by Alina Adams
"I don't know, Bex," Toni said.
"Aren't you curious?"
"I wasn't until this moment."
"Did Jeremy have any friends at the rink? Someone I could talk to about if Jeremy maybe said anything about where he and his dad were heading for next?"
"Jeremy was a pretty friendly boy, you could try talking to any of the kids. But, honestly, Bex, if information is what you're looking for, there's really only one all-knowing source."
Toni moved slightly to the side so that Bex might have a better view of the cabal of which she spoke. And there they sat. In the furthest corner of the rink, an even half dozen. Some wore fur coats, some clutched a cup of steaming coffee for warmth, still others sat on a specially heated cushion. All stared intently at the ice, their lips poised in concentration, their brows furrowed in contemplation, their toes tapping with agitation.
"You really should talk to the skating mothers, Bex."
A frigid wind blew through the rink and all around them it went pitch black. A glaring spotlight shone itself on the group from above, and a dramatic musical sting—like a soap opera organ announcing something particularly dire—filled the air.
Well, all right, maybe what really happened was that someone opened the door from the rink to the lobby and raised a slight chill, the overhead lights briefly blinked when the candy machine in the corner was turned on, and the boom of theatrical music was just the dramatic beginning of yet another West Side Story program. But, this was Bex's world and she was allowed to interpret it in any way she saw fit. Toni had just suggested that she go talk to the skating mothers. That certainly warranted a dramatic sting.
And a nervous gulp.
"Um, okay," Bex said, figuring that showing fear would just throw the fur-lined gang into even more of a killing frenzy. "Which one of them, you know, which one of them is which?"
"Well," Toni counted off from the woman closest to them, the one in the central, prime seat. "I think you know Lian's mother, Amanda Reilly. She's kind of the undisputed queen, here. What with Lian being the reigning Senior National Bronze Medallist. Usually, you'd expect Jordan Ares' mom to claim the best seat—it's the only one with an unobstructed view of every comer—because Jordan medalled at Worlds last year and Lian didn't. But Jordan is actually an emancipated minor, so the spot is Amanda's by default. And then next to her are Mrs. Keller-Dakota and Mrs. Stein. Their children are the Center's top-ranked dance team."
"Wait, wait," Bex said. "Those two parents hate each other. I remember because last year at Nationals I was trying to interview the kids, and Mrs. Keller-Dakota spent fifteen minutes telling me how they're being forced to pay more than their share of the bills since Mrs. Stein refuses to pitch in for travel expenses, because she thinks, since they have the boy and there are a lot fewer boys to go around than girls, the Keller-Dakotas should be the ones to pay for travel. Mrs. Keller-Dakota called Mrs. Stein a... let me see if I remember exactly, a 'miserly, morose mental case with delusions of grandeur and more hair on her upper lip than Stalin.' I remember because it's so rare that I get a good alliteration and Communist Party leader reference in the same sentence. It was definitely a 'miserly, morose mental case with delusions of grandeur and more hair on her upper lip than Stalin.' And those two sit together?"
"Every day, every practice."
"Why?"
"It's how things are done, Bex."
"I see...."
"The other three women ... Mrs. Bosley's son lost to Jeremy at Regionals and Sectionals, so she hasn't let the boys speak since; I don't think she'll be able to tell you much. Mrs. Knox tried to convince Jeremy to skate pairs with her daughter, and when he turned her down—rather politely, I think, and besides, it's not Jeremy's fault, I'm the one who advised him against it; the girl is too big for him—she kind of erased him from her universe. Finally, Mrs. Hernandez, I don't think I've ever heard her say a word to any of the other parents. She just sits there and watches and yells at her child in Spanish periodically. I have no idea what she thinks or knows. She doesn't really need to be involved with the club beyond the coaches. Her husband works for the embassy, they're not American citizens. Her daughter doesn't compete on the same U.S. track as the other kids. She's already qualified for Junior Worlds representing Spain."
Bex tried to absorb the plethora of information, wishing she'd thought to take notes when Toni first started. She asked, "And you really think these are the people who can help me find Craig and Jeremy?"
Toni smiled grimly. "These are our Oracles of Delphi, Bex. If there is something worth knowing around here, they know it. You just have to ask them the right questions."
