I turned the tiny white envelope over in my hands admiring its neatness.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Gwen demanded, more anxious than I was.

For the moment I enjoyed the gift without knowing who had offered it. However, I assumed the giver was either Talbert or a group of skating friends from the Martinsville Arena. I had few dates that autumn and did not think any of my fly-by-night courtiers liked me well enough or possessed sufficient funds to shower me with a dozen roses. The thought of “sufficient funds” made me almost drop the card onto my desktop. Wealthy Neil could have sent the flowers as one last gesture of his misunderstood love on his way out of town.

“They might be from Neil,” I worried.

“You won’t know if you don’t open the card.”

Gwen knew that Neil had hurt me deeply and that we had been engaged. She never prodded when I glossed over the rest of the story. Like many pretty young women, Gwen had her share of broken romances and did not necessarily want to relive them through conversation over a cup of tea or a bottle of beer.

Finally I peeled back the flap on the vellum envelope and extracted a small card. “Happy birthday, Kate. From Howard Millbank.”

“I don’t recognize that name, and I would recognize a name like ‘Howard’,” Gwen assured. “Who is Howard Millbank?”

I had not seen or talked to Howard since mid-August when I left California. I had honestly not expected to hear from him again. He had not insisted that I telephone once I got home or settled into my new apartment, nor did I want to call. Being able to terminate a relationship before it deteriorated and became psychologically damaging was a liberating experience. Although I thoroughly enjoyed the summer weeks with him, I was not seeking a sincere romance, and dismissed our interaction as a strange fluke. However, the story captured Gwen’s imagination, as it had for Talbert and Charlene. Apparently everyone remembers an adolescent crush who he or she would like to meet again on the level ground of adulthood. For me the situation, pleasant as it may have been, bordered on “be careful what you wish for”. I had just been badly hurt by Neil and did not take anyone seriously, certainly not a boy I idolized as a confused rebellious teen. Dating Howard was as much a fantasy as landing an axel or skating in a bejeweled costume with layers of chiffon swirling around my waist. I took refuge from my distress in Howard, as I assumed he did with me. Obviously, he was interested in exploring longer-term possibilities.

I closed the door to my bedroom and picked up the telephone. It was sufficiently late on the East Coast that Howard would be home by now if he had worked a daytime shift at the Cambridge Hills grocery store. The phone ran vacantly and I contemplated hanging up if his answering machine connected. Only a tacky clod would thank the bestower of roses on a microcassette. When Howard Millbank’s voice responded, my innards bubbled with adolescent affection, which was both a pleasant and disturbing sensation.

“Thank you for the roses, Howard. They’re beautiful.” Everyone in the department had noticed the floral display on my desk. Since Howard only had my school address he could not have sent them to my apartment sparing me the curious, teasing, and somewhat jealous questions of my associates. When I replied that they were from an old friend in California, my inquisitors joked rather callously that there would be many men waiting in line to take Neil’s place in my life. While they meant well, I did not want to be constantly reminded of my ex-fiancé.

“I thought we should try to stay in touch,” Howard explained.

That evening began a series of telephone conversations that transformed a summer fling into a strong friendship. Howard called me at least twice every week and became a trusted confidant and sympathetic recipient of my frustrations at school and on the ice. We grew closer than we had been over our Lake Tahoe weekend. Without the physical proximity for intimacy, our relationship flourished as an exchange of ideas, compassion and mutual understanding. Aware of a pre-existing attraction between us, we were free to explore each other intellectually without the confusion of sexuality. Howard had been handsome since boyhood, but now I realized what a truly wonderful person he had become, and he seemed to have the same impression of me. Howard asked when I would be home again and I responded without thinking: “Christmas”. I had not exactly planned to make the journey again at Christmas, but I wanted to see Howard Millbank.

Howard wished me well the night before Skate Martinsville and had provided many encouraging and inspirational stories of his own swimming experiences to motivate me for the event. Although I was not overly apprehensive about my performance, I could barely sleep that night, mainly because Howard Millbank occupied my thoughts distracting me from competition nerves. The distraction was welcome, but it came from a man whose good looks and charm could mesmerize even the most skeptical woman.

My practice session was scheduled early on Saturday morning followed by a brief rest period while another group of adults competed, a warm up, and my competitive round. Talbert arrived bleary-eyed, sloshing coffee in a travel mug that Gwen promptly refilled. He had worked late the previous night in the bar and had caught a few hours of sleep before coming to our apartment. Talbert insisted upon driving us to Martinsville so I could relax in the backseat and Gwen would not have to drive on the wrong side of the road. He had been tired many times, but this time for a good friend whose dream of being a competitive figure skater was coming true in an unconventional, roundabout way.

I drank no coffee or tea that morning. Caffeine not only made me jittery; it could increase my dizziness and disorientation during athletic exertion. While I was weary from a restless night, I did not need a stimulant. I felt nervous and detached as though I had awakened in the middle of the night to catch an ungodly early flight to California. After weeks of brutal training, I did not even feel like myself on the morning of Skate Martinsville. I had worried about getting sick or injured and having to compete under strained conditions when I could not expect to do my best, but nothing was physically wrong with me. I had slept poorly partially because I was nervous, but primarily because I was falling in love with Howard Millbank, something I did not want to do or admit.

When Talbert parked the car, I was almost completely incoherent. Gwen spoke, probably trying to calm my nerves and encourage me, but I heard nothing she said and only stared at her as though I she were babbling in gibberish. I wandered away from my friends and into the Community Center.

“She’s really freaked,” Gwen blurted in astonishment.

“This is her Olympics.”

