Not only were these adults committed to skating, they seemed very serious about their sport. Almost all of them practiced routines or dances to music, though few actually skated better than Stephanie; and there were no Vijays in the bunch, at least not that I ever saw. Although I had participated in one local competition, I did not consider myself a competitive adult skater. Skate Martinsville was an experiment for me, something done for the thrill of merely trying it. Many of these adults did consider themselves competitive athletes. They actively sought opportunities to perform before judges and vie for medals. Maybe some of them even took themselves too seriously, draining the fun out of the sport and turning it into a struggle for survival. I never viewed skating that way, and if I ever do, I might decide to quit.
A coldness characterized some of these adults that I had not noticed in Martinsville’s mature contingent. Stony-faced, they queued their music and pumped around the rink occasionally scowling when someone else stepped into their flight path. I accepted these misfortunes as part of a sport where many participants share a limited (and usually inadequate) supply of ice. The skaters struck melodramatic poses, as though they were making up for missed childhood experiences. Possibly some of them were denied the opportunity to skate as youths, as I was, and had taken their obsession in a different direction. I simply wanted to skate and to improve, I did not necessarily intend to outshine anyone or triumph over anyone. Some of these people clearly wanted to win. A personal victory is certainly a credible goal, but being able to document beating a few other adults in the same age and skill category meant nothing to me. I decided this in my opening stance at Skate Martinsville. I cared about my own personal performance; what judges or onlookers perceived at this point in my life was irrelevant. These adults were not going to competitions solely for enjoyment or to socialize with other skaters. They intended to kick butt. I recognized obvious jealousy in the eyes of a few who either coveted each other’s skills or noticed the newcomer’s layback.
After a summer of travel, work, and stress; I still could pull a few decent spins. My jumps had decayed to childish hops and my basic stroking and turning skills had deteriorated into awkwardness. Although I could have easily spent hours simply spinning in the Boston rink feeling good about myself and making others seethe, I devoted abundant time to areas of weakness.
Down the length of the rink, gliding backward, I extended my free leg and dipped forward. Willa had told me to pull back on backward spirals, balancing toward the center of the blade rather than dragging my toe pick. Teetering for equilibrium, I encountered another adult skater completely by accident. For the first and only time, I collided with someone else on the ice. One moment, I explored my blade concentrating on quieting the scratch of its picks; and the next, I lay splayed on the ice apologizing profusely. The other woman had been gliding in an Ina Bauer position, gazing upward at her balletic arms instead of monitoring her direction of travel. She also apologized as we both found our feet. Neither of us had been injured.
Kindly the lady accepted my apology and issued her own, “It is impossible to bump into someone without someone also bumping into you.”
I smiled and chuckled a bit. Of course, she was correct; but as a stranger in this rink, I felt responsible for the accident. However, my compatriot was also preoccupied with her practice and not watching carefully for others.
She sat down beside me after the session and began to talk politely, first asking where I was from and if I would become a regular member of the morning adult group. Unfortunately, I had a career to start, though I might have rather crashed indefinitely at Talbert’s family’s house and skated. Elise Poole was the only friend I made at that rink, though we did not remain in contact after I departed for Connecticut. However, the time I spent skating in Boston was highlighted by Elise’s friendly conversation.
Elise Poole was among the most fascinating people I have ever met in an ice rink or otherwise. A professional musician, Elise played the harp with the Boston Symphony. She had been born with the giftedness that I left home and studied my way around the eastern seaboard to find. Elise had attended a private high school for musically talented youngsters and earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in classical music from a well-regarded university. Although she did not skate as a child, Elise’s childhood had been filled with other interests and opportunities to excel. She began to skate recreationally after graduating from college. She and a few classmates formed a quintet that performed primarily at weddings and private functions but also entertained in restaurants and clubs. The quintet practiced in the afternoon and worked predominantly in the evenings and on weekends, times when skating rinks are crowded anyway. This availed the young virtuoso of excellent ice time and ideal conditions to explore her new passion.
After about two years, Elise auditioned successfully for the symphony orchestra and left her friends’ ensemble. With mornings still free, Elise continued to skate and to improve. She sought coaches who could impart a variety of skills on her willing and capable body. Barely five feet tall, Elise weighed about as much as a housecat. As a beginner in her mid-twenties; she possessed the perfect combination of body type, free time, money, relative youth, and musical prowess to excel as a figure skater. She took ballet, ice dance and freestyle lessons from a number of coaches, each contributing a different perspective to Elise’s well-rounded skating education. By the time I met Elise, she had been skating for about fifteen years.
