward, rested his arms on his knees, and stared down at the note cards splayed on the floor before him.
Accept apology with graciousness and retract threat sincerely.
Remember that your mutual love of Robert is behind all of this.
If no apology, withdraw threat ANYWAY to remove obligation and clear conscience.
Withdraw?
No, he thought. I won’t do that. Not again. As I have so many times before. I’m sorry, Antoinette, but that was the one card you wrote out that I didn’t agree with. I spoke very clearly, but you talked over what I was trying to say. Your clear, beautiful voice went right over me. But you can’t talk over me now. And I have to speak for myself.
“Don’t try to force me off the mountain again. Anyone off the mountain. The consequences will be severe.”
“You are a man with red hair on the left and white hair on the right,” said Wylie.
“Don’t confuse showmanship with lack of conviction.”
“Got it.” Wylie looked at him, shaking his head, but said nothing more.
Sky squatted, collected the cards, and stood. “You’re a belligerent mongrel,” he said. “If you don’t run a clean Gargantua Cup, you won’t be able to change the consequences and I won’t be able to help you.”
“I’ve let the threat go, Sky.”
“As I stand before you, I can’t overstate the danger you are in.”
“Let it go. All of it. I have.”
An idea then came barreling into Sky’s mind, straight into the gap between his defeated diplomacy and his stymied plans. He sized it up and found it promising. “But … maybe there’s another way to make you see. I may just try one more time.” Sky saw that he finally had Wylie Welborn’s full attention.
“Let it go, Sky, whatever it is.”
“Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got the idea.”
* * *
Sky brooded late into the night, turning over his idea every which way, looking for the downsides. Antoinette had chosen to sleep at her place, which was fine with him, though he already missed her. Small amounts of time apart were good for lovers. And without her, he could wander his little condo, nip the tequila as needed, and mutter freely to himself.
Unable to concentrate or sleep, he turned on the TV. Whereupon—as if through Satanic intervention—an XTV Adrenaline interview with Wylie Welborn was in progress. Sky watched, at first affronted that Wylie could just take over his TV like this, then fascinated.
Apparently, the interview had been recorded not long after the “Curse of the Carsons” piece. Wylie, fully bearded, looked to Sky like the Wolfman on Xanax, a hulking, resentful hominid with plenty of axes to grind. He talked about his Mammoth Cup and other races he had won way back in the dark ages; his impatience with being only a ski-cross racer and a desire to “grow up”; his service to his country in Afghanistan; his “wandering around the snowbound world,” which was a kind of “spiritual journey”—sheesh!—his eventual “realization” that he needed to return to Mammoth Lakes to see if he could become “somehow more complete, or maybe even neccessary.” Sky had never heard such self-referential bullshit delivered with such a straight face. Of course, Bonnie Bickle prodded him on with all her toothy prettiness.
Adrenaline then showed Wylie’s semifinal and final victories at the Mammoth Cup. Sky watched intently, having to admit that there was some good speed and a cagey use of body weight in Welborn. He’ll need it, thought Sky, reminding himself of his 59.75 second run on the Imagery Beast. It was the fastest time Helixon had ever recorded. After, coach Brandon had told Sky that Wylie’s best time trial on the X Course was not only five years ago but a ho-hum 1:2.20 minute run under perfect conditions. Sky was almost three seconds faster!
Next, Bonnie asked Wylie about the curse on the Carson family. Wylie tried to defend the clan, which, he said, had no curse that he was aware of, just the same ups and downs of any family, and maybe some things had happened, but the Carsons helped build Mammoth Mountain, along with Dave, of course, so no, if anything, the Carsons were blessed, not cursed.
Bonnie reminded Wylie of his long-running competition, feuds, and literal physical fights with several Carsons—most often Sky—and of forcing Sky off the X Course during training for the upcoming Gargantua Mammoth Cup. Wylie smiled way back behind his beard, shook his head, and said nobody bumped anybody off the X Course, that it was just a routine accident on a fast course—he’d busted up on that part of the course lots of times himself. Bonnie asked about Sky’s “line in the snow,” got a shrug from Wylie, then showed the entire video monologue delivered by bruised and battered Sky in his shorts at Mountain High that night. They played the part about Wylie being a “demon bastard” twice, which led Bonnie to recap the whole miserable nativity of today’s guest—Wylie Welborn—using clips of Cynthia.
