My distress was so great that I could no longer feel. I was not angry or worried about the results of my final defense. I had stopped hoping for a passing mark and had essentially resigned myself to returning home to Northern California to get married, as perhaps I should have done years before with Devin McGee, avoiding this miserable fiasco. I began to look forward to seeing Howard again and joyously announcing: ‘Yes, I will marry you’. This fantasy provided comfort during those uncertain hours in the clammy corridor, those last minutes of doubt in a long and seemingly fruitless battle. I even managed to be happy about it. One way or the other, this arduous journey had come to an end.
Exiting the room, the other professors dispersed without glancing at me.
“Come with me, Katherine,” Butler began evenly.
The tone of his voice forewarned of impending bad news. I lagged behind my advisor following him to his dingy little office. He offered me the guest chair and I sat down, never looking at his face. I was prepared for the results; I would not cry. I would be strong and move on. Clive Butler would not see me crumble at his feet. I would maintain my dignity until the bitter end.
The man shifted in his dilapidated desk chair tipping it backward and very nearly knocking his scull against the rear wall of the cramped little cell. Butler put his glasses on and regarded me seriously. I drew my breath and composed myself.
“Congratulations, Dr. Northcott.”
Butler and his cronies had gotten their last laugh at my expense that afternoon. I would not be surprised if they gathered in that classroom playing cards while I suffered outside. For all intents and purposes, I was a doctor of philosophy, though the title would not be official until my degree was conferred.
That night I celebrated. Talbert and Gwen took me out to dinner. I considered skating but was too emotionally drained to coordinate my muscles on the ice. I did return to the Martinsville Arena within the next couple of days. I needed a brief respite before tackling the list of corrections required by my thesis committee and submitting the document for their signatures. Although I had skated sporadically at Martinsville throughout the spring semester and into the summer, my time there had become erratic and my schedule no longer meshed with the other adult skaters’.
The universe did not make my final tasks at Carolina Tech easy. My laboratory computer’s hard drive crashed, losing every correction I made. Fortunately I had back-up copies of the original dissertation on floppy disks, and there were plenty of computers on campus that I could use, especially late at night.
These and other inconveniences left skating as a secondary priority. Fortunately I had passed my defense and would do whatever was required to complete those dastardly corrections and meet the graduation deadline. Yet, I got to the rink occasionally. There was no final day of skating for me, as I never knew which day might be my last at Martinsville. It was probably better that I did not know, leaving the rink one last time, teary-eyed and sentimental. None of my skating friends knew when I might depart, never to return. There were no send-off parties, and I did not want a farewell celebration. I just wanted to skate and ignore the inevitability of relocating to Connecticut. While it did not measure up to my expectations, I was glad to have a job waiting. Leaving the Martinsville Arena echoed my childhood experience of abandoning my Stockton Sunday school class before my family’s move to Cambridge Hills. I told no one I would not be coming back to that church; although my mother probably informed the minister. As much as I disliked graduate school and its unpleasant trappings, I loved the Martinsville ice rink and enjoyed the friendships I had made as a student and a skater.
I did not keep in touch with many people from the rink and lost communication with Vijay almost immediately; although Stephanie kept me posted about his progress while she and I remained in contact. For as long as I skated in Martinsville, I never saw Vijay land an axel. He tried more diligently and bravely that any adult skater I have known. Surprisingly, his body did not fall victim to his own determination. Perhaps Vijay tried too hard. Reckless abandon cannot substitute for technique. He actually came closer to completing the double jumps, though none were spotlessly clean. However, if Vijay ever managed to perfect his skills, none of his jumps would resemble the tentative formless hops that stereotypically separate adult-trained skaters from children (and those who learned as children). Vijay even attempted triples, specifically the triple toe loop. The man flew fearlessly through the air, almost fully rotating the stunt until he wiped out and slid across the ice. According to Stephanie, Vijay eventually learned the axel and a couple of doubles. I am sure all were wonderful examples of strength and power, proof that adults can indeed jump.
Stephanie and I remained friendly for several years, and she ultimately invited me to her wedding; an invitation I had to refuse due to lack of vacation time. Stephanie taught school as a substitute teacher for two more years, until she wed a young man and fellow educator from her religious congregation. She had decided to substitute teach in order to continue skating for as long as possible, but accepted a fulltime position as soon as she married. Babies followed shortly thereafter, and Stephanie had to stop skating intermittently and eventually left the sport, only to glide around expertly a few times a year for school field trips and holiday outings. When family and career combined to overwhelm her resources, my relationship with Stephanie ultimately dissolved.
During the time we shared at the Martinsville Community Arena, Stephanie had learned a remedial axel and double salchow. Neither improved appreciably before my departure for Connecticut. However, she later mastered the double loop and toe loop and learned to string a couple of these jumps together in combination. Had she continued to skate, I have no doubt that Stephanie would have learned all of the doubles, possibly even the glorious double axel. Although I never saw her again; over the years, Stephanie’s speed and grace must have improved, laying the foundation for more difficult jumps, flying spins and captivating programs. She achieved her goals differently than Vijay, using a steady but true approach that framed her philosophy of life in general.
Helen, the nurse, did return to the rink after the birth of her child, but not faithfully. The commute became too burdensome and she eventually had to accept a part-time nursing position to bring extra money into the household. Such was the case with many adult skaters. Skating can be great fun both athletically and socially, but it is expensive and progress comes slowly. Adults become discouraged and lose interest. Mothers return to work. Injuries frighten mature people and reorient their priorities. Obligations of family and vocation often push figure skating beyond an adult’s range of possibilities.
I tried to remain friendly with my coach, Willa Randall. She seemed surprised when I telephoned her for no apparent reason. It was not a holiday or a skating related occasion. I sensed that I had disturbed her; of course she had a busy life like everyone else. She and I had been cordial, though not particularly close. When we first met, I told Willa about my Consumer Psychology major. She responded, “Psychology?” conveniently omitting the ‘consumer’ part in order to conjure an image of Sigmund Freud, a leather couch, and Pavlov’s drooling dogs. Since then, Willa teased me about being a mad scientist who liked to spin. And that is apparently where Willa left our relationship. She treated me kindly and cashed my checks until they stopped coming that February. Maybe she resented me for deleting her lessons from my monthly expenses, though this occurred out of necessity rather than dissatisfaction with her instruction. In any case, her attachment to me had been purely professional. Without further possibility of earning a buck from our association, Willa detached herself and did not consider me a long distance friend. I never called her again.
I honestly do not remember my last day at the Martinsville Community Arena. I do not know who might have been skating or which skills I practiced, though my agenda always contained a heavy dose of spins. I never visited the Martinsville Arena again and have not been to that city since leaving graduate school. I remember Martinsville and its lovely rink quite fondly. Occasionally, I will hear of a student from the Martinsville Figure Skating Club placing favorably at a qualifying event. Randall and Willa Blanchard still direct the program and have built their grassroots skating school into a respectable training center. Someday I hope to see them in the “kiss-and-cry” area at a televised competition, though I doubt any of us will live that long.
Since the conclusion of my thesis examination, I had gone from sweating profusely to shivering in my own secretions. Friends had visited me for a few minutes in the hallway, with Talbert and Gwen staying the longest, but both quickly scampered away as soon as the door to the testing room creaked open.
Chapter 50 posted 4/16/02
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