On the ice, she moved like a nymph. Her goal had been to skate like a professional, not an eligible skater. She favored glorious movement over stunted doubles, precisely the type of jumps Stephanie landed that spring and summer. Elise started skating before the adult version of the sport had been established with specific tests and competitive events, so these options were not available to the fledgling skater. While Elise did not perform doubles, the context of her skating would lead people to believe that she owned a full arsenal. Her spins were not especially exciting, but they achieved pretty positions and rotated smoothly. She did not skate blindingly fast either, but with the finesse and grace of someone who might just as easily dance in toe shoes or pluck the delicate strings of a harp. Elise seemed to swirl over the ice, as a calligrapher’s pen leaves behind exquisite flourishes on fine parchment. Without doubles, Elise Poole garnered more looks of envy than any other skater in the place, yet she seemed oblivious to them. Undoubtedly, she had dealt with this type of behavior all of her life. Kind to everyone she met, Elise seemed to live a charmed existence with nothing to prove. She had already attained the highest level of success in her profession; she played with the symphony. Elise did not compete. She claimed these events interfered with the symphony’s schedule, but she was not interested in competition anyway. Who did she have to beat? She had already bested dozens or even hundreds of harpists who would gladly sit in her chair. Elise Poole skated for sheer joy, as I did, but Elise was much better at it.
I did not learn Elise’s life story during our first meeting on the bench as we unlaced our skates. Everyday, I saw Elise at the rink and she disclosed a little bit more about her fascinating talents and career. I asked Elise to join me for lunch after the session, and she replied that she had to drive straight to rehearsal. My curiosity piqued, I asked what Elise did for a living. I did not know anyone who attended rehearsals, except maybe drama students, but no one who actually drew a paycheck from activities requiring rehearsal. Since Elise skated so beautifully, I assumed she must be a dance instructor. When she clarified that she was a symphonic harpist, I could barely contain my surprise. I had never known anyone who had attained such revered status. She qualified as a minor celebrity, someone who earned a salary as a genuine artist. Elise was the musical equivalent of a professional skater.
Elise Poole and I did have lunch together a couple of times, and she told me much of the rest of her tale and I shared the palatable parts of mine. She seemed most delighted with my Howard Millbank romance, which probably intrigued others more than my dry academic pedigree. At almost forty years old, falling in love was part of Elise’s past. She had two children and had been married for over ten years. Elise actually showed little interest in my blossoming career and redirected the discussion toward Howard. Perhaps Elise was bored in her marriage and found my love story stimulating. Perhaps I recognized a look of subtle envy on the face of the woman who appeared to have everything.
When I was not at the rink, I spent an increasing amount of time thinking about Elise and picturing her at rehearsal or sitting behind her harp on a stage. I imagined what her childhood and young adult years had been like. I thought about the multitude of differences between us. Upon sharing my impressions of Elise with Talbert, he found her resume as interesting as I did, but soon began to realize that I had become obsessed. I wanted to be Elise Poole. I wanted to feel what it would be like to be undeniable good at something; so good that a professor cannot deconstruct your entire sense of self-worth; so good that you can earn a healthy living doing what you really enjoy rather than something mundane; so good that people respect you and your abilities. I savored the idea of a clear path, rather than fumbling for the light switch in a confusing and unfulfilling journey of self-discovery. These thoughts tumbled among my synapses providing diversion during quiet time driving in my car, showering, or trying to fall asleep. I even began to dream about playing the harp.
As my time in Boston came to a close, I became increasingly nervous about leaving the comfort of Talbert’s company. In Talbert’s family home I did not feel completely disconnected from my familiar life as a graduate student. I could have just as easily accepted returning to Carolina Tech with my friend, to begin another semester. My stomach churned as I parked in front of the rink for my last weekday morning adult session. Elise’s car was already in the lot and she was undoubtedly stretching in the lobby.
Her leg propped up on a railing in front of the snack bar, Elise touched her face to her knee and saw me from a strange angle as I arrived in the building. “Hi, Kate,” she greeted cheerfully.