But by the time Adrenaline went on to its next segment—attractive young women in swimsuits zip-lining over a crocodile-infested river in India—Sky felt energized and motivated by Wylie’s self-serving interview. Wasn’t there a flicker of doubt back in that hairy face, some worry in his eyes? How could there not be? Especially now that the entire racing community in Mammoth Lakes—Wylie included—knew about Sky’s unprecedented under-one-minute run on the Imagery Beast. Take that, W.W.!
Although, actually, what had Wylie shown tonight at G-pa’s, other than his usual arrogant stubbornness? How was it even possible that Wylie could have dismissed Sky’s solemnly sworn challenge, publicly offered? Could Wylie no longer see? Had Afghanistan taken away his senses? His courage?
Time to wake him up, Sky thought. You might be doing him a favor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“What was he like, Mom? Dad.”
Kathleen set the croissant on the baking rack and looked across the worktable at Wylie, her face flushed and the great vertical worry lines setting in her forehead. Wylie had been waiting for days for a private moment to ambush her. Now they were doing the morning prep at Let It Bean, the girls were sleeping in on this Saturday, and Steen was home putting tarps over the worst parts of the roof.
She picked up another handful of dough and began forming the next croissant. Her face was still red, but Wylie saw that the worry lines had let go, and he thought he saw the suggestion of a smile on his mother’s face. “He was … impressive.”
Wylie nodded, surprised by this, though he’d had no idea what his mother might say about Richard Carson. He cut the dough, got the wedges a little big. He’d always been an earnest but untalented apprentice.
“Of course, I was seventeen when I met him. To me, he was a god, and my coach, and I fell for him. The Carson men—they have that … quality. Then as I got to know him over the weeks, I discovered that he wasn’t the cool king he pretended to be. But he did a great job of faking it. He wanted to be liked. He was polite, but provocative and charming. Under the influence of alcohol, which was often, he became unpredictable. Never mean or morose, but hyperenergetic and out of kilter. Alcohol or not, he was funny in a goofy, boyish way. He made fun of almost everything and everybody, including himself. The general feeling on the mountain back then was that his lack of seriousness about racing was Richard’s Achilles’ heel as a competitor. He also doubted his nerve. He was serious about his students, though.”
“How old was he?”
“Twenty-nine. He’d had a good Olympic showing at Sarajevo in ’84 but broke a leg six weeks before Calgary. When I met him, he’d retired from downhill racing, but you wouldn’t know it to watch him ski. Out there first thing, every day, carving his name on that mountain. He said skiing was more fun than racing. He was very dedicated to his students, though. I think he was trying to make something sacred for us that was never quite sacred to him. It worked on me. He taught me to love skiing. And I wanted to race. He told me I could be good enough, that it would take training and luck. I felt that I was a born racer. I h
ad the speed need, courage, and cool, good eyesight and reflexes. I wanted to race and win, then have a family. Like Richard. I wanted to do what he had done.”
Wylie mulled this over. He had overhandled the dough and had to start over. “He was married and had two kids, Mom.”
“Ouch. Yes.”
“I’m not criticizing. I’m just—”
“Stating the facts of the case.”
“Exactly.”
Kathleen kneaded and pressed and shaped the pastries with nearly automatic precision. Wylie had always been impressed that her hands could do one thing while her mind did something else. “Really, one of the hardest things has been what to tell you and what not to. And how to give you the truth in the right amounts. When you were eleven, and we took that walk, and I told you that William was made up and that your father was Richard—I saw I’d hurt you. Your face changed in that moment, and I swear there’s a part of that expression I still see sometimes. It about killed me when you ran. It wasn’t right, what I told you then. I thought I’d ruined you.”