Gwen shot Talbert a look of disgust. This was not anyone’s Olympics.

Gwen found me in the locker room changing into my homemade skating costume. She sat down beside me on a bench as I laced my boots. In spite of Talbert’s melodramatic declaration that Skate Martinsville was my Olympic analogue, Gwen tried to downplay the event. “This is supposed to be fun, Kate,” she began trying to catch my eye as I focused on my laces. “You love to skate, and this is just another day of skating.”

I heard her as though her voice were echoing from the far end of long tunnel. I did not reply.

“For Heaven’s sake!” she exclaimed, my head finally turning in her direction. “It’s just a local competition. There is nothing on the line. You will be skating against a few other ladies in their late twenties. If you win or lose, what does it really mean? Who cares? You are supposed to be doing this for fun, remember? There are no talent scouts, ice show contracts, and Olympic berths at stake. Just try to enjoy yourself.”

Of course Gwen was right, as usual. She had a way of reducing a situation to its lowest common denominator. Beating or losing to a few gals from the Southern states in my age group meant nothing on the grand scale of things, nor was it a measure of my achievements as an adult skater or an indicator of my potential. This was supposed to be an enjoyable experience. ‘Give it a try,’ Willa, Randall, Vijay and Stephanie had cheered; and I consented. Why did I agree to something that would make me so uncomfortable about doing what I loved? I loved skating, but despised the way I felt that morning, hunched over my boots in the locker room.

Perhaps I had dreamed of this moment for so long, first as a kid hoping to take roller skating lessons then as a grown woman scraping together a few bucks to afford twenty minutes of instruction from Willa. Winning was not the objective. I wanted to skate well and be proud of myself. If I skated well, I would place respectably, as a by-product rather than a goal. Winning a little mass-produced medal never entered my mind. I wanted to take the ice and look as beautiful as I felt every time I spun in the middle of the rink during a freestyle session. After observing my two friends, who I considered competent adult skaters, perform at the Summer Gala, I feared the probability of that was discouragingly low. Even the advanced competitors under Randall’s tutelage did not look like the swift ethereal champions on television. If they did not measure up to my ideal, there was little chance that I could fulfill my own dreams with a silly ballet hop and a few weird counterclockwise steps. But this was only my first competition. I just wished my foggy head would clear and reattach to my neck!

“I’m sorry, Gwen, I’m just a little nervous. I never was a performer.”

“You will be just fine.”

I drifted through the practice session barely aware of my surroundings or myself. Other women I had never seen mixed with familiar faces. It was a short practice, only a half-hour. I skated on autopilot, spinning and running through step sequences without thought or worry. I did not notice what anyone else did, probably because no one on the ice did anything remarkable. We were all pre-axel adult skaters between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five. Stephanie would skate with the younger girls while my group consisted of women in their late twenties and early thirties. None of us was about to set the world on fire with our brilliant performances. In spite of nerves, we were all just trying to have fun participating in our favorite sport.

If I did not watch the other women in my group, I would have been stuck in the lobby waiting to hear my name called over the loudspeakers. Sitting and waiting would have made me sick, so I watched my competitors. None of them skated very differently from Stephanie, and they dressed like her in fancy catalogue frocks adorned with beads and sequins. Everyone smiled pleasantly and chatted, often commenting on the color, fabric, or mail-order source of each other’s costumes. Unadorned in my homesewn basic outfit, it looked more like a practice dress, and some of the ladies probably expected me to change into a sparkly number for the competitive round. But I waited with my group, wearing a utilitarian black long sleeved, scooped neck leotard and matching wraparound chiffon skirt. I had constructed these items with expert precision, and some of my contemporaries wondered where to find such finely crafted practice garments. I wished I had splurged on a yard of elasticized sequin trim and basted it around the neckline.

Skate Martinsville may not have been a major competition or a career launching pad for these adult skaters, but Talbert’s intuition had been right. Most of these women were competing for the first time, many performing for the first time in their lives, and this was their childhood fantasy. They bought special costumes, had their hair and nails done, and presented themselves like champions. I felt plain, and my dress made me look noncommittal and disinterested. A skating dream come true is not the place for practicality.

When my name bellowed through the building, my friends punctuated polite applause with cheers and whistles. Smiling vacantly, I stroked to the middle of the rink, the very spot where I centered many laybacks and sit spins.

After overwhelming anxiety, I looked out to a virtually empty arena. Only handfuls of spectators; the spouses, children and friends of adult skaters; huddled in the bleachers patiently sitting through the performances of other people while waiting for their relative to have his or her moment of glory. Somehow the sparse crowd disappointed me. In my daydreams, screaming fans packed the rink, and flower girls circled the ice clearing away wrapped bouquets and stuffed animals. Three tired judges sat on folding chairs in the penalty box waiting while someone fumbled with my cassette.

Suddenly angry, I decided I should have had this experience twenty years ago. Gwen had exposed this situation for what it was. ‘Who cares?’ I heard her accent droning. This was the ridiculous embodiment of a fantasy complete with dime store prizes and a few spectators. Feeling foolish and disillusioned by my own entanglement in this glamorous sport, I wondered who really cared about how many hours I had trained on the ice, that boring stationary bicycle, or a jogging path. This competition did not represent the first in a long progression of opportunities to become an elite athlete. It was a local adult talent show, and no one was watching. So who cared how I skated? Then a peaceful smile passed over my lips, and the scenery beyond the horizon of the barrier blurred. The answer to my roommate’s unintentionally profound question was perfectly clear.

I cared.

Chapter 40 posted 10/17/01
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