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| PETER JAMES QUIRK SHORT STORIES |
"Daddy called. He wants to take me to Aspen for Christmas." The words fall from her lips casually, as though she were a fashion model at a jet set cocktail party, not a fifteen-year-old high school freshman standing barefoot in front of an open refrigerator in jeans and a tee shirt. Chrissie completes the illusion by tossing her head and swinging her hair across her face-a disdainful, haughty gesture she had perfected by the time she was three. I still don't quite believe my ears; Chrissie hasn't heard a word from her beloved (read deadbeat) father for almost a year, and now, somehow, he's back in her life and is taking her to Colorado for a ski vacation. "But neither of you ski," I protest weakly. "So what? People do it all the time; how hard can it be? I can't wait-Daddy's even going to send me money to buy a new ski outfit." "Spare me the details," I shudder, as I wish for the umpteenth time, that, when I'd finally had enough of Ed's two timing ways, I had called a hit-man, not a divorce lawyer, and had my fast-talking good-for-nothing husband removed swiftly and violently from the face of the earth. I smile inwardly as the mental image of his body encased in concrete somewhere in the Meadowlands appears before my eyes. A sudden flash of brilliance brings me back to the real world. "Chrissie," I say. "Would you like me to get you some ski lessons before you go? I could make that your Christmas present." I bet you're thinking, oh, how sweet; she doesn't have to do that. Oh, but you're wrong, gentle reader, I do have to do that. You see my ex-husband is one of those loud-mouthed braggarts who think they know everything and can do anything. And if Chrissie goes to Aspen already skiing, that will annoy Ed intensely, especially if she's better than he, and as far as I know, Ed's never skied a day in his life. Now, that could be the gift that keeps on giving-if you know what I mean. "Oh, come on, Mom, it'll be fun; besides, If you think you might like to go, I know I could talk Daddy into inviting you." "I don't think so, dear." The last thing I want is to see Ed with his latest bimbo. And although I haven't warned Chrissie about that yet, I'm certain there's going to be one. "Let's go and watch the skiers," I say out loud. "If it doesn't look too dangerous, maybe I will try it. But I'm not making any promises." "Good idea, Mommy," says Chrissie with a look of relief. And we walk through the rustic ski lodge arm in arm and step out onto the snow, but there are few trails open, and even fewer skiers. However, moments after we take our positions beside the chairlift, a small group of instructors ski into view on the one trail that has snow all the way from the summit, and we watch carefully as they ski down and stop some twenty feet away. I turn to my daughter to comment, but something farther up the hill has caught her eye. "Oh, cool," she says, with a giggle, pointing. "Look at that guy." I follow her gaze and see a younger man with shoulder-length hair coming down the trail on a snowboard. He pulls up beside his fellow instructors with a hoot, and they all get back on the ski lift laughing and joking. Chrissie is enthralled. "That looks like so much fun. Do you think Daddy would mind if I learn to snowboard instead of ski?" A Machiavellian smile flits across my face. "I'm sure he would approve of anything that makes you happy," I say, knowing full well that Ed would be really annoyed-maybe even angry enough to actually try snowboarding himself and break every bone in his body in the process. (I should be so lucky.) "Let's get you the beginner package, which, according to the website, includes a lesson and rental equipment that's interchangeable. So if you try snowboarding and don't like it, you can switch to skiing at no extra charge." Some twenty minutes later, I step back outside with Chrissie to meet with her instructor. And wouldn't you know it, it's the same young man who inspired the change of heart in the first place. However, after shaking his hand and seeing him face to face, I realize he's much closer to my age than to Chrissie's, which I decide is all for the better. He introduces himself with a slight, but very attractive, European accent. "Hi, folks. I'm Charles and I shall be your instructor today." He glances over to his supervisor, who waves him on. "Okay, I guess it's just the three of us." "Oh, no," I quickly inform him. "The lesson's for my daughter, but I would like to tag along and watch, if that's all right." "Of course it's all right, er . . ." his voice trails off. "Marilyn." I say quickly. "We'll be on the bunny slope for at least an hour, Marilyn. Are you sure you don't want to try it?" I shake my head, regretful that I don't quite have the courage, even with my daughter watching expectantly. Charles, however, accepts my decision immediately and all but ignores me as he shepherds Chrissie over to the beginner slope explaining the fundamentals of riding a snowboard as they go. "It's important before you begin to accept the fact that you are the driver, and not the passenger of this vehicle," he says, tapping his snowboard. "You determine what the board is going to do and where it's going to go." He places his board on the snow. "I'm going to give you a demonstration from here down to the flat section." He points down the gentle hill. "You just walk beside me and observe." Charles secures his left foot into the front binding and demonstrates how to turn to the left by picking up his heel and balancing on the toe-side edge of the board, and how to turn to the right by picking up his toes and balancing on his heel-side edge. He then hooks up his back foot and starts making slow serpentine turns down the slope. "Just walk down the hill, Chrissie, watching the snowboard. Especially try to notice the different balance positions for the toe-side turn and the heel-side turn." When we get down to the flat, Charles removes his snowboard and puts it to one side. "Now it's your turn," he says, lightly, telling Chrissie to hook up her front foot. He takes her hand and walks with her on her first attempt, all the while reminding her to keep most of her weight toward the front. And thirty minutes later, after showing her how to turn in each direction, we are back at the top of the slope. Now