“I made it to twenty-six, Mom.”
She looked at him across the flour-dusted stainless table, her hands working away as if without the rest of her. “Tell me what you want to know.”
“Did you have sex before him?”
She reddened again and shook her head.
“Then Richard Carson was your first?”
“Yes.”
“Was it really at a party?”
“Yes. Such a perfect storm that night. Everything hit me right at once, Wylie. All my admiration for him and my commitment to what he was great at. All my tingling attraction and desire for an almost but never before … thing. All my youth and reckless courage. The damned alcohol and Richard’s total attention. That basement room was so welcoming and private. Another world. I knew he would never be mine. Never leave his wife or children. That made him more perfect. I knew he’d had other girls. I didn’t care. To me, at that moment in that place, he was what I wanted. He was there and I took him. I knew it was wrong. That didn’t matter.”
Wylie understood what she was saying, but he found the visuals troubling. “Did … when Cynthia … were you and Richard still in the bed when she…”
“No. Richard was playing Ping-Pong in the game room and I was out on a deck, looking at the stars and wondering what I’d just done. I was crying because I was afraid, then crying because I was sad. Utter confusion. Total regret. I heard the shots. Not loud. Five. I wasn’t sure at first what they were. Then the screams. Looking through a sliding glass door I saw her marching across the room, people flying from her path every which way. Pregnant and showing. She looked very purposeful and focused. Not in a hurry, but not taking her time, either. I could hear the door slam when she went out. And somehow I knew what had happened and that she’d seen Richard and me, or been told. I made my way to the game room and through the crowd and finally saw. It was so terrible, son. He was so beautiful and peaceful and all those holes. Torn up so badly. I still see him like that. I’ll never get it out of my head.”
“Wow.”
“Is right.”
“Jeez.”
“That, too. Cynthia got prison and I got you.”
Wylie worked a long while in silence, his croissant dough suddenly fascinating. He finished it and began another. The secret was the force: too much and the pastry would toughen when baked. “Why not adoption or abortion?”
“I thought about them, but not for very long. When I knew you were in there, everything changed. The world had flipped and then it flipped again.”
“You gave up skiing? Dreams. All of that?”
“Racing, not skiing.”
“But you gave it all up?”
“I changed. This will sound … well, I’m not sure how it will sound—but what I did with Richard was the most destructive and most wonderful thing I’ll ever do. I ruined lives. And gave you yours.”
Wylie felt a shudder pass through him. Like a seismic tremor, he thought, or a swell or a wave of sound. I am a simple moment in the rush of time, he thought. So much does not depend on me. So much is given and nonshedable, no matter the wars you fight or the miles you trudge or how fast you go down a mountain. I showed up. I am innocent. And I am connected, separate but part of. “Was I worth it, Mom?”
“You will never know…” Wylie watched the tears well in her eyes and an impossible-seeming smile come to her face. Still, her hands continued forming the thing to which they were devoted. “… how much I love you.”
Then he was tearing up because she was, and they met at the halfway point of the table and embraced. Laughter followed, soft and complicit within the smells of flour and coffee, steamed milk and tears.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
After his mother had gone home and Beatrice and Belle had come in for the afternoon, Wylie traded his street clothes for sweats and running shoes. The weather had cleared and warmed slightly and there was still daylight enough for the long run down Highway 203 and back.
He jogged out and across the parking lot, to find Claude Favier standing on his tiptoes by the MPP, looking through one of the portholes. Since putting it on eBay, just seeing the MPP sank Wylie’s heart. It was as if there was a bright red FOR SALE sign on it, even though there was no such sign. Pride kept him from parading his need around town like that.
“Is he in there, Claude?”
Claude turned quickly. “Ah, Wylie! You have escaped. It looks very small inside.”
“Table for two,” he said, immediately regretting the pleasantry. He caught the knowing sparkle in Claude’s eyes.
“Why do you pull this vehicle around the town with you?” asked Claude.
