Short Story

TREE SKIER

by

Ann Ice
 

Sarah was a skier. Not the kind who turned in smooth curves and coasted from one side of the mountain to the other. Her skies formed one solid board that pointed down the mountain, shifting slightly only to avoid occasional ice patches, sane skiers, and trees. She flew past the crowds, hit bumps with fury, came so close to trees the bark scratched her jacket. Her silence was the sound of snow crunching under her and wind cutting around her lean frame. No other mountain noise entered her world: no beginner screams; no teenage snowboarder howls; no children giggles. Sarah raced and took risks alone. She had been skiing since she was three, and now, at twenty-one, it had become who she was.

She walked a few steps ahead of the small group of women. They all flocked into the bar, looking around for a table to sit and chat. Sarah glanced around the room, too. She wasn't searching for a table. She was a bit bored, restless and ready to drink, and she didn't want to drink with women. She stiffened her back, crossed her arms and moved her weight onto one foot.

The after-ski pub looked like a stone hut. Dim lights. Pictures of famous skiers hanging behind the bar. A large screen playing videos of the same ski races over and over. It was where the locals came, the ones who waited on the 'Geeks' who flew in from suburban houses for a week of snow before returning to a life, something most locals didn't have.

~

"I'm gonna talk to her tonight," Jim mumbled to his friend. They were in the corner of the bar, leaning and staring. He'd seen her in town, at the slopes, always with that look, that little chuckle in her eyes, like she had something to say but was keeping it inside. She skied like a mad adolescent, catching air on moguls, cutting around trees. She always showed up at the pub with friends, a gang that tagged beside her. Then she would down heavy beer, not the kind that looked like piss, but the dark, thick, potent syrup. Sometimes she looked innocent, smiling flirtatiously with her blue eyes. But he knew better. It was the way she combed her thick blond hair back with her fingers, lifting it up and letting it drop wildly upon her face. Then she'd stare, taking everyone in. He knew who she was. "You're talking about that blond bitch. She's crazy, man." Larry sipped his bourbon. He had yellow stubble scattered about his pockmarked face.

"She always stares at me," said Jim.

"She stares at anything. Probably weird."

"I like 'em like that. You seen her ski?" Jim raised his hand to get the bartender's attention.

"Yeah, man, she can catch some air. Saw her do a back flip on crazy ace bumps. Fucking incredible."

The bartender looked Jim's way. Jim held up his empty glass and mouthed "Another." He looked over at her again. "Shit, she looks good in ski pants too." He chuckled. "Bet she's wild in the sack."

"No way would she fuck you. Forget it."

~

"Sarah, there's a table. I'm tired, let's sit." Her friend waved to the small group of bodies that stood, waiting to pour liquor into their guts to fertilize smiles and chatter and maybe more.

"I want to know if he's here. Wait a sec." Sarah looked around every corner, thinking he would be somewhere.

The woman ignored Sarah and walked over to the table. The crowd gathered chairs and sat scattered about. Sarah walked over, her eyes still sliding around the bar, searching every face. She slowly pulled a chair up and sat, crossing her legs and finally narrowing her range of view from the entire bar to the small circle of faces at the table.

"Sarah, the man's gonna drive you nuts. Why do you put up with it? He's a jerk"

"I'm a jerk. We stick together, us jerks. We like to make each other miserable."

"And get stoned on chair lifts and risk your life dodging trees. God, Sarah, you're gonna kill yourself." Her friend rolled her eyes.

So what, thought Sarah. Her life had been one long suicide, one wild path towards death. If she died wrapped around a tree what difference would it make? She came out west to drink, smoke, and ski. She could drink. And she smoked anything. Skiing was a natural; it required rhythm, coordination and a desire to die. She had it all.

~

"So look at them all, sitting and gabbing. She always looks bored," Jim said. He was still staring at her. The bar was slowly filling with bodies and the chatter and glass clinks was forcing Jim to raise his voice.

Larry wiped the whiskers on his upper lip, wet with whiskey. "She probably goes for the ski instructors."

"She drinks and half the time she looks stoned. Bet she's wild as hell." Jim took a sip of his beer and then took his cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. He beat the edge of his hand with the pack until a few sticks poked out. He pulled a cigarette out and placed it on the end of his lips. Jim thought Larry was a bore. He'd been a bore since high school, but he was the only one who would follow him out to the mountains. Jim had come out to Colorado to ski a while before he settled in some small, boring and dusty place to get a life. But that 'while' had turned into ten years now. And he was getting a life skiing, drinking and working odd jobs. His father called him a bum, but his father rarely called.

Larry turned back and looked across the bar. "Well, I'm not staying too late tonight. Gotta do the fucking chair lift duty tomorrow morning. A blizzard's coming in tomorrow morning."