Oh. Was that all? That didn't sound so hard. Sort of like roping a bull. Without a rope.
Approaching the pack gingerly, Bex dragged her feet along the threadbare carpet, trying to come up with a pithy opening line that wouldn't make her snooping too obvious.
"Hi," Bex said, swallowing the urge to add, "Hi... skating moms."
Six heads swiveled in her direction. The neat trick was, they all somehow managed to plant one eye on her, while keeping the other on the ice.
"Hello, Bex," Amanda Reilly chuckled brightly. "I guess that feature you were planning on Jeremy went up in smoke, so to speak, didn't it?"
The boy and his father had been missing for less than a few hours. How did this group already know all about it?
"You wanted to do a feature on Jeremy Hunt?" The woman Toni identified as Mrs. Bosley—mother of Loser Boy—tried to chuckle as merrily as Amanda had. It proved a bit tricky, what with the practically visible venom squirting through her front teeth. "What was your angle, Ms. Levy? Fluke wins that can never be repeated?"
Bex asked, "Didn't Jeremy win both Regionals and Sectionals this season?"
"Only because he skated better," Mrs. Bosley sniffed. "If Jeremy had missed his quad and Eric landed both his triple Axels, Eric would have been the clear winner."
"Eric has lovely presentation. It's world-class. Head and shoulders above Jeremy," Mrs. Reilly chimed in and patted Mrs. Bosley's hand reassuringly.
"Just like your Lian," Mrs. Bosley chimed back, and the two women beamed at each other.
Oh, how cute, Bex thought, ice-based, delusional co-dependency. Live and in color.
Bex asked, "Do any of you have any idea where Jeremy and his dad might have gone?"
"They probably ran away because they couldn't handle the competition," Mrs. Bosley mused. "Winning Regionals and Sectionals because their competitors didn't skate up to their ability is one thing. Nationals is a whole new ballgame. Craig Hunt was terrified of Jeremy going head-to-head with my Eric at Nationals. He knew Jeremy didn't have the skills to compete on that level."
"It happens quite a bit," Mrs. Keller-Dakota piped up. "Quite a few skaters reach a certain level, and then they just don't have the fortitude to go on. It's just as much of a mind game as it is a physical one. Kids crack. They can't take it."
"Like Rachel Rose," Mrs. Stein said. "Do you remember Rachel Rose? She trained here as well, but many years ago. I think she was Lucian Pryce's girl. An exquisite skater. Born to skate pairs. A true, blooming flower on the ice. But, she was too fragile. She and Robby Sharpton could have been World Champions. Instead, she just up and ran away, disappeared without a trace at the height of her career. I hear she's living in seclusion somewhere. A commune, I think."
"Oh!" Mrs. Reilly exclaimed. "That's just like Gabrielle Cassidy. The girl who slashed her wrists at Worlds a few years back after missing a step in the Yankee Polka. I hear she gave up skating, too. Went to school and got a degree in psychology, or some other such nonsense. It's so sad, she had so much potential."
"Or that girl, what was her name?" Mrs. Bosley put in. "The one who they forced to quit because she got so skinny and her front teeth rotted out from all the vomiting? Oh, what was her name? Because I don't think she got a fair shake. Who cared what was going on in her personal life, that's no one's business, in my opinion. She looked so love
ly on the ice. Long and lean and toned. It was a thrill to watch her."
"Or how about that boy with the temper? Didn't he end up going to jail finally?"
"Or the one who was his main rival? I think it was drugs in his case. Irony is, of course, he skated much better high than he ever did sober."
"How about that brother and sister team who had the total meltdown at Nationals after he dropped her on her head?"
"The national champion who got knocked up right before Worlds..."
"And Erin Simpson, of course ..."
"Oh, God, yes, Erin Simpson... I doubt we'll ever see her on the ice, again...."
"Focus!" Bex wanted to shout. Naturally, she did not. Primarily because, despite her oft-stated aversion to gossip and voyeurism, this was actually kind of interesting. Bex had no idea so many seemingly promising people had dropped out of skating for one reason or another.
"But, about Jeremy Hunt..." Bex prompted.
"Good riddance," Mrs. Stein said. "He was a nice enough boy, but that father of his…."
"I'm not sorry to see him go," Mrs. Keller-Dakota agreed.