“Because I like it.” The MPP had but thirty-four hours left on the eBay auction block. Midnight tomorrow. The best offer was $4,800, which was still $2,200 short of the six grand that he would end up paying for it. Sometimes the big offers come in fast at the end, he thought. Right? His secret hope of getting half enough for the new roof seemed frankly ridiculous now. He wiped a smudge off the door with the cuff of his sweatshirt. He wondered again how he could have been so loose with his money. He could have bought a used minitrailer for a few hundred dollars and called it a day. Jesse had told him as much.
Claude gave him a puzzled expression but kept his Gallic nose in the air, as if he might soon understand.
“What’s up, Claude?”
“I have brought something for you.”
Wylie looked to the posh silver Mercedes SUV parked beside his trailer. Claude smiled and raised his hands for Wylie to wait, then went to the SUV and touched the liftgate handle and up the liftgate rose, motor humming softly. “I have been thinking about the Mammoth Cup,” he called. “The Gargantua Mammoth Cup, I should say. And because of this, I went back through my many computer files to five years ago because I wanted to know precisely what Chamonix products were helping you to victory.”
“They were the CR Saber Threes, one eighties with the seventy-eight waist.”
“Yes! And what are you skiing now?”
“The same pair.”
“No! The Chamonix Saber racers have evolved since then, Wylie. Edges are slightly harder for the carve but not too hard for our Mammoth snow. So, for the arc to be proper, these skis require high skill. And body weight is factored, too, which you have. I truly believe the new Saber Five is the ski that you will prefer. Please, look at them.”
Claude stepped back from the SUV, drawing out the new Chamonix racers. They really do look like black sabers, thought Wylie—slender and elegant and purposeful. The Sabers were part of the Chamonix racing line, made for groomed but slightly softer western snow. Chamonix’s traditional red race trim was now splattered bloodlike across the lacquered black, reinforcing the saber idea. Pure aggression. Claude stood the skis beside him, one in each hand, then leaned one out. Wylie took it, registered the slightly greater heft of the racer compared to his earlier model, shook it sharply to gauge the flex.
“Stout,” he said.
“It has speed greed,” said Claude. “Yet you feel ee-pox-ied to the snow.”
“Same length as my old ones. Narrower in the waist. Nice.”
“You are holding nearly eight decades of history in your hand. We will launch them to market in December.”
Wylie slowly turned it to catch the pale autumn sunlight. “How much will Chamonix be asking?”
“Eleven hundred twenty-five.”
“I’ll stick with the threes.”
“Of course you must. But try these fives.”
“I’ll just ding them up and not be able to pay you for them.”
Claude waved his free hand, as if shooing a mosquito. “Wylie. I know you cannot afford them. But take these skis. Chamonix is proud that you win on our equipment. All we ask is that when you are posing for photographs, you turn the ski so the Chamonix name is highly visible. If you don’t like them, use the old Saber Threes. But still keep Chamonix highly visible!”
Wylie looked at the Frenchman’s weathered, sharply chiseled face and delighted light blue eyes. “I’m suspicious of gifts.”
“Then this is a flaw in your character. If you are worried about the USOC, this we consider to be a testing pair for you. As such, no retail value. Not a gift and not a sponsorship. Most legal. Although I ask you not to tell Brandon Shavers about this gift—I have not similarly equipped the Mammoth team.”
Claude held out the other ski and Wylie accepted it. “Thank you, Claude.”
“Thank Chamonix. Chamonix is passion.”
“That’s a good slogan.”
“Yes. Passion opens wallets.”
Claude smiled again and brought a cigarette from a silver case and offered it to Wylie, who declined. The silver case was also a lighter. Claude slid it back into his jacket pocket while the smoke slowly mingled with the heavy air.
Wylie carried the skis to the MPP, knelt, unlatched the equipment drawer, and let it roll out. He slid the beautiful new Sabers into the carpet-lined compartment, smiled slightly at them, then pushed the drawer closed. When he came back around the trailer, Claude was leaning against his SUV. “You are at an interesting place in your life,” he said.
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