Ginger?”
“Yes, Rocket?”
“I’m going to jump off, ’kay?”
“ Huh?”
And then he’d pitched forward. They were three towers away from the top of the chair and about twenty feet off the ground. Her heart leaped into her mouth, and she grabbed at him reflexively. He was tipped down, falling out of the chair already, and she went for the handle on his vest. Then she had him, and she was staring at the red letters MOGUL MOUSE on his little yellow back. Rocket screamed bloody murder and demanded to be let down so he could “jump in the fluffies.” At the top, Ginger had managed to drag him off the chair and ski down to the ski school building, basically carrying him all the way because she hadn’t wanted to let him go. Ever since then, she’d maintained an iron grip on the little ones as they rode up the chair.
Part of teaching was caretaking. Of course, it was obvious with the little ones. The three-to-five-year-olds came in at eleven forty-five for a break. They had lunch and then watched videos and hopefully napped. These littlest learners were the Mogul Mice. Some of them could actually ski moguls, too. Or anything else thrown at them, Ginger figured. Though most were more cautious than Rocket, they really did not possess a fearful bone in their bodies. Unless she’d taught it to them. Since Brad’s accident, Ginger had felt the need to be careful. She was always thinking the worst. Protecting when protection wasn’t needed. Hovering.
Even in the Mouse House, the carpeted room where they penned the children for lunch, she hovered. The other instructors ate their lunches and kept one eye on the kids, but Ginger was in the thick of the Mice. She kept so close that the kids even noticed.
One day, a splinter group of Mice decided watching movies was for “babies” and dragged out their skis. They made a game of placing an empty boot in the bindings, clicking it down, and then popping the release, sending the boot flying. Ginger swooped down on them and took the ski and boot away. Rocket was one of the instigators, and he piped up in protest.
“We’re not babies, Miss Ginger. We can do it. Go away.”
Ginger knew Rocket was right, but it didn’t melt the knot in her stomach. She wished for the impossible: control over the uncontrollable.
Of course, then Rocket would pull a stunt like the attempted swan dive from the chair, and Ginger would be glad she tried to protect them.
“It wasn’t that bad, Fender.” Sam sucked a little of the foam from the top of his mug.
“Who are you kidding? I don’t even want to talk about it. I thought I already made that very clear.” Fender stared at the oversized deco mirror behind the bar, stenciled with The ’Vous in red and white paint.
“What are we talking about?” Pop slid into the booth next to Fender. The red vinyl squeaked.
Fender looked at Pop. He’d never been very tall, and now age made him basically little. He’d boxed in San Francisco during high school and college—in featherweight classes, Fender assumed. He’d been wiry, but age had worn that away, too. If Fender didn’t know Pop, he’d think he might be helpless. But he wasn’t. He could be belligerent and overbearing. Women loved him, though. They thought he was “cute” or “adorable.” And Pop adored them. He loved women’s attention, which is why he came to the Rendezvous so often to hold court. The waitresses would flirt with him, bring him sandwiches (“Do you feed him?” they’d ask Fender), and play songs on the jukebox for him.
Two years ago, once he officially gave the business over to Fender, Pop took on a number of other hobbies. He’d eat breakfast with the cook at the Rendezvous and walk over to the Statehouse, if it was in session. He’d sit up in the gallery and read the newspaper, listening to roll calls or filibusters. He also liked to walk down to the library and read in the rust-colored chairs of the reference section. Sometimes Fender could tell
“Yes, Rocket?”
“I’m going to jump off, ’kay?”
“ Huh?”
And then he’d pitched forward. They were three towers away from the top of the chair and about twenty feet off the ground. Her heart leaped into her mouth, and she grabbed at him reflexively. He was tipped down, falling out of the chair already, and she went for the handle on his vest. Then she had him, and she was staring at the red letters MOGUL MOUSE on his little yellow back. Rocket screamed bloody murder and demanded to be let down so he could “jump in the fluffies.” At the top, Ginger had managed to drag him off the chair and ski down to the ski school building, basically carrying him all the way because she hadn’t wanted to let him go. Ever since then, she’d maintained an iron grip on the little ones as they rode up the chair.
Part of teaching was caretaking. Of course, it was obvious with the little ones. The three-to-five-year-olds came in at eleven forty-five for a break. They had lunch and then watched videos and hopefully napped. These littlest learners were the Mogul Mice. Some of them could actually ski moguls, too. Or anything else thrown at them, Ginger figured. Though most were more cautious than Rocket, they really did not possess a fearful bone in their bodies. Unless she’d taught it to them. Since Brad’s accident, Ginger had felt the need to be careful. She was always thinking the worst. Protecting when protection wasn’t needed. Hovering.
Even in the Mouse House, the carpeted room where they penned the children for lunch, she hovered. The other instructors ate their lunches and kept one eye on the kids, but Ginger was in the thick of the Mice. She kept so close that the kids even noticed.
One day, a splinter group of Mice decided watching movies was for “babies” and dragged out their skis. They made a game of placing an empty boot in the bindings, clicking it down, and then popping the release, sending the boot flying. Ginger swooped down on them and took the ski and boot away. Rocket was one of the instigators, and he piped up in protest.
“We’re not babies, Miss Ginger. We can do it. Go away.”
Ginger knew Rocket was right, but it didn’t melt the knot in her stomach. She wished for the impossible: control over the uncontrollable.
Of course, then Rocket would pull a stunt like the attempted swan dive from the chair, and Ginger would be glad she tried to protect them.
“It wasn’t that bad, Fender.” Sam sucked a little of the foam from the top of his mug.
“Who are you kidding? I don’t even want to talk about it. I thought I already made that very clear.” Fender stared at the oversized deco mirror behind the bar, stenciled with The ’Vous in red and white paint.
“What are we talking about?” Pop slid into the booth next to Fender. The red vinyl squeaked.
Fender looked at Pop. He’d never been very tall, and now age made him basically little. He’d boxed in San Francisco during high school and college—in featherweight classes, Fender assumed. He’d been wiry, but age had worn that away, too. If Fender didn’t know Pop, he’d think he might be helpless. But he wasn’t. He could be belligerent and overbearing. Women loved him, though. They thought he was “cute” or “adorable.” And Pop adored them. He loved women’s attention, which is why he came to the Rendezvous so often to hold court. The waitresses would flirt with him, bring him sandwiches (“Do you feed him?” they’d ask Fender), and play songs on the jukebox for him.
Two years ago, once he officially gave the business over to Fender, Pop took on a number of other hobbies. He’d eat breakfast with the cook at the Rendezvous and walk over to the Statehouse, if it was in session. He’d sit up in the gallery and read the newspaper, listening to roll calls or filibusters. He also liked to walk down to the library and read in the rust-colored chairs of the reference section. Sometimes Fender could tell
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