"Look. She's smoking now." Jim sucked his cigarette, making it glow and crackle.

"You gonna ski on your day off?"

"See how she blows it off to her side. She doesn't want to be there. Shit, I love how she smokes."

"Come to chair lift seven tomorrow. I'll let you up. Kick ass skiing tomorrow. Good powder if you can take the wind." Larry ran his hand through his sandy curls.

"Depends on when I get up." Jim held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and stared at it like it was some talisman warming his fingers.

~

Sarah heard bits, scraps, details of chatter coming from the four women who seemed to talk at the same time. She took another gulp of Bass.

Female talk all sounded the same to Sarah. All giggles, anecdotes and shallow observations. She had never learned to talk the language like her mother. Sarah used to help her mother with the women's club bridge luncheons, back when her father had genuinely become an animal in his alcoholic stupor. Sarah stood at the kitchen door and stared at her mother's social antics-- disingenuous giggles, contrived anecdotes that appeared to fit into the mold. That was her mother's key to survival--fitting into the party; behaving appropriately; stuffing all the drunken screams into a quiet place.

The small brunette winked at the girl sitting beside her. "So Eric's working late tonight. I guess I'll be coming home."

"You're not getting it tonight huh? That's good. You need a break from it. Your hormones get screwed up if you do it too much," the girl said through giggles.

"I know, and he has to do it twice at night and then again in the morning." She leaned into the table and addressed everyone. "Don't you just hate it in the morning?"

The table jiggled with laughter. The brunette looked over at Sarah who was smiling and looking off into space. "Sarah, you ever done it on the mountains?"

Sarah smiled and pulled on her cigarette.

"Oh, I bet she has. Oh, tell, Sarah. Have you given Jay a job on the chair lift?" Another girl was all giggles.

"He's usually not with me." Sarah looked down at her cigarette. "Besides, I only ski fast. I do everything else slow."

"Oooooooh," came out of the crowd in unison.

"Sarah, you mind? That smoke's getting to me." One of the girls waved at the smoke.

"No." Sarah grabbed her pint, now half empty. "I'll just step over to the bar. Any one want another?"

"You drink faster than any woman I know, Sarah," said the brunette. Her beer was barely touched.

"Perhaps you hang around with slow women, Elizabeth." Sarah pushed what was left of her cigarette into the ashtray and turned toward the bar. She left the table, now empty of chatter.

~

Jim took a long drag on his cigarette when he saw her walk towards the bar. She looked so alone in some strange way. She always looked like that, kind of drifting. He knew that feeling, that restless boredom. If he could just talk to her, he could get to her. He knew she liked how he looked. She wasn't staring at everyone. She was staring at him. He knew it.

Larry shook his head and stood. "Man I'm outta here. I can tell you're gonna make the move tonight." He downed the balance of the whiskey and stared at the glass while he shook it around in small circles. "Jim, take it slow."

"What's that supposed to mean, asshole."

"I'm just saying get control over that dick. I know you." Larry put the glass down, punched Jim playfully on the shoulder and walked away.

~

Sarah combed her hair back with her hand, then let it fall back into her eyes, tangled and wild. A new dark pint of beer sat in front of her. She leaned over her beer and twisted on her barstool, looking around the bar. Jay wasn't here, probably wouldn't show. They hadn't really connected anyway, beyond the usual drinking and cuddling. He would disappear, like all the others. This week she had felt herself hitting a low again, that vacuous hole that absorbed her energy. Sarah could go on nothing for weeks, like some nuclear machine hardly needing sustenance of any kind except cigarettes, occasional reefer, and drink. The world circled her and she sped faster and faster to absorb it. But then failures came trickling into her life like pinballs, hitting every aspect of her existence. Sarah sucked her beer. There would be several more.

~

Jim stared at her and stood up. She looked angry, sipping her beer. She probably didn't want some jerk bothering her. Probably just wanted someone to drink with, at least for now. He pulled out a stool next to her, sat and felt his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. "I'm going to sit here and smoke with you." He pulled the package out of his pocket.

She smiled. "I'm going to sit here and stare at you." She liked how he looked. He was dark skinned with deep brown eyes and curly jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. "Well I guess I'll just have to stare back." He hiked his right leg over the left. The legs were so thick they could hardly stay together.

Sarah looked down at his legs.

"You ski by yourself too much," he said finally.

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Aren't you going to ask me how I know that?"

"Do you do anything else besides ski and drink?" Sarah smiled, put her left elbow on the bar and playfully rested her head in her hand, like a flirtatious adolescent. He was earthy and sensual, and she liked that he saw her skiing alone. It meant he knew she was good. The bar door opened, letting in a cold rush of dry, bitter air that briefly slapped Sarah's face.

"I'm Jim, by the way."

