Michael Palmer: Flashback

Garfield Mountain Junior Olympic Time Trials.

Sparkling like neon against the sunlit snow, the crimson and white banner said it all. From his spot at the base of the main slope, Frankie Iverson squinted up at the giant slalom course-a rugged series of two-dozen gates marked with red and blue flags. One more run, he told himself. Just one more run like the last, and he would be on his way to Colorado. The trip, the trophy, evew, thing. After years of practice, years of frustration, they were so close now he could taste them. "Next year will be yours, " the Judge had told him during the agony and tears that had followed last year's race.

"Next year Tyler will be too old to compete, and you'll be number one."

Tyler. What a joke. Why couldn't his father understand that it was the shitty way the slope had been groomed-the goddamn ruts that had caught his skis-that had caused him to lose by half a second. Not Tyler. One more run. "Hey, Frankie, you sleeping or what?"

Startled, Frank whirled. His brother, Zack, wearing black boots and a black racing suit, ambled toward him over a small mound of packed snow.

"Just studying the course, Zack-o, " Frank said. "As if you needed to.

You could ski backward and there's still no one in this field who could catch you."

Frank jabbed a thumb toward the huge board where the times for the first run were posted. "You could."

Zack laughed out loud. "Make up three seconds on you when I've never once beaten you on a run? You've got to be kidding. Listen, all I want to do is stay on my feet and get that second place trophy. There'll be plenty of time for me next year when you're racing Seniors."

"Sure, Zack-o, sure. Lay it on any thicker and I'll slip on it. Since when did you get off thinking you could psych me?"

And psyching he was, too, the little worm, Frank thought. They were just about two years apart in age, but Zack had hit a growth spurt just after his thirteenth birthday, and suddenly, over the year that had followed, the competition between them had intensified in all sports-especially in skiing, where the gap separating them had been narrowing all winter.

Again, Frank glanced at the time board. There was a wide margin between Zack and the boy in third place. The final run was a two-man race, and his brother knew it as well as he did. He was being psyched, all right.

Zack would be skiing second, right after him, and he was getting set to pull out all the stops. "Listen, Frankie, " Zack said, with that note of sincerity that Frank knew was a crock of shit, "I mean it. I'll try my best, sure. But I'll be pulling for you, too. Believe me I will." He reached out his hand. "Good luck."

Frank looked at his brother's hand and then at his face. There was something in Zack's eyes that made him almost shudder-a confidence, a determination he had never seen in them before. It was a look though, that he knew well-a look he had faced many times in the eyes of their father. Frank hesitated for a fraction of a second and then pulled off his glove and gripped Zack's hand tightly. "Go for it, " he said. "I will. See you up top."

Zack smiled at him, nodded, and wandered off to join a group of racers waiting for word that the second run was to begin. Frank glanced over at the crowd of parents preparing to make their way to vantage points along the course. At that instant, the Judge, who was chatting with several friends, looked over. Frank smiled thinly, and his father responded with a hearty thumbs-up sign. One more run. Restless to get it over with, Frank crossed to retrieve his skis from the rack where they and those of the other competitors were lined up on end like pickets in a fence. He knew he was shaken by the brief encounter with his younger brother and by the look in his eyes. And that knowledge upset him even more. Three seconds was a lot, true, but the way Zack had been coming on over the past few weeks, anything was possible. For a moment, Frank even toyed with the notion of asking him to back off, to wait his turn. It wasn't fair, he thought. First that goddamn rut, now this. It was his year. The Judge had said so himself. Nothing was going to keep him from that trophy, that trip-nothing and no one. He pulled his skis from the rack and ran his hand along the bottom, testing the wax. Relax, he pleaded with himself. Relax, but keep that edge the Judge is always talking about. That winning edge. It was then that he noticed Zack's black Rossignols, resting in the slot next to where his own skis had been.

Trancelike, he set his skis back in their place and then took a coin-a dime-from his pocket. This would be his year. Next year would be Zack's. That was the way it was meant to be. He glanced about. No one was watching. Using the coin, he loosened the toe-binding screws on one of Zack's skis two turns-not enough to really feel different, just enough to lessen control a bit, to widen each turn a few inches, to preserve his three-second edge. It was his year. His last chance. In fact, he was doing Zack a favor, ensuring that should he fall, the ski would come free and help — keep him from a serious ankle injury. But there would be no fall. No injury. Just a few inches at each gate. Just a few fractions of a second. Just enough. Next year was time enough for Zack. Then the Judge would have two Junior Olympians to boast about. It was the best way for everyone. The way things were meant to be. It was his year… his year… "Frank?"

The colors and sensations of that day faded as Lisette's voice nudged its way into the scene. Frank rubbed at his eyes and then pushed himself upright on the sofa. The fire he had built against the chill of the summer storm had dwindled to a few smoldering embers. His mouth tasted foul from the two scotches-or was it three? — he had buried, and his head was pounding at the temples. "Honey, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, " he mumbled, pawing at his eyes. "Just great." It had been years since he had had that nightmare. Years. "Frank, please, come to bed. It's after one-thirty."

"I'm not tired."

"You were sleeping."

"I wasn't fucking sleeping. I was thinking."

"Do you want anything? Some milk? A sandwich?"

"I told you, I'm fine. Just leave me alone."

It was going to be bad, he thought. He had fought the whole thing from the very beginning, but he hadn't fought hard enough. The last thing he needed in life was his brother moving back to Sterling. And now, thanks to the Judge and goddamn Leigh Baron, here Zack was, and already playing hero. He should have fought harder. Baron ran Ultramed, but Davis was still his goddamn hospital, and he should have fought harder. "Frank, honey, " Lisette said, "you say you're fine, but I know that's not true.

You haven't said a decent word to me all night."

She tried to sweep his hair from his forehead, but he brushed her hand aside. Then he crossed unsteadily to the hearth, threw a log on the embers, and jabbed at it with the poker. "That was quite a little show you put on this evening, Lisette," he said thickly. "Quite a little show."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Really I don't."

"Oh, give me a break. I saw you standing back there mooning over my brother. And I'm sure I wasn't the only one, either."

"Honey, that's crazy. I never…"

"Sure, like you never made love with him, either. Christ, it's a wonder you didn't rip your dress off right then and there in the kitchen."

"Frank, please. You've been drinking. You only say things like that to me when you've been drinking. What you know about me and Zack is all there ever was. Nothing more. And certainly nothing that didn't burn out years ago. I was excited about what he did for Annie, but so was everyone. Besides that I didn't say three words to him all night. Now please, come to bed. Let me rub your back or something."