“Good morning, Elise,” I returned. But to me it was not a very good morning. This would be my last skate before committing to fulltime employment. I was scared and apprehensive. Some of that probably slipped out in my conversation with Elise, though I tried to repress my anxiety.
I did not skate my best that day, though over the course of a couple of weeks in Boston, I essentially achieved my goal of regaining the unremarkable pinnacle of expertise I had attained before graduation duties overtook the rest of my life. Distracted and upset, I still spun like a top; hitting outrageous sit spins, lovely laybacks, L-spins and camels, and fast scratch spins. However, I could do little else that morning. My spins had returned to excellent form while emotional distress manifested by distorting less instinctive skills. My jumps were sloppy and my footwork tentative. My abilities appeared more disjointed than ever.
Leaving the ice, I sat down heavily on the bench and Elise took a place nearby. She needed to get to rehearsal again, so we would not share lunch, which was probably for the best. I had to pack for Connecticut and needed a little time alone.
“You were spinning beautifully today, Kate,” my friend commented.
I glanced up at Elise. “Thanks,” I said simply. I probably should have elaborated to ensure Elise that her kind words were not falling upon ungrateful ears, but I was too distraught.
“I wish I could spin like you, Kate,” the professional harpist continued with a warm smile.
Her words surprised me. They actually shocked me. I was a good spinner, but that was as good as I was at anything. That was as good as Katherine Northcott got. I was not necessarily a good all-around skater. But Elise only meant well. She hoped to acknowledge my uncanny ability to twirl on the ice. However, I wanted nothing more than to run out of that rink and away from the musician. How could she actually wish to duplicate my humble spinning expertise? How dare she be jealous of some minor ability I seemed to receive as a consolation prize? My spins were as close as I got to authentic talent.
Elise was the one with real talent. So she could not rip up the ice with a blurred scratch spin. Too bad. On Saturday night she would don an evening gown and play with the Boston Symphony. I would gladly trade her a scratch spin for a night as a musical prodigy.
Accessing reserves of politeness, I bid Elise farewell and left the arena bound for Talbert’s home. My head swam with anxiety and anger. Initially, I directed my fury toward Elise and her poorly phrased compliment. Maybe she would have liked to spin better, probably better than me if a genie were handing out wishes. She was not necessarily jealous of me. Under more clear-minded circumstances, I would have accepted Elise’s statement for its intended purpose.
I realized I was jealous of Elise Poole, but not of her lovely skating. I wanted her talent and her artistic career. However, I had always sought this; it was the motivating force behind my studies. My reaction to meeting someone who actually possessed the object of my quest did not surprise me, especially since she seemed not to appreciate it. Identified early in life as an exceptionally gifted child, Elise had never been an average person. She had been groomed for a future as a musician. Of course, Elise might have turned her back on her musical endowment at puberty when the lure of boys, friends and adolescent fun tempted her; but she obviously did not. The focused girl loved music and placed its importance above other temptations. Elise chose between juvenile antics and striving for greatness. While all children have certain abilities, few are geniuses. Elise had always been a genius; she knew no other way.
My sister, Carole, played the clarinet in the band as an elementary and junior high school student, though she dropped out as teenager. Carole may have been a good student, but she was not a prodigy. She preferred teenage merriment and flirtation over hours of clarinet practice behind her closed bedroom door. I never joined the band, although the flute appealed to me because it was silver and shiny and looked like a majorette’s baton. The shiny silver factor no doubt reminded me of skating blades. My childhood friend, Audrey, and I both owned batons that our parents had purchased from a toy emporium. We often tossed them around while we roller skated in her driveway. However, I never seriously pursued baton twirling.
Since I never joined school band, any latent musical ability I might have possessed remained untapped. Or maybe I would have been good at another sport, preferably one offered through the public school system. My tight-fisted parents would not have invested in any sport on my behalf beyond the most cursory group lesson. Therefore gymnastics and speedskating were out of the question, but maybe I would have excelled at volleyball or track and field. Like school sports, band was absolutely free, including district owned instruments. Carole’s passing fancy for clarinet did not cost our parents a penny. While artistic, music also maintains an academic quality because the school systems support it and most universities offer credible degrees in the musical arts.
Suddenly I regretted all of the things I did not try as a child, all of the opportunities that were available to me free of charge, over which my parents held little or no authority. Of course, I could not have explored everything to the point of excellence, but I was so obsessed with skating, that nothing else interested me. Once my parents slammed the skating door, I saw no other options, and heartbreak led to rebellion and escapism.
