Bennett O'Brien takes a ski trip back to his youth, and finds it hard to grow up again...
TRAPPER’S RETURN
My name is Frank. Let me run something by you, a story that has me confused, and more than a little worried about my insane neighbor, Bennett O’Brien. I should qualify that he’s also a very good friend, arguably my best friend.
Bennett came home from skiing last Sunday with the most amazing story I have ever heard, at least told with a straight face. Since it is his story, I’ll try to tell it to you as closely as possible, the way he related it to me, without coloring it too much, although that may be difficult, because I know him so well. We’ve been next-door neighbors for almost ten years now, and through friendship and neighborhood, we have worked through all kinds of situations together.
Except, of course, for the weekends, Fall through Spring. That’s when our friendship goes dormant. You see, Bennett works at Trapper Mountain, up in the Catskills, as a ski instructor. Every season, he takes a leased house, or cabin or something, usually with other ski instructors, and from Friday night through Sunday afternoon, he lives that other life, at least November through April. It’s not that he needs the money, I think it’s more the social aspects, specifically skiing, women and partying, that has kept him going up there for so many seasons. Not that he needs to go upstate to party. We live in Hackensack, and our treacherous proximity to the G.W. Bridge facilitates the all-too-easy City Run, which involves a quick visit to some Dominicans on 150th and Amsterdam.
Well, as I stated before, this is a crazy story, but it’s not really my story, it is his, and this is what Bennett ranted and raved to me last Sunday upon his return. Please don’t ask questions just yet, only listen. I must listen to myself at least one more time, while repeating what my friend told me, and try to process it all again while I solicit your advice.
ONE
Bennett kissed his wife Maria goodbye, and hugged his 5-year old daughter Stacey before driving to West Palm Beach airport. He had misgivings now, about leaving the house at this hour, and setting out into the early morning darkness. The logic of his plan eluded him now, the urgency of leaving his family for such a purely selfish endeavor paling in the pre-dawn perspective. However, it had all been discussed, and decided. Bennett needed a sanity break, of the type that could only be had on skis. In her understanding and support, Maria had suggested Park City or Vail, as the early December snows had been spectacular. But Bennett wanted to go back to Trapper Mountain for a few days’ skiing. Maria had ridiculed his choice, “That place has nothing to offer, and it never changes, why don’t you go out West?” Bennett had replied that airfare was nearly nothing to fly into Newark, and that he could rent a car for the two-hour ride to Trapper Mountain. But while a few days of skiing was on the agenda, “Trapper offered something else, too,” he had told her the day before, while surveying his near-middle aged, thick-in-the-middle frame in the mirror, “It’s a chance to revisit the place where so much of my youth was expended.”
Bennett closed the front door behind him quietly, and drove North on Florida’s 95 through the dark morning, to meet his plane.
West Palm Beach International was a civilized airport, especially at 5:30 A.M. Bennett much preferred it to Ft. Lauderdale, to the south, which had become a cluster-f*** over the past 10 years that he’d lived in S. Florida. This place didn’t even have much of a terminal the first time he had been here, on vacation with his parents when he was 11 years old. St. Thomas, and the rest of the Caribbean had been deluged with rain for days, and the family trip was salvaged by a flight into this place, and a hasty check-in to The Breakers.
Every aspect of the flight was repetitive in the details of countless others he had made from Florida into Newark, or Newark into Florida, for that matter. The claustrophobic moment of realization when the hatch was sealed, sounding like a cross between a Rolls-Royce door slam and morgue vault “fwoosh.” The snoring, overstuffed traveler sitting beside him in the aisle seat; the reassuring drawl of the cockpit voice. Finally, came the bumping, screeching wheels and the inane passengers’ applause.
So many of these trips had been made since the day of the phone call. Although in those times, it was from home in NJ to hospitals in Florida. It happened during Bennett’s first season on Trapper Mountain. He was among friends at the Paisley House, where he had arranged weekend lodging for that winter’s season. It was Friday night, just an hour or so after arriving into the mountain town and returning from happy hour at Guava’s, a Friday night meeting place, and take-off point for the weekend. An acquaintance had stopped Bennett in mid punch line of some unsavory joke, and handed him the phone. Bennett, the young man who was rarely taken seriously by those friends, in those years, had confirmed a family disaster in his face to those in the room. That weekend was cut short, as were many reworked entirely for the NJ to FL commute that meant no skiing; the blast of hot air immediately felt upon exiting the airplane to the Florida jetway; the white of hospital linens under his motionless mother, the only cool emanating from the I.C.U. unit’s air conditioning. In this place, winter only existed indoors, and in the soul.
