KR: What made you think so?
ME: We had moved inland. Away from the water.
KR: I don’t understand.
ME: There was no water in the forest, don’t you see? Rhoda was afraid of water. Her mother had drowned. We even had to teach her to swim.
KR: Were you afraid she might drown?
ME: No. Yes. I don’t know. But the sea was very rough that day, and I guess I was glad when she refused to come in the water with us. I didn’t expect anything to happen in the forest. I thought she’d be safe in the forest.
KR: But something did happen.
ME: Yes.
KR: Are you sorry about what happened?
ME: It wasn’t our fault.
Christmas Eve dawned grayly and chillingly.
I had rested badly, tossing and turning with my satchel-full-of-hair dream, and felt fatigued upon awakening. I might have slept better had I accepted Alice’s invitation of the night before, but by the time the three of us left the lounge at a quarter to twelve, I had no desire to talk to her (no less cater to her bizarre needs) and went directly to bed. A broken promise, as a sage once remarked, is like a broken leg.
Following Sandy’s lead, we were courteous and charming to Mary Margaret during breakfast. Sandy’s efforts to be friendly were all the more surprising since she normally was about as animated and talkative as a tortoise during the morning meal. This morning, however, she rattled on about the Trates and Max, and about how penetrating and directly honest Mary Margaret’s observations had been, even if she hadn’t much cared for the implication that David and I were queer...
“I was just trying to get a rise out of you,” Mary Margaret said.
Yes, but even allowing such childish motivation, Sandy felt that equating us with faggot preppies was going a bit far, although the parallel was probably lost on Trate...
“No, I think he got it,” Mary Margaret said.
The point being that if we’d been mistaken about Foderman’s accident, the sensible thing was to discuss it openly and correct any misapprehensions, rather than slinging mud at each other in the presence of outsiders, especially outsiders of their caliber.
“I hope you guys realize,” Mary Margaret said, “that it was an accident. I really did panic when I saw him spread across the trail that way.”
Since I was the one who’d most closely witnessed the collision, I felt compelled to point out to Mary Margaret that she had gone into a racing position, head down, knees bent, poles back...
“I was getting ready to jump over him,” Mary Margaret said.
“Then why didn’t you?” I asked.
“I told you. I panicked. I didn’t think I could clear his leg.”
“In any case,” Sandy said, “I think we all reacted too strongly. We shouldn’t have accused you, and you shouldn’t have retaliated the way you did.”
“I don’t really think you guys are fags,” Mary Margaret said, and smiled.
“I can offer empirical evidence to the contrary,” Sandy said, and smiled back at her.
“Is it settled, then?”
“It’s settled.”
“I mean, I hope it’s clear that...”
“Perfectly clear,” Sandy said.
“I want to make this perfectly clear,” David said.
Grinning, Mary Margaret said, “You know, I think we really can be friends.”
“Why not?” Sandy said.
“I’m so touched I could weep,” David said.
“You sure you two don’t want to be alone?” I said.
“Let’s go find some real live wires, Peter.”
“Let’s go find some real hot numbers.”
“They are so clever, ho-ho,” Sandy said.
In just such a cheerful mood, we left for the north face.
KR: Have you changed your mind about going west?
ME: No. What do you mean? Why should I have changed my mind?
KR: Then the trip is still on. As planned.
ME: Of course it is.
KR: I’ll be frank with you, Peter...
ME: Have you ever been anything less?
KR: I was hoping you wouldn’t go.
The top of the mountain was covered with low-hanging clouds that shrouded the unloading platform, obfuscating trees and terrain, touching our faces with cold, wet tendrils. The four of us stood in the shifting gray fog and debated taking the chair back to the bottom, rather than risking the downhill trails when visibility was so poor. Mary Margaret argued that she knew the mountain well enough to ski it blindfolded, and besides (as revealed on the chair ride up) the visibility was better just a little bit further down. She would take the lead, she said, and we could all follow in a line immediately behind her, tips to tails, until we got below the cloud cover. Please understand that none of us was in the slightest concerned about what Mary Margaret would think of our courage or skill; I mean, the hell with her, we weren’t up there to impress her. But a skier who rides to the top of a mountain is reluctant to admit he’s afraid to ski down; the embarrassment of choosing descent by chair instead is equivalent to what one might feel if he walked to the end of a diving board and then refused to jump into the pool. Mary Margaret had proved to us yesterday that she knew the mountain well. We had no reason to believe that, skiing in single file behind her, we would not be led safely to the bottom today. Besides, as she had pointed out, only the very uppermost portion of the mountain was in clouds; the terrain below was free of fog and could be skied with ease. We decided to trust her. As promised, she took the lead. Sandy was directly behind her, the tips of her skis almost touching Mary Margaret’s tails ahead. David was next. I was last in line.
ME: If this is going to be another lecture...
KR: I wasn’t aware that I’d been lecturing you.
ME: You just did a twenty-minute number on narcissism and self-approval and nonrelating and entirely impersonal personal relationships. Wasn’t that a lecture? Gee, I thought it was a lecture.
KR: What I’m about to say is not a lecture. You probably won’t enjoy hearing it, but it must be said anyway. I’d feel derelict, if I didn’t express my...
ME: How’d this get so serious all of a sudden?
KR: It’s been serious all along.
ME: You’re going to tell me I’m a schizophrenic, right? You’re going to suggest I be committed at once before...
KR: No.
ME: Then, what?
KR: I’m going to ask you to stay home. Let David and Sandy go alone. Let them go, Peter.
ME: I already told you I’m going with them.
KR: I think the trip could be dangerous for you.
ME: Dangerous? Don’t make me laugh.
I could barely see the tails of David’s skis. I could not see David himself, I could not see Sandy ahead of him, and I certainly could not see Mary Margaret in the lead. I had the feeling I was moving through one of those movie sequences (Yes, Dr. Crackers, I know, I know) where phony clouds produced by dry ice float up from below, shifting and swirling where angels fearlessly tread in the company of recently deceased heavenly candidates who can’t believe they’re really dead. The long black length of my skis appeared only occasionally through patches in the mist, my boots sometimes visible but most often not, the terrain itself effectively camouflaged in the rolling white and gray fog. Each shadow-less, shrouded, separate bump in the trail registered as a total surprise, the shock rumbling up into my knees, my balance constantly threatened. From below, Mary Margaret called encouragement and warning, “Easy, guys, we’re getting there,” or “Watch it, bad bump!” or “Keep loose, feel the terrain,” or “Trees ahead, stay close!” I had once read a newspaper article about a blind skier (yes, blind!) who used a seeing-eye dog to lead him down the mountain, the dog having a small bell attached to a collar around his neck. At the time, I made some wise-ass remark about the blind man being just your regular garden variety skier, but the dog being an absolute whiz. The story did not seem so funny to me now. Mary Margaret was our radar and our sonar, guiding us down and through the suffocating cloud, “Sharp left,” her voice reassuring, “We’re coming to some moguls,” her skill unquestioned, “We’ll traverse this, stick together,” her knowledge of the mountain totally reliable.