“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 had 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.”