Skate Gray

Nathan Feuerberg: Exquisite Encounter

They move through the crowd to the back of the train car. Her daughter bounces into an empty seat while Diana hovers above her, holding onto the leather strap which loops from the overhead bar. Before they've left Union Square her daughter is engrossed in a paperback. Only nine, Diana thinks, and Maria's already reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. At this rate she'll have to cover those hazel eyes with glasses in a couple of years. She sighs and brushes a strand of gray behind her ear.The car slides into 5th Avenue/59th Street Station. The doors creak open. A rush of wind shoots into the car, picks Diana and Maria up, and throws them onto the platform. Coal-black pillars hold up the station ceiling. Steam billows and disappears through vents. People push past them, turning their bodies at odd angles to slip through the gaps. It's a factory, Diana thinks, a machine cutting up paper-dolls and pushing them out into the city.

 Outside it's winter. Fog escapes the mouths of businessmen bustling across the street. Chestnut smoke wafts through the branches of the London plane trees. To the right is an empty fountain where a statue used to stand. Diana is sure of it. A bronze girl crouched there, on one knee, with her hands to her face, embarrassed by her nakedness.

Her daughter drops her hand and dashes down the stairs into the park. Black penny loafers leave prints in the frost covered grass. Her red knit hat bobs above the foliage. "Maria," Diana yells as quietly as possible. Her daughter's stride becomes long and quick, half-in the air like a ballerina. "Get back here now." A shrub reaches across the path and snags on Diana's tights. But she keeps moving, letting the thorn tear a run down the back of her nylons.

It's been years since Diana was here. Manhattan is only twelve streets wide but she's managed to avoid Wollman Rink since her 17th birthday. Cab drivers get an extra bill to go up 10th avenue. Out of town guests get excuses involving allergic reactions to snow and metal.

And her daughter, she didn't start asking to go skating until a year ago.

"I told you not to run off," Diana says, as she marches into the skate rental hut.

"Can we go get hot chocolate after?" her daughter asks.

Diana sets her calfskin clutch on the counter and picks through it until she finds a matching wallet.

"What size?" the skate rental clerk asks.

"I'm not skating," Diana says. "Just watching."

"Come on mom." Her daughter props her chin on the edge of the counter. "You said you would."

"It's been so long. I'd probably fall."

Diana slouches on a bench, her skates in her lap, while her daughter laces up her own boots as quickly as possible. It's early on a Wednesday morning and only a couple dozen skaters have arrived. A man wobbles across the pond. His sweetheart giggles—a mitten covering her mouth.  Two boys race along the edge smacking elbows. Her daughter shuffles onto the ice and then twirls with her hands above her head.

It isn't so different from the last time, except when she was seventeen she was the spinner and Mr. Laurence watched from the bench. It might even have been this bench.  She peers down at the painted wood and rusted bolts as if his name were carved in the seat.

 She'd found him captivating when they first met. His long black cloak and polished Hessian boots echoed an older era. The hound's tooth check tie, hanging from his neck, was his only modern article of clothing. She couldn't help but stare at times.  His short beard brought her attention to his mouth more than once.  She'd had to stop herself from watching him form words with his lips.

Her mother had called him "a catch." "Only thirty-three and already the chief-editor of a fashion magazine. You could do worse." And indeed she could have. The boys her age were such a bore. They'd chat for hours about university and French essayists like Paulhan and Deleuze.

"You're top," they'd say. "Those college girls could take a lesson from you." Mr. Laurence didn't bother with chin wagging. When he'd picked her up for their date he'd complemented her on the skirt she'd worn and asked where she'd acquired such a rare piece. She admitted that it was of her own design. It was part of a collection she'd been sewing in her spare time. She asked if he liked the stitching, and the pattern, and the length, and the pleats. His cheeks filled with blood.

When she'd had her fill of skating, he treated her to strudel and a carton of milk. They leaned on the rink fence, letting the pastry crumbs fall on the ice. "Send my secretary your portfolio," he told her. She tore off a bit of strudel and shook her head. Her designs weren't good enough to be in a magazine. They were just dreams. Private dreams she cut out of fabric and modeled in her own looking glass.

"You'll never get anywhere if you're so shy," he said. She sipped from her carton and put on a smile even though the milk felt like an icicle rubbing against her teeth.

"I almost forgot." He took a package from his coat pocket. "Your mother told me it was your birthday." He handed her a white box tied with a pink ribbon. She ran her fingers along the edge and tested its weight in her palm. "I couldn't resist," he said. Beneath the tissue paper she found a pair of silver-plated scissors. They were long and sharp, the type used half a century before to cut reams of silk. She held them up and let the winter sunlight glint off their tips.

 It had been sunny that day, but her stilted memory reveals a reddish overcast sky. Cold and corroded like a rusted pipe welded around her.  She rubs her eyes with her fingers. Across the pond, her daughter glides left to right with her hands behind her back. Soon she'll be old enough to date boys, and that gracefulness of being guided by an angel will disappear. Soon a man will mark her and she'll end up ruined with peppered hair. Trapped like a maiden in molten metal.

 By the time she'd finished her milk  that day, it had started to snow. The carriage driver had put the canvas roof up. The clopping of the Dartmoors' hooves sounded like hammers pounding steel. "Let me see the scissors," he told her, as they jerked down the cobblestone. She took the package from between her feet and handed it to him. "They're quite sharp," he said, testing the tip against his thumb. "We should try them."  He held his tie out by the end and offered her the scissors.

She bit the inside of her cheek. "I couldn't."

"Of course you can." His tongue slid along his lips as if just talking about it made him feel a bit naughty. She snorted a laugh.

By now the carriage was well into the park. The canvas roof brushed against the snow laden branches, sending a cloud of dust toward the frozen pond. The driver turned and told them they should keep an eye out for the swans. They were difficult to see in the winter, but they could find them if they looked closely. "Why don't you keep your eyes forward," Mr. Laurence told him. "None of us want to be watched, me or the swans." He breathed deep as if composing himself and then turned his attention back to her. She noted that his bushy eyebrows were furrowed even though his mouth was arched into a smile. "I've always wanted to do something liberating," he told her. "Do you know what I mean?" He stroked his beard with his thumb and forefinger. "This tie says I can't do what I want, when I want. I can't say things that others might find out of the ordinary. I'm stuck following their rules. Does that make sense?"

She supposed she understood. She hated it when her mother brought home a dress and she was expected to wear it to a particular event. She didn't enjoy prancing around Sunday socials like a pet on a leash. She despised the dainty oyster canapés that left her hungry all afternoon.Sometimes she wanted to unstitch her own skin.

"Cut it," he said, holding the tie out in front of him."Slice it down the middle."

She reached over, placed the shears around the tie, and snipped. The pieces came undone easily. Half of the tie swung back against his shirt and lay there like an ascot.

"Here," she said, handing him the severed half.

"No, keep it," he told her. "Something to remember me by." She placed the end in the box he'd given her and stowed it safely by her feet.

"Now, it's your turn,"he said.

She giggled to herself and searched her apparel for something she could liberate. Her coat was out of the question. It had belonged to her mother and would never be properly hers. Her skirt and blouse were from her own closet but she loved them both.

"How about the stockings," he said. Before she could tell him they were tights he lifted up her foot and set it on his knee. "Just a small piece." He pointed the end of the scissors at her ankle.

The way her leg was elevated made her feel as though she might fall backwards. She grabbed onto the top of the seat to steady herself. He traced the outline of a triangle on her ankle with the metal tip and inhaled the tepid scent slipping through the wool. Her throat constricted as if a silver collar was being yanked backwards.  Without a word, he slid the scissors up her leg until they were hidden beneath her skirt. A muffled yelp slipped from her lips. "Stay still," he said, "I wouldn't want to cut you." With his left hand he pushed back her petticoat and with his right he cut a piece of black fabric from her thigh. She looked from the patch of bare skin to the short hairs of his beard. He licked his lips and breathed deep.

For the complete story visit: English Writing in Mexico

About the Author

Nathan Feuerberg

Etnies Taylor LS Skate Shoes Gray Black White