Fiction

The lift attendant called, “Singles?”

A young ski bum, fleece vest tied at his waist, slid in beside an elegantly turned-out lady skier in a powderblue one-piece umpsuit straight out of he Spy Who Loved Me.

“Beautiful sun,” she said.

“Sick skiing.”

“A little slushy for me.” She turned her bron ed face to take in the warmth. “Wears my legs out.”

“Mine, too,” he said, “but I’ll go long as my quads last.”

When they cleared the noise of the lift, the young man asked, “Do you live here?”

“Not anymore,” she said, lowering the bail. “My husband and I are moving tomorrow. We’ve sold our place, and we’re headed to Georgia. O ie, my husband, has awful arthritis, and we’re both getting old. We’ve had the place for almost fifty years. It was his father’s hunting camp–before the first ski run was cut. Our kids live out west.”

The young man noticed her straight skis and rearentry boots. “ ou’ll come back, though?”

The woman paused. “No, I don’t think so. I couldn’t stay in a condo; it was too hard to sell.”

“ ou’ll ski North Carolina now, or fly out west?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Here, I’ve had friends to ski with. It isn’t as much fun to ski alone.”

“No,” he said.

“My father taught me to ski when I was a very small girl,” she said. “He had a crush on Andrea Mead Lawrence, but she was a great skier. I grew up in Dutchess County, New ork. We took ski vacations to ermont–Stowe, mostly–then, when I married O ie, we came here and retired here twenty-one years ago.”

“Guess you’ve skied all of this mountain.”

“I have. And now my last run.”

“Last run ever?” he said.

She fished a tissue from her pocket.

“It’s a perfect day for a final look around at Mount Washington, atahdin, Bigelow, Crocker, dear old Burnt Mountain. I’ve always loved the view in that direction.” Dabbing at her eyes, she said, “I’m being silly.”

“Would you show me where all those mountains are?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He felt her voice catch on the thermal that stirred her hair. At the last tower she raised the bail and they slid down the ramp. They leaned their equipment outside the observation building and climbed to the glassed-in deck.

“Muriel LaChette,” she said, offering him her hand.

He took it and answered, “Bobby Brinks–but my friends call me Car–short for Armored Car on account of my last name being Brinks.”

“Well, Car,” she said, “Let me show you some mountains.”

She identified a spot of Moosehead Lake, the boundary mountains in uebec, The Horns on Bigelow, the Crocker cirque, and the glinting roof of her former home.

Car repeated the names as if free ing the hori ons in memory.

Muriel squinted at her watch and said, “If I stand still too long, I get stiff.”

“Which run will you take?”

“Tote Road. It’s my speed now, though I wish I could ski Winter’s Way once more. I skied here when that was about the only trail. I had big old wooden skis with no edges, and poles with huge baskets.” Muriel drew a deep breath. “Well ”

“Want company for your last run?” Car said.

Tears ran in the brown creases of her face. “I’m pretty slow these days.”

“If you’d rather not,” he said.

“That would be nice,” Muriel said, tucking away her ragged tissue.

Muriel knocked the snow from her boots, stepped into her skis, and pushed off. Car followed, imagining she’d been a good skier when she was young. She stopped above a small knoll. They stood face to face. “Did you race?” he asked.

“I raced locals until six ago. Now I take my time.”

He wondered if he should speak.

“I think I’d rather be alone now,” she said.

“ ou’re okay?” he asked.

“Everything ends, Car. When you take your last run, I hope there will be someone to share it.”

She offered her hand, but he leaned in and kissed her sun-burnished cheek. Sideslipping off the knoll, he called, “Have a great run, Muriel.”

When he’d vanished from her sight, she said, “I have.” ■

LAST RUN