Charles, still holding Chrissie's hand, shows her how to turn across the trail and how to skid on the uphill edge of the board to slow herself down. And twenty minutes later he tells her to put on her wrist guards, and he sends her off on her first solo run." "I'm amazed," I say, as Charles and I watch Chrissie negotiate her way down the slope. "She's learning so quickly. You're very good." Charles shakes his head and smiles self-depreciatingly. "It is always the student, never the instructor. Believe me-a student with a good sense of balance, like Chrissie here, can make any instructor look like a genius; while a student with no sense of balance would still be on the flat doing straight runs with all his weight on the back foot, and I'd be pulling out my hair wondering what on earth to try next." "Trust me," I say. "I'm a college professor, and I know a good teacher when I see one." Charles's smile broadens to a grin and he shrugs his shoulders. "Each turn is so completely different," I continue. "Is there an easy way to tell which one you're doing?" "Well, of course, if you've just done one turn, it's now time to do the other one. There are only two, you know." Charles smiles again. "But, yes, there is a very good analogy for the two stances. But I would hesitate to tell it to a young teenaged girl. You see, it's not very polite." "Well, you can tell me," I say, trying to look worldly and sophisticated. "Are you sure?" Charles frowns, but I nod emphatically. "Okay. You can make up your own mind whether you should tell Chrissie. When you make a toe-side turn, stand with your hips thrust forward like a man peeing and lift your heels, and when you make a heel-side turn squat back slightly like a woman peeing and lift your toes. It helps your balance immensely." He pantomimes the two positions and I laugh out loud. "That's a very graphic picture," I say, "and something you're not likely to forget. You can certainly tell Chrissie." Charles shakes his head. "I will only tell her if she gets confused." The next day my sister Betty telephones from her home near Pittsburgh. It's the call I've been dreading-the official invitation to Chrissie and me to join her, her insufferable husband and spoiled kids, and all my other annoyingly happily married siblings and cousins, to an official family Christmas at our parents' enormous country home outside Erie, Pennsylvania. But this year I'm determined not to weaken. "I'm afraid we can't come this year," I say quietly but firmly. I continue quickly before she has the chance to protest: "Chrissie is spending the holidays with her father-he's taking her to Aspen. Don't ask me where he got the money. And I can't bear the thought of going to Mom and Dad's alone. It would be too depressing." "But Marilyn," my sister whines, "Christmas just wouldn't be the same without you. We all so look forward to seeing you every year. You can't just stay in New York all on your own-what on earth would you do?" "I haven't made up my mind yet-something different, that's for sure. To tell you the truth, I'm thinking of taking up snowboarding." |
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"A glass of Riesling for me, please. "Sounds wonderful," Joan chimes in. Jeff, who is standing beside her staring unabashedly down her blouse, looks up reluctantly and nods as he hands us lunch menus. "The soup of the day is French onion, and the quiche is ham and broccoli," he recites, as he turns away. "I love this place," Joan says, glancing up at the palm tree that arches sedately over the table. I feel as she does, and normally I would join her in her admiration. The decor is remarkable, especially in the glass-enclosed garden room where we're sitting. We had watched in amazement as the establishment morphed from a sedate Victorian town house into a tea shop. Then in quick succession, it had become a seedy night club, a nondescript eatery, and finally "Cafe Madrid," a top-notch bistro restaurant and wine bar that is our favorite place to go. At that moment, however, I am caught up in the ad Joan has found, and I have to admit it's right up my alley: Wanted, writer for tourist publication-the words fairly sing to me-knowledge of French and/or France a plus. Position available immediately. Call Worthing 28. Even the telephone number is romantic. Worthing is an old-fashioned town, just off to the west, with one of the oldest phone systems in England. Some of the more established companies there insist on retaining their original numbers-just to prove they've been in business since Scrooge and Marley put poor Mr. Fezziwig out to pasture. To them it's a symbol of prestige-a banner of longevity. Of course you can trust us, you could almost hear them protesting. Look at our phone number! But I digress. I'm Isabella Saint-Jean-I know that's a mouthful-but, believe me, when my forebears escaped to England during the French Revolution, it was even longer. In those days the family name was Saint-Jean de la Vieille-Tour d'Ermenonville, or something like that. And according to my grandfather we were minor French aristocrats. He used to keep me amused when I was little by telling me tales of the ghosts that wandered through our ancestral home outside Paris. Joan and I share a flat in Brighton. (She's okay, once you get past the squealing. At least she keeps her room clean.) We've just graduated from the University of Sussex, and we're job hunting. The trouble is my degree's in English literature, and unless you want to be a teacher or a librarian, there's not much you can do with a head full of Shakespeare's soliloquies. "Now is the winter of our discontent . . ." You know what I mean-but no matter, I've always wanted to be a writer. In fact, I used to daydream about having tarty, farty lunches with my literary agent in some swanky restaurant in the West End. Just one more chapter, I could hear myself saying, as I dab primly at my lips with my crisp linen napkin. One more chapter and the saga of Napoleon's steamy affair with Queen Victoria's granny will be public domain. But in the meantime one has to put food on the table, and I do have five years of French under my belt. (My mother told me with a name like ours, you really have to be able to speak the language.) Mmm . . . I think. I could certainly do worse than travel writing. I circle the ad. |
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