TWO
A very professional looking traveler in a Burberry raincoat was cursing at nobody in particular in the cold, damp Newark air, frost emphasizing his syllables. He turned towards Bennett, seizing the opportunity of eye contact to direct a comment to someone specific, as though to confirm his sanity, “No wonder people think Jersey is the asshole of the world. If Newark airport is your ambassador, this place deserves the reputation.” Bennett half-smiled indulgently, and without a word, boarded the shuttle bus for the rental car terminal.
The familiar, if confusing road signs guided my lone traveling friend through a very foggy morning into the Turnpike, which would lead to the N.Y. Thruway, which would take him to Trapper, to Trapper Mountain. The Northeast looked so gray and gloomy, yet it was just what he had looked forward to. This black and white movie somehow offered more realism than the sun-bleached Florida days he had come to despise. While so much greater color spectrum was available in the sub-tropical Southeast he had just fled from, even the darkest sunglasses could not preclude the need to squint there. Here, though, headed towards supposedly depressing upstate, he could completely perceive the whole of a more limited range of monochromes, and take in the entire frame. Nothing would be missed.
Past the suburban sprawl of Bergen County, and north of Ramsey, where an old girlfriend lived with her husband and three kids, then Mahwah, Bennett at last found himself in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. He recalled that “kill” was, in some Native American dialect, the word for “hill” or “mountain.” Was that derived from a rhyme, in that Dutch settlers took the word “hill” from the Indians’ “kill?” Did “cat” from “Catskill” mean Cat Mountain? Bennett shook his head at this stupid s*** that had given him pause for such trivia. The riddle yielded to a widening and increasingly topographical landscape, as he loped into stride onto the N.Y. State Thruway. The horse farms siding the Highway where it passed Harriman State Park seemed to have remained unchanged for decades. While there was no snow on the steep banks sloping up from the roadway, it was winter, nonetheless. Opening the car window to collect the toll ticket provided brisk, delicious evidence.
Bennett happily contemplated the prospect of the next two hours of road perfectly suited to soliloquy. The thruway provided just two lanes each North and South, and this facility had served adequately for many years, except for the weekends.
On Friday nights, ten lanes could not facilitate those hordes making their impatient weekend exodus from New York City, Northern New Jersey, Long Island, and even the Jersey Shore, Northward to Trapper Mountain. The resultant aggression had always made for interesting rally driving, especially from within Bennett’s Porsche 911. Occasionally, impromptu alliances were forged out of mutual respect, between especially talented drivers. Having passed another, equally passionate driver to win that seemingly critical car-length, a gesture of easing back, and re-admitting him in front of you into the fast lane when you didn’t have to, was met with reciprocation later. It was honor among thieves, and the commensurability of the act ensured that both drivers would work together in union, forsaking all others to advance toward the common goal of reaching exit 20 before the proletariat. Bennett had always been very keen on that little war. While sometime civilian passengers, as I had been occasionally over the years, protested, we were soon caught up in the race, suggesting this move, or that lane change, even as our fate lay in the hands of this fervent, immensely talented driver, friend and catalyst in our lives.
But as Bennett drove alone on this Wednesday afternoon, he took no gauntlet from the drivers who passed his nondescript rental car. They were probably traveling salesmen and misguided Canadians. He would work towards the village of Trapper patiently, savoring each increment of the journey this time.
It seemed peculiar that nothing had changed. Dilapidated farmhouses and abandoned grange halls, with the same broken windows, still stood visible from the highway. Derelict restaurants had neither been leveled nor redeveloped; potholes and fractures in the roadway occurred in the same spots that were chronically and predictably afflicted each winter. The closer Bennett got towards Trapper, the more things remained constant and pleasingly stagnant.
