discussion while the children frolic on the mountainside.”
That kind of suggestion from him used to make my breath quicken and my knees go weak.
Anyway, against my better judgment, we packed the children into our ancient blue Cadillac—Paul began bellowing in the backseat the instant we crossed the Mississippi—and we argued our way across half the country, finally ending up in a sweet little town called Fortune, just north of the Montana border with Wyoming.
Arthur and I spent most of the week in the lodge by the fireplace. I still remember sitting with him on our first day there, nursing a mug of hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps and watching through the large picture window at the front of the building as Paul and Jeremy fell all over each other out on the bunny slope. None of the children had skied before, but after one lesson Caitlin scooted off like a pro, abandoning her ungainly older brothers with a disgusted look on her face. Paul was trying to show Jeremy how to snowplow, but neither of them could get the hang of it and bothof them kept tipping over, face first, onto the icy ground. Arthur and I laughed until our sides hurt.
“See?” he said, putting an arm around me on the couch. “Isn’t this fun?”
I nodded and smiled. “I had no idea our boys were so good at slapstick. Now all we need is for Caitlin to run over them while they’re on the ground, and we’ll have enough material for a vaudeville act. Where is she, by the way?”
We scanned the slope and couldn’t find her. Arthur frowned and stepped over to the window, but after a moment he turned around again, perplexed.
“I don’t see her.”
We waited a little longer for her to reappear, but after fifteen minutes had passed I became worried and sent him out to look for her. Just as he got his coat on and headed toward the door, though, Caitlin came winging into sight from under the trees near the bottom of the most challenging adult slope. She must have gotten on the T-bar and ridden it up the mountain all by herself. I called out to Arthur and I rose to my feet to watch her finish her descent.
She had on a purple and white stocking cap with a long tail, and her coat was brown with a furry collar. She flew out of the woods with her knees bent and her upper body crouched low over her skis, and the tail of her cap twitched around on her back like a spastic snake. She passed several slower skiers who were headed toward the clearly marked shute that would eventually disgorge them into a fenced-in corral at the bottom of the slope, where they could either get back on the lift for another ride up the mountain or remove their skis and return to the lodge. Caitlin weaved around the others in line with astonishing competence, and I murmured to myself in appreciation of her newly acquired skill.
She safely reached the upper lip of the shute, but then with no warning she broke away at full speed from the line of skiers, and without so much as a glance at them or at the signs pointing the direction she should go to end her run, she dodged under a flimsy wire barrier and shot across the flat, icy ground directly in front of the lodge. She dug her poles into the wet snow by a sign that read “ NO SKIING ALLOWED THIS SIDE OF FENCE ,” and aimed herself like an arrow at where I stood watching from inside.
My heart leapt into my throat when I realized she was going much too fast to be able to stop before hitting the building. She obviously didn’t understand the peril she was in, because even though her lips were partly open and her eyes were squinting with concentration, there was not even a hint of fear in her face.
I put my hand to my mouth, and a woman next to me gasped and held up her arms toward the window as if that might stop the inevitable collision. I was dimly aware of Arthur calling out Caitlin’s name in panic from somewhere behind me, yet I couldn’t do anything but stand in mute horror and watch as my daughter raced toward a
That kind of suggestion from him used to make my breath quicken and my knees go weak.
Anyway, against my better judgment, we packed the children into our ancient blue Cadillac—Paul began bellowing in the backseat the instant we crossed the Mississippi—and we argued our way across half the country, finally ending up in a sweet little town called Fortune, just north of the Montana border with Wyoming.
Arthur and I spent most of the week in the lodge by the fireplace. I still remember sitting with him on our first day there, nursing a mug of hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps and watching through the large picture window at the front of the building as Paul and Jeremy fell all over each other out on the bunny slope. None of the children had skied before, but after one lesson Caitlin scooted off like a pro, abandoning her ungainly older brothers with a disgusted look on her face. Paul was trying to show Jeremy how to snowplow, but neither of them could get the hang of it and bothof them kept tipping over, face first, onto the icy ground. Arthur and I laughed until our sides hurt.
“See?” he said, putting an arm around me on the couch. “Isn’t this fun?”
I nodded and smiled. “I had no idea our boys were so good at slapstick. Now all we need is for Caitlin to run over them while they’re on the ground, and we’ll have enough material for a vaudeville act. Where is she, by the way?”
We scanned the slope and couldn’t find her. Arthur frowned and stepped over to the window, but after a moment he turned around again, perplexed.
“I don’t see her.”
We waited a little longer for her to reappear, but after fifteen minutes had passed I became worried and sent him out to look for her. Just as he got his coat on and headed toward the door, though, Caitlin came winging into sight from under the trees near the bottom of the most challenging adult slope. She must have gotten on the T-bar and ridden it up the mountain all by herself. I called out to Arthur and I rose to my feet to watch her finish her descent.
She had on a purple and white stocking cap with a long tail, and her coat was brown with a furry collar. She flew out of the woods with her knees bent and her upper body crouched low over her skis, and the tail of her cap twitched around on her back like a spastic snake. She passed several slower skiers who were headed toward the clearly marked shute that would eventually disgorge them into a fenced-in corral at the bottom of the slope, where they could either get back on the lift for another ride up the mountain or remove their skis and return to the lodge. Caitlin weaved around the others in line with astonishing competence, and I murmured to myself in appreciation of her newly acquired skill.
She safely reached the upper lip of the shute, but then with no warning she broke away at full speed from the line of skiers, and without so much as a glance at them or at the signs pointing the direction she should go to end her run, she dodged under a flimsy wire barrier and shot across the flat, icy ground directly in front of the lodge. She dug her poles into the wet snow by a sign that read “ NO SKIING ALLOWED THIS SIDE OF FENCE ,” and aimed herself like an arrow at where I stood watching from inside.
My heart leapt into my throat when I realized she was going much too fast to be able to stop before hitting the building. She obviously didn’t understand the peril she was in, because even though her lips were partly open and her eyes were squinting with concentration, there was not even a hint of fear in her face.
I put my hand to my mouth, and a woman next to me gasped and held up her arms toward the window as if that might stop the inevitable collision. I was dimly aware of Arthur calling out Caitlin’s name in panic from somewhere behind me, yet I couldn’t do anything but stand in mute horror and watch as my daughter raced toward a
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