"Creepy. Wouldn't you call him just creepy?" Mrs. Bosley looked around the cabal for support. "Always just lurking, not saying anything."
"And the way he obsessed over that poor child," Mrs. Reilly vaulted into the lead of Bex's unofficial "Delusion of the Day Poll." "I've never seen anything like it. He acted like Jeremy was the most precious thing in the world. Like we were all out to kidnap him or something!"
"Did you say kidnap?" Bex perked up as a possibility she'd never previously considered bloomed before her in all its obviousness. "Craig was afraid of Jeremy being kidnapped?"
"He certainly acted as if he was. Always watching him, keeping their address secret in the club handbook. I once asked him, trying to be polite, to make conversation, it's not like Mr. Hunt gave you a lot to talk about, he never opened his mouth except to answer a direct question. I asked him where he and Jeremy were from, before Hartford. 'Out West,' he said. Well, where out west, I asked. He just walked away. Just walked away! Can you believe the rudeness?"
"What about Jeremy's mother?" Bex asked.
"She's dead," five women answered in unison. Even Mrs. Hernandez nodded firmly. Bex guessed this was the one fact they knew for certain, and each was eager to be the first to share it.
"Did Jeremy ever talk about her?"
"No."
"Never."
"Not at all."
Bex nodded. And smiled. And had her answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“It's obvious," she told Toni triumphantly. "I'm surprised I didn't see it right away. I've been watching Lifetime movies for practically all my life. Craig and Jeremy's mother are divorced. The mom has custody and Craig kidnapped him and went on the run. That's why he's so secretive about where they're from and why he doesn't want Jeremy to go to Nationals. His mom might see them on TV and figure out where her son is."
"It's a good theory," Toni agreed. "But, where does his money fit in?"
"His money?"
"Wasn't one of the reasons you suspected him of being an international drug dealer and/or spy because Craig Hunt seems to have a lot more money than a man in his alleged situation should have? If he's on the run from the law, wouldn't he lose access to his bank accounts and whatnot?"
Bex said, "Maybe his wealthy family is bank-rolling him. Secretly. Craig is probably very rich. I mean, it's always the rich parent that wins custody, isn't it?"
"If Craig is the rich parent who got custody, why would he need to kidnap Jeremy from his mother?"
"You know, you're sucking all the fun out of this for me." Bex sighed. She rested her chin on her hands and looked up at Toni. "You're not buying my theory, are you?"
“To be honest, Bex, at this point, any answer is as good as another. I taught Jeremy for five years, and I have no idea what went on in his life. It's a bit too late for me to start guessing now." Toni crossed her arms against her chest and surveyed Bex from head to toe. "Besides, the way I see it, you're the one with the more pressing problem these days."
"Me?"
"You, Bex. Do you have any idea what you're going to tell Gil Cahill?"
As a matter of fact, Bex did. She polished her speech on the drive back to New York and added the crowning touches while riding the elevator up to 24/7's corporate offices. She did the final edit while waiting for Ruth to tell her if Gil was available. And, upon crossing the threshold into his palatial office, she promptly forgot it all.
"Gil..." Bex said, hoping to cover her stage fright with salutations. Every gear in her brain creaked like the sound effects for a cheap horror movie.
"Where's my footage, Bex?" Gil didn't even look up from the stack of yellow sticky-note covered papers he was reading. He merely gestured at the VCR in his corner.
"I don't have it."
Now, he looked up. Not that Bex preferred it that way. "Where is it?"
"I—Jeremy Hunt's father. He took it."
Gil actually looked amused. He put down his pen and everything. For over a year, Bex had submitted story after story idea to Gil in the hopes of amusing him. She failed miserably each and every time. Who knew all it would take was her utter humiliation. "The kid's dad mugged you?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"That's really funny, Bex."
"I suspected you were amused." The smirk kind of gave it away.
"So, you've got nothing, is that what you're telling me?"
"Not exactly." The microscopic thought jumper cables she'd dispatched into her cerebral cortex at the first sign of brain freeze finally kicked in, and the reluctant gears began spewing out the speech Bex had so painfully rehearsed all during her journey home. Alas, it was now spewing at a pace faster than Bex's mouth could keep up with it; but them was the breaks, was them not?