THREE
With most of the sheer mileage done, Bennett exited the Thruway, the duration of the drive navigating curvy, hilly mountain passes through small country towns, climbing towards the village of Trapper itself. As his pulse picked up in anticipation of the little drop in elevation that rolls down into the Village, Bennett noticed a great frame house on his left. Wasn’t that the Gold Miners’ Loft? That place had burned down in ’88. “What a remarkable restoration,” he said to himself out loud. The endless detail of clapboard, trim and gingerbread revealed an uncanny semblance to the original building.
Just past the Victorian, and over the final crest of hill, Trapper Mountain jumped up in the foreground, with its white-covered ski trails high above the village, like a postcard. It was still some three miles ahead, but the mountain had waited for him this long, so Bennett let his foot off the gas, and rolled down the last knoll of road, into town.
My neighbor found the new Trapper Inn at the edge of the village, and checked in. It was a modern, if utilitarian two-story motel, built since his last visit to the town. There would be enough time to drive through the village during remaining daylight. Everything was closed, the old Pizzeria, the Single Span Café, even the Mogul Raven ski shop. He pulled into Guava’s, a favorite Tex/Mex place where he had enjoyed several hundred Coronas and Dos Equiis over a dozen ski seasons. There were no lights on, but a peek through the window confirmed that the place was still likely in business. Peering in, Bennett flashed back some fifteen years, hallucinating a dense crowd filling the place. Folks were seated at the bar, at tables in the adjacent dining room, with standees everywhere in between. He heard loud music, laughter and boisterous voices. There was a spot right between the bar and the dartboard, where he had met his first fiancé, Sunny. On a dare from his friend Rich Silver, Bennett had walked right up to her, and suggested that they leave together, for dinner at Maison Beauville, the best place in the Village. She had agreed. As he left with his new acquaintance, Bennett received a slap on the shoulder from Rich Silver in affirmation.
Bennett wheeled around, the hand on his shoulder was not Rich Silver’s; it was that of a stranger. “Hey, we’re still in business, we’ll be open on the weekend,” said the tall man in a flannel shirt and cowboy boots. He was a lanky guy, with longish curly black hair who had taken on his forties while maintaining an adolescent build, as Bennett would have liked to have done. “I’m Mark, the owner of Guava’s.” Bennett shook his hand, and explained, “I was just looking to see what changes there might be, didn’t mean to be nosy.” Mark smiled broadly, and shaking his head slowly assured that nothing had changed much. He told Bennett to come back tomorrow, that the place was open Thursday night through the weekend. “Mark, doesn’t a guy named Reid own this place?” Mark answered, “Yeah, we were partners, he sold out to me a couple of years ago, and went out West. Just how long has it been since you were in Trapper?” As dusk had settled during their conversation, Bennett gazed up to the mountain, towards the headlights of snow cats tracing paths as they groomed ski trails. “It seems like another lifetime, Mark.”
FOUR
Bennett rose early, delighted to see from his motel window that several inches of snow had fallen overnight. The smell of crisp, cold snowy air was delicious, and Bennett opened the rental car windows for the half-mile ride to the Trapper Mountain ski lodge.
There were few cars on the road, and the parking lot was un-crowded. The plan would be a quick breakfast, then to jump on the high-speed quad chairlift to the top of the mountain. Bennett climbed the stairs up to the main level of the lodge, and the cafeteria. Something was peculiar. Bennett remembered that during his last few seasons, the facilities had been modernized, the old wooden chairs replaced with contemporary steel and plastic ones. But the old cane seating must have been brought back, as was the simple rest stop-style sliding tray system. A maintenance worker walked by, one of the old mountain locals who had been there year after year, as long as Bennett remembered; a sensible plan in the second poorest county in New York State, where jobs were scarce. His memory jogged by the man’s name pin, Bennett asked, “Mike, how’ve you been? I see you’ve gone back to the old cafeteria layout. What happened, the customers demanded nostalgia?” Mike’s eyebrows went up a little bit, and he shrugged and walked away. Perhaps he hadn’t remembered Bennett, especially without his familiar ski instructor uniform. The locals in this town tended to be surly, anyway. Holding mostly menial jobs, in a town overrun by wealthy and demanding New Yorkers each weekend, created some strange dynamics.