"I'm Sarah."

"It's a good idea to get that out of the way before we get shit-faced. That way tomorrow, after we've had our way with each other, we can actually tell our friends who we were with." He looked quickly at her and then reached for his beer. He wasn't sure about that statement. It was probably too much.

"So, you have friends? That's good. You feel obligated to tell them who you were with."

"You have friends and you don't like them do you?" Jim nodded over to the chattering table of women that was now sprinkled with a few men.

"I like being by myself at times."

"You're not by yourself now."

"Maybe not."

~

They left the bar late after they had skillfully danced around each other. He told her he worked in a ski shop and operated the lifts part time. He told her he was from Michigan, that he didn't know what he wanted so he came out West, that he hardly talked to his father, that he was bored and restless, that he was addicted to the slopes. She told him she liked to ski.

"That's where they had the mogul races last year. No female stands a chance against you. You can win five thousand bucks on that one." Jim pointed out the window at the runway, barely lit by a row of lights that lined the side by the woods. They were in Jim's car on their way to his favorite bar in a nearby town where he lived. When Sarah looked up the mountain he glanced at her neck, the small swells under her sweater. He imagined she would be smooth, yet muscular. Her ass would be round and firm.

"I skied my first competition at six." Sarah laughed and looked back at Jim. "I lost."

"Shit, when did they put you on skies?"

"Around three, maybe four." She remembered those early years of skiing. Her mother put her on the slopes while her father drank a beer at a nearby wooden table, barely interested. "Oh you look so darling," her mother said. And then she yelled over her shoulder, "Isn't she just a doll Daddy!" He mumbled something inaudible and sucked his medicinal beer in order to dull the effects of his latest drinking binge. Even at five, when she could finally slide down the hill with no support, she felt invigorated, freed, as if she left the world behind. Her Mother embraced the outside world with luncheons. Sarah pushed it back with the ice.

"When did you start winning?" Jim interrupted her silence again.

"When I didn't care anymore, I suppose."

"About skiing?"

"About my life."

"That's the key to it, huh?" He figured this same recklessness would make her wild in bed. Forget that bar.

Sarah felt Jim's hand grab hers. She looked down at his fingers, long and strong. She imagined them caressing her breasts, exploring her. Perhaps it was best to start here, with a stranger. Just do it. Why not? What was stopping her? What scared her?

Jim slowed the car and took a turn. He parked in an apartment complex. "Gotta get some more money. I'll be back. You want to come?" Jim said as he got out.

Sarah was a bit startled to be at his apartment so soon. She had been thinking about his hand she was tickling softly with her fingers. "I'll wait here," she said. She watched him walk deliberately to the first floor apartment. She took off her coat, then her sweater, and looked through her purse trying to find her cigarettes.

After fifteen minutes Sarah wondered if he was having to earn the money. He must have been doing something else. She got out of the car, not bothering to put on a jacket, and ran to his apartment. She tapped on the door and waited, hopping about on her feet as the cold air stung her.

When he opened the door, the sweet effluvium of pot filled her senses. "And you didn't ask me?" Sarah said.

"Come in." He thought she must have been thinking about him in the car. He knew she wanted him. He could tell how she looked at his legs, his hands and into his eyes. She had to play her little games first. He felt himself getting hard already.

Sarah walked into the apartment and looked around. It was a typical man's apartment, missing the details of a feminine touch. A tacky picture of a mountain was above a brown, plaid couch. There was an old TV perched upon a wooden table and two worn, upholstered chairs beside the couch. A few framed pictures and an old vase with a mosaic design sat on the side table. Some parkas hung on an old coat hanger by the door.

She had to make up her mind, but she couldn't. If she smoked and relaxed she would feel better about it. He came behind her, moved his left hand around her waist and gently placed the joint into her mouth. Her cheeks sunk in as she pulled in the warmth, immediately feeling her head float.

"It's not too messy in here." She said through the release of breath and smoke. She felt his hands upon her waist. He pulled her to him and she felt his hardness. He turned her around and opened his mouth over hers. His hands moved down over her firm, round cheeks, finally grabbing them hard and pulling her tightly into him so she could feel him. She knew it was going where she wasn't sure she would go. She usually pawed, played, teased, then stood back. But she wanted him. She pushed her tongue deep into his mouth and moved her hands around his waist. He unbuttoned her shirt furiously. He seemed to be taking off, hard and fast. Something wasn't right. It was fast, too fast. He ripped her shirt open, yanked it off. He held her close, tight. It all scared her, and she didn't know why. She had to think. What if she bled? Maybe this wasn't the right time. She had to think. All she wanted to do was think. "Wait." She pushed at him with her hands.