"Gil," she tried to keep from tripping over her tongue while still getting out everything she'd intended, "did you know there was a girl who slit her wrists at Worlds a couple of years ago? And another one who ran away to live in a commune? And a National Champion who got arrested for drugs, and a brother who dropped his sister on her head—or the other way around, I'm not sure about that one, yet.... And then, there was some guy named Robby Sharpton, who everyone says never lived up to his potential, and a girl who ruined her teeth from throwing up too much, and—"
"Bex?"
"Yes?" She felt like a Top Gun jet abruptly stopped by those cords they strung across Navy aircraft carriers.
"Are you pitching that we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to run random episodes of The Jerry Springer Show?
"No," Bex said. "I'm pitching that we do a piece for Nationals about all the skaters who abruptly dropped out of the sport. A sort of "Where Are They Now?" with a twist. The way I figure, we've got footage of all these people on file. We track them down and get the real story about why they quit. It could get us a lot of attention. Skating fans have been wondering for years about what really happened to, for instance, Rachel Rose or Gabrielle Cassidy or Robby Sharpton. We'll be the first ones to provide them with real answers."
Gil leaned back in his chair. He picked up his pen and made a swish mark in the air. But, he didn't say anything. He just looked at Bex expectantly, waiting for some mysterious "more."
"Because half the footage will be historical from our own archives, this piece will cost half the price of shooting a brand new one, from scratch."
Gil said, "Hop to it, Bex."
She very much wanted to commence hopping. A sign-off on a feature project from Gil was the equivalent of winning a lottery the grand prize of which was the Holy Grail. Bex was very, very happy. She was also very, very nervous. Because, all the while Bex had been blithely telling Gil, "We'll track them down and get the real story about why they quit," she'd also had not the slightest idea about how one—or more importantly, she—might actually go about doing that.
On the one hand, Bex was a professional researcher.
Her job was to find out stuff, and she was pretty good at it. On the other hand, these were people who had made it clear that they did not wish to be found.
Gabrielle Cassidy proved to be the easiest one. Knowing that she'd gotten a Ph.D. in sports psychology, Bex simply did an academic search of dissertations, located her university, and, from the alumni director, got Gabrielle's current phone number. When Bex called, she learned from Gabrielle herself that the formerly suicidal ice-dancer had started her own training center, where the focus was on a non-pressured atmosphere for the young athletes. Apparently, the children were all deliriously happy and well adjusted. Alas, not one of them had managed to win a medal above the Regional level. It was sweet as hell and might have made a wonderful Disney movie. But, Bex seriously doubted this story would prove dramatic enough to hold Gil's attention.
Her next subject was Rachel Rose. Here, it seemed, they might actually get something juicy. From the clippings in their 24/7 file, it really did seem like R&R (Rachel and Robby) were headed for the major big time. And then, all of a sudden, it wasn't an injury, it wasn't a coaching problem, it wasn't even, as far as Bex could tell, an official partner break-up: Rachel Rose simply fell off the face of the earth.
She didn't issue a press release wishing Robby and America's future pairs all the very best luck in the world. She didn't hold a press conference, explaining how the decision to go on their separate ways was utterly mutual and that she and Robby were still the best of friends. Even her coach, Lucian Pryce, seemed mystified. In every newspaper article, his only quote seemed to be, "None of us are really certain what the heck happened here. It's been like a bomb going off, we're shocked and we're trying to make sense of the whole thing." Rachel's parents (who, probably just to make Bex's life more difficult, had both since died) told the press, "Rachel hasn't shared with us her reasons for quitting or for so suddenly leaving town. We are as disappointed as her many fans. We, too, were looking forward to many more years of her wonderful performances." (One of the tabloids also had the chutzpah to print how much money in endorsements and ice-show appearances Rachel's disappearance would cost her parents and coach, who were co-managers of her career. A bomb of disappointment, indeed). As for Robby Sharpton, his authorized statement was limited to, "I've switched partners before. I can do it again. I don't need Rachel Rose to be a champion. I can do it without her." There was also a picture of him with his supportive wife and the ex-partner he'd apparently referred to, Felicia Tufts Sharpton, by his side. She gazed upon Robby adoringly with an expression obviously cribbed from Nancy Reagan.