Tortured by paths not taken, I detoured to a sushi bar, a treat I had not enjoyed since Neil called himself my fiancé. Now I could charge the lunch and pay for it after receiving my first check from Contessa Cosmetics. Absolutely miserable, I stuffed my face with raw fish and sipped entirely too much sake. Although my friends and I often enjoyed a beer after a hard week of graduate school, none of us were alcoholics, but that afternoon, I had to call Talbert to pick me up at the sushi bar.
Like an overprotective father, Talbert was furious with me. He said nothing as I got into the car and he drove me home. His stern look sent me straight to the guest room where I slept for the next couple of hours.
“It’s time you stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he began after I concluded an anguished monologue about missed opportunities and untapped resources.
My anger at Elise had transferred first to my family then to myself. Talbert’s statement shifted my resentment toward him. He had no right to condemn me when he supposedly was one of the rare brilliant students who could have finished his doctorate in an unprecedented three years. Talbert did not understand the plight of the ordinary soul who had to work day and night just to achieve mediocrity.
Talbert ignored my accusations. “So you didn’t achieve greatness at Carolina Tech. Fine. Move on. You are about to start a new job. This is a new beginning, a fresh start. You have already decided that you’ve failed and will never discover anything, other than spinning, that you are any good at. Even if the only thing on this earth that you do truly well is spinning on ice skates, be happy. There are plenty of people who can’t even say that. You can spin; you spin like a pro. So you didn’t get a bunch of accolades from that jerk Clive Butler. I doubt anyone would who isn’t willing to kiss his flabby backside. Don’t give Butler that kind of power over your future. You have already bestowed too much power on your parents.”
As my mouth opened in protest, Talbert forged on.
“I realize your parents were legally responsible for you until the age of eighteen and doled out money and support as they saw fit, but from what you have told me, there were mitigating circumstances in that unhappy household. Maybe they could have done more. Your father even admitted he wished he had. God forbid, your parents divorced while you were underage and your mother took you away from your father. You might have never left your bedroom. You wouldn’t have gone out with Zoë and Quentin. She might have stood over you with a rolling pin insisting you study while safeguarding your virginity.”
Talbert’s insight silenced me. Many times I had wished my parents had divorced when it might have salvaged some of my youth. I always assumed Carole and I would have lived with our father. However, our mother, believing she was an exemplary parent, would have petitioned the court for custody and it probably would have been awarded to her. Knowing Otthilde Vicini Northcott, Carole and I may have never seen the light of day except through a classroom or school bus window.
My friend sensed that he had struck a chord. “Never thought of that, did you?”
I said nothing but had stopped glaring at Talbert, who folded me into his arms.
“You are a good person, Kate, a sweet and caring person. You have been a great friend to me and to Gwen and Chen Xue and all of the other students. You have a good heart and treat people kindly, even though others have been hurtful to you. You have broken the chain of mistreatment. If you do nothing else in your life but set an example of human decency, you will be more special than this harpist that makes you burn with jealousy.
“And how do you know you won’t be successful in your career? You haven’t even started yet. And if you aren’t the best consumer researcher alive, maybe there is something else waiting for you, something you haven’t imagined yet.
“For now, start your job in Connecticut … and keep spinning.”
From Talbert’s house, I only had to drive about ten minutes to find ice. I had not enjoyed such close proximity to an ice arena since my Arctic Circle days. Very committed adults attended the morning session. Several who had the option of working flexible hours, arranged their schedules to accommodate skating sessions, some choosing to work evening and night shifts to avail themselves of premium ice time. They did not envelope me jubilantly into their group, but they did not shun me either. Most of the skaters went about their business, arriving, stretching, lacing up, skating and preparing to leave for whatever reality awaited outside the rink’s frozen confines. This session was specifically designated for adults, and the rink apparently enforced an age limit. No one under twenty-one ever appeared at ten o’clock in the morning. They might have been less strict with a college age beginner, someone over eighteen who was just learning to skate, but no nineteen-year-old girls training for eligible competition were admitted. This rink drew a healthy adult clientele, unlike many that are tempted to combine sessions or welcome younger competitors to offset financial losses due to under-utilized ice.
Chapter 52 posted 5/24/02
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