He moaned. He felt her body move towards him, felt her breasts up against his chest and he had to be inside of her. Her hands pushed like a small child. He grabbed them and bent them back. No more games. He couldn't wait. They had all night for foreplay but he had to be in her now, right now.

"Wait a second," Sarah said in between breaths. "Wait, let me think." He grabbed the straps of her bra and pulled them down and as she turned he ripped it off. "Wait!" She shoved him and stood back.

"What is this? You think you can fuck around with me like this?" He looked at her, naked from the waist up. Her tight waist, firm nipples, and flushed face. He was on fire. What kind of game did she want to play? What the hell kind of shit was this?

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this." Sarah stumbled as she picked up the shirt. "I have to think."

"We're already are doing this." Fucking bitch, he thought. Fucking, horny, teasing bitch. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her towards him. He felt a sharp pain in his shin. She had kicked him hard. "Christ!" he shouted. And as he flung her he added, "You bitch!"

The force of his grip and his throw was intense. Sarah knew one day she would be hurt. She knew she would hit a tree hard as she flew through the woods. She had always imagined the force of the impact, what the sound would be like. And then she would lie in the snow and her life would melt away. The crack she heard was just as she imagined. Her head felt wet, like she was sweating. She couldn't see very well. She couldn't think. Why was this water all over her? She must have hit a vase. A trickle of water fell down her left cheek. Her hair felt moist.

He was moving quick and furiously, like some car without gears. He pulled at her jeans. Sarah sat up and pushed at him, but felt his hand against her cheek, hard and sharp. He grabbed her around the ribs and shoved her back to the floor. Another crack. Now she could hardly breathe. The pain seemed to sharpen Sarah's senses, allowing some lucidity to return. She closed her eyes, trying to think, think of a way out of this mess. Sarah's body went stiff. Her eyes rolled back. Her hands flailed at her side. She made gurgling sounds as if she were choking on something.

Jim looked at her head and realized that maybe she was really hurt. "FUCK!! Wait here. I'm gonna call someone. Hold on!" He was no longer hard. He was no longer thinking about being inside of her. He was scared shitless. He had fucking killed someone! He ran into the kitchen. "Oh Fuck. Oh Fuck!" He screamed as he put his hands in his hair and pulled. "Fuck!" He marched around the apartment and went into the bedroom. He looked at the phone. Who the shit do I call, he thought.

Eat grass and throw up. Sarah remembered a policeman saying this at a high school assembly. When all else fails, act repulsive, he had said. All the girls giggled. That comment became a standard joke. They had talked about it later at parties. Laughed about it with boyfriends. "Don't try anything or I will have to act repulsive." So funny they thought.

When Sarah heard him step into the bedroom, she got up and stumbled to the door, grabbing a coat that was hanging on the wall before leaving. She ran across the parking lot and crossed the highway. She stumbled through the woods, fumbling to put the old parka on. Her agile body, used to sharp turns and speed, was now loose and clumsy. She tripped over the hard clunks of snow, and ran in a series of curves, falling, grabbing trees. Her face was dripping with the water from the vase she assumed must have fallen on her. Each breath created a sharp pain in her side. Sarah felt as though she was in a dream, as if she were sitting in one of the evergreens looking down on her fumbling moves making a path of footsteps in the snow. She finally collapsed and leaned up against a tree. She looked down at the snow and saw brown spots, maybe dirt, she couldn't tell. She looked closer and realized the spots weren't brown, they were red, the same color as her hand after she wiped her forehead.

Sarah heard a few cars hum down the highway. She laid on the crisp snow and felt the cool ice melt and curve about her body. She closed her eyes and tried to become one with the cold moist mold that she had formed. Light feathery pins pricked her face and slowly became a heavy presence upon her cheeks. Sarah opened her eyes and watched the snow fall. The storm was beginning.

Slowly, methodically, Sarah rolled over. Two hands which seemed to be connected to her arms pushed her body up onto her knees. These same hands grabbed the small evergreen and pulled her body to a standing position.

Before Sarah started the long journey home, she looked down at the dark splatters curving through the woods finally congregating in the place where she had lain. Pieces of her, disconnected, chaotically dispersed, yet neat geometric patterns, intricately connected, when looked at from a distance. Sarah knew why she would make it back, just like she knew why she won races. She finally realized she didn't want to hit a tree.

####


Ann Ice is a married mom, who loves writing short stories and has just finished one novel and begun another.

In a past life, she was a bond analyst where she wrote and published what she considered very boring industry-related papers. She spent a lot of time on public speaking tours, and would spend nights writing character sketches to save herself from boredom. She finally decided it was all too factual and thus contained lies, and that's why it was boring. She said to herself, I simply must write the truth. So she started writing lies and found the truth.

Her fiction's been published, most recently In Posse Review

You can reach Ann at: TJMD45@aol.com .