Bennett clicked into his ski bindings, and skated up to the chairlift. Blaine was the lift attendant, helping the customers onto the chairs, occasionally using a shovel to administer a quick slap on an ice-encrusted chair before it reached the loading line. Bennett had always greeted her warmly, as she worked early shifts on weekends. Ski instructors were allowed the perk of “EMR’s,” or Early Morning Runs, a half hour before the public could board the lift. Therefore Blaine was the gatekeeper to the day’s fun, like a carousel operator admitting batches of excited children. Today, waiting in line with the general public, Bennett stepped into place beside another skier and a snowboarder, greeting Blaine. “How are you? It’s been a long time.” As she slowed the chair for him and his co-passengers, she replied over the groan of the lift motor, “yeah, at least a week.” As the chair whisked him away and upward, Bennett twisted around to look back, and shouted, “what?” Blaine alluded to the futility of further conversation, pointing to her ear and shaking her head.
From the very first run, it was clear that Bennett had it all together. Fifteen seasons as a part time professional instructor had taught him more about skiing movement pattern and muscle memory than could be forgotten, even though he was not quite in top physical condition. The trails, all named for famous New York City buildings, were familiar as old friends. Light midweek skier traffic gave him plenty of room to resume his intimate relationship with Trapper Mountain. Aside from a few cordial conversations with strangers on the chairlifts, Bennett kept to himself through the last run of the day, down a trail called “Flatiron.” This was an easy cruiser, and the perfect way to wind down a great day back in action.
Following a hot shower back at the Trapper Inn, Bennett headed to Guavas. It was early, about 5 O’clock, but the door was open this time, and a bartender was talking with a lone patron. Bennett ordered a beer, and then noticed a woman’s laughter coming from the other end of the room. At another entrance door, about thirty feet away, he saw a woman’s back, as she spoke with someone outside, on the porch of the old house-turned-canteen. That voice, that ass, it was Sunny! What would she be doing here, hadn’t she moved to Montana, to escape her latest stalker in the string of rich, married men she had targeted, following their breakup? Bennett jumped up, and the bartender asked, “You all done?” Calling out, “Sunny, is that you?” Bennett strode across the room, just as the woman stepped outside. She was gone. A car sped out onto 22A from the driveway on the other side of the building. What remained was the scent of Magie Noir perfume. The smell was cheap, yet provocative, as Sunny had proved to be over their six-year relationship. He had not seen her in as many years since. Walking back to settle his tab, Bennett asked the bartender if he’d seen the woman. The server hadn’t noticed, and resumed his conversation with the local seated further down the bar.
Friday morning brought more fresh snow, and a steady stream of cars following each other up Rt.22A to the mountain. This time, Bennett found a full parking lot, giving him cause to hike several hundred yards with his skis and boots to the lodge. He got breakfast, and as he walked carefully in heavy ski boots balancing the tray, Rich Silver was walking briskly towards him, wearing a ski school uniform. Stopping,
Bennett smiled broadly, and said, “Hey, Rich, how are you man, you look great!” His acquaintance did indeed look good, as fit and youthful looking as he was ten years ago. Rich looked right past him, kept walking, and muttered, “To a snake, anybody looks good, like my girlfriend.” Bennett stood shell-shocked for a moment. Was his old friend still sore about Bennett having snaked that New York fashion model? That was at least 12 years ago, when Bennett arranged to travel with her in one car, since Rich would be up later that weekend. The first two to arrive at the Paisley House, very little time and conversation had led to nature taking its course. While the affair was short-lived, Rich had figured it out the moment he arrived that evening, back in, was it 1989? Well, there were lots of pranks between them in those silly, excellent times. Rich and Bennett had taken their Instructor Training Course together in 1981, and co-managed the lease on the Paisley House, while selling season shares for the other rooms to fellow ski instructors.
As Bennett pondered that odd cafeteria exchange, he recollected another incident.
