Jody McNeese Keen-Skiing As A Foreign Language

Here's how it starts:

Friday afternoon. We're standing at the bottom of the lift, Spencer, Jill, and me. I haven't seen Jill in almost two and a half years, since my father's funeral. Spence hasn't seen her since then, either, although that's not as important; she's my friend, after all, not his. We're steadily losing light, but there's enough time for at least two, maybe three runs.

"Tinkerbell's Chute," I say.

Jill just laughs. "How about Cinderella's Slipper?"--an easy green sure to be packed with kids and novice snowboarders by now.

Spence shrugs, but he says, "I don't know if I could handle Tinkerbell's Chute this late in the day, Andrea."

"Fine. You two take Cinderella's Slipper. I'll meet you at the shuttle stop in an hour." I leave them at the top of the lift--Spence leaning on his poles and his canary-yellow jacket unzipped, Jill adjusting her goggles and chatting away at him. He raises his gloved hand to me when I look back, and I wave to him with a pole. I know all this happened, because I was there.

Tinkerbell's Chute is deceptively named, a steep, narrow channel between two tall snow banks, and it's nothing but ice after lunchtime. After a few switchbacks, it broadens and meets Mr. Toad's Wild Ridge, a double diamond with vertical yard after vertical yard of moguls. Tinkerbell's Chute is usually deserted save for a few daredevils, and this afternoon's no exception. Two snowboarders launch themselves over the lip at the top of the run as I arrive; there's no one else in sight.

After several minutes--enough time for the snowboarders to make it to Mr. Toad's Wild Ridge--I pull up my goggles and push off. It's icier than normal today, I'm happy to see. A little danger is good for the soul.

Jill and Spence reach the bottom of Cinderella's Slipper without much mishap, despite the crowd. "Care to go again?" Spence asks her. He wouldn't use that phrase, I know, that's something I'd say, but this is my story, and he has to say something to get things moving.

"Sure." Jill looks up at him, and for the first time, I realize she's flirting with him. It's so subtle I'm not sure Spence will pick up on it, but I recognize the signs. The tilted head, the occasional innocent touch on the arm, the bashful smile. Funny I didn't notice it before.

There's a reasonably short line for the lift, and it doesn't take long for them to get airborne again. "How's Andrea been, really?" Jill asks. She even manages to sound concerned. Spence pauses, the loyal husband that he is, then sighs. "She's…different, Jill. She took her dad's death pretty hard. They were really close."

"I know." She lays a comforting hand on his arm. "I tried getting in touch with her a couple times after the funeral, but…"

"She was pretty inaccessible," Spence finishes for her. "She just seemed to back away, or recede, or something. It's like..." He pauses again and Jill rests her hand lightly on his knee. "It's like she's just going through the motions now." He smiles briefly, bitterly.

I sigh. It's all true, and more than even Spence knows. But why he's telling Jill all this I have no idea.

"She's just so different now," he repeats. "She's never home, supposedly out with clients. We barely talk--about things that matter, anyway. When she got pregnant, I really thought everything would get better. But then she lost the baby." He hands her my failings like a gift, Pandora's box wrapped in crisp white paper and tied with a bow.

Jill shakes her head. "I wish there was something I could do," she says.

Maybe he takes her hand here, maybe he doesn't; both would be out of character for him. They're almost to the top of the lift, and I'm not sure Spence would feel it was worth it--less than half a minute of glove-to-mitten contact. But he's a comforting, sensitive sort of guy, so maybe he does.

When they're off the lift, Spence looks toward Cinderella's Slipper. "It's pretty crowded," he says. "Should we try Wonderland Trail?"

He leads the way, not from any overt sexism, any need to feel in control, but simply because Spence likes to be in front, to know what's going on and not have it filtered back to him. The air is so clear up here, so cold, it makes his eyes bright and his cheeks pink. Spence never looks better than he does at the top of a mountain.

"Race you to the bottom!" Jill calls, and then she's gone.

The moguls are tough for me today, I'm not sure why. The ice doesn't bother me, and I'm not that tired. They seem larger, though, somehow, huge eggs under a hard shell of snow. One wrong move, and I'll go crashing through them. The snowboarders are just a few rows from the bottom of the run--once they're gone I'll have the place to myself.

I miscarried just over a year ago. Spence was heartbroken. It was a horrible time for both of us, partly because I couldn't bring myself to tell him he wasn't the father. This trip we're on, this ski vacation in a winter wonderland, was his idea--a way to rekindle the passion in our marriage, perhaps start us on the road to parenthood again. Jill spotted us in the lodge on our first night, so things haven't worked out quite as he planned. I don't mind, though. I don't think I'm cut out for motherhood, not now.

Jill zigs and zags ahead of Spence down Wonderland Trail. There are quite a few skiers here, too, but it's not nearly as crowded as Cinderella's Slipper or some of the other more popular runs. She cuts suddenly to the left of the trail into the trees, Spence following close behind. She's like that--conservatively impulsive--so it's more than possible. "Trying something different!" she calls over her shoulder. He nods and grins as much as his goggles will allow him.

The morning's skiers have made deep ruts between the pines off the main track. It's much prettier here, above the other skiers, in the trees. The snow on either side is untouched, sparkling, crystalline, and the view at the turns is stunning--snow-covered giants stippled with trees on the mountains' lower reaches, the late-afternoon sun catching the snow falling off the trees like prisms.

Then Jill hits a patch of ice and goes tumbling. She lands on the main trail, miraculously avoiding all the trees, miraculously unhurt by the four-foot drop. Her skis are gone, of course, and one of her poles. Spence lands nearby, done in by the same patch of ice. Within seconds, they're both laughing hysterically. Then he leans over and kisses her.

Here's how it ends:

I hit the last stretch of moguls with more than my accustomed speed, ramping the crest and coming down hard, turning and ramping off the next, totally in control. When I was in college, we called it "catching some air." It feels silly even to think that phrase now, the language of another time and place.

Maybe all this is just in my head. Maybe that's not how it happened with Spence and Jill. I could've just made all this up. But I know I didn't, and in a funny way, I'm glad for them. Glad for Spence, at least.

One more mogul to go before the flat expanse of slush at the bottom. I push off, into the clear mountain air, and don't think about coming down.

SKIING AS A FOREIGN LANGUAGE

by

Jody McNeese Keene