The first season they ran that house together Rich had gone up to Trapper two weeks before the start date of the seasonal lease for the Paisley House. Bennett had called there from Hackensack using a voice in drag, pretending to be the owner, Eunice Paisley. As Bennett was the Lon Chaney of voices, he expertly portrayed a middle-aged, neurotic woman. “What are you doing in my home, Mr. Silver, you know the lease does not start for another two weeks?” Rich offered that he was just cleaning up and preparing the house for the other guests. He then added, “It was all Bennett O’Brien’s idea.” Eunice was not pleased, retorting, “Mr. Silver, you have no right to be in my home at this date, and you may expect to hear from my barrister!” Rich feebly apologized, and once again attempted to defer the blame to Bennett, pleading that it had been his idea. Sunny was living with Bennett in Hackensack, then. Sharing the phone receiver with her ear, Bennett redialed the Paisley House, this time assuming his own voice. “Hey, Rich, what’s cookin’?” Rich was stern when he returned a question, “Guess who just called?” Bennett played along, offering bad answers, “Tony Corsica?” “Guess again,” Rich challenged. “Gary Smith? Any of the other housemates?” “No,” Rich shot back with recrimination, “Guess again, it was Eunice Paisley.” Bennett could barely restrain himself and keep Sunny quiet, as he asked, “What did she want, buddy?” Rich explained that she had been upset with the early intrusion to the property, adding, “Don’t worry, I covered you, Bennett.” When he could stand no more, Bennett played the trump card, once again assuming the wavering, menopausal voice, “Mighty quick to sell Bennett O’Brien down the river, aren’t we, Mr. Silver?” There was a momentary silence on the other end of the phone, broken by Sunny’s outburst of laughter. “Who was that? Do that again” came the reply over the phone from Rich. Bennett came clean with his own voice, simply saying, “Douchebag!.” “You got me,” admitted Rich, “You got me good,” was the reply from this weasel of a friend. But it was all in good fun, and in the scheme of things, the entertainment value outweighed any disappointment in Rich’s flawed character.
Halfway through his scrambled eggs, Bennett noticed someone standing across the cafeteria table. He looked up to see Ron Joyce, the one-time assistant ski school director glaring down at him, arms folded across his chest. “What are you doing in here, it’s way past first lineup? Are you ready to work?” Bennett smiled indulgently at Ron’s apparent recognition of ski school alumni. “Ron, I thought your wife made you quit this gig in ’86? Glad to see you’re back.” Standing up, Bennett offered his hand to shake with Ron, but his old boss looked back with genuine impatience, adding, “where’s your uniform? We’re busy today, and we need every able instructor at lineups and teaching lessons. Go see Rick in the office, he has a jacket for you.” Then, Ron walked away. It was great to command credibility, even after years of hiatus, to be given the benefit of the doubt as a capable instructor. What the hell, the standard deal for qualified volunteers had always been a free ski pass for the following day…
FIVE
Bennett stepped into the line of instructors, wearing his borrowed Trapper Mountain Ski School jacket. There were many familiar faces among the Thirty or so men and women assembled, in similar garb. Strangely, none of the staff seemed curious about Bennett’s addition to the ranks. He was quickly assigned a beginner group lesson over on Trapper One, the novice area two hundred yards away from the lineup area. Bennett sparked up cheerful, get-to-know-you conversations with a few of the beginner skiers as he walked with them towards Trapper One. Some of the newbies were struggling with the task of carrying their skies and poles, hampered by the unfamiliar restriction of their ankles caused by rented or borrowed ski boots. Bennett had done this drill so many times, albeit so many years, before. It was ego gratifying to carry his skis, longer and heavier than their gear, over a shoulder with seemingly little effort, while assisting those slower customers lagging behind. Bennett was pleased to serve as a leader and role model for this limited expedition.
The gentle terrain of Trapper One was barely perceptible as a “hill,” so gentle was its pitch. Bennett directed his charges to step into their ski bindings while perpendicular to and across the slope. He suddenly wondered why he was spending precious time acting as a volunteer teacher on this short trip, rather than skiing the steeps, as he had yesterday. Was it to save a few dollars on tomorrow’s lift ticket? The acceptance of Ron Joyce’s induction at breakfast had been so reflexive, the stuff of pure knee-jerk.
Nearby on the bunny slope, other instructors were working their neophyte classes. About twenty-five feet across the hill, Ruth Gold had a bunch of first timers alternately picking up one ski-tethered foot, then the other, in tempo to a Seal song, which she sang aloud with enthusiasm. Making eye contact, she shot Bennett a wink and a smile. She had been sweet on him, both before and after his commitment to Maria. Across the hill on the other side from Bennett’s group, Tony Corsica was fighting the uphill battle to indoctrinate his own never-evers into the art of mastering the rope tow for a ride back to the top of the little knoll. It was just like old times, as most every instructor spent some time here in beginner land.
It was re-assuring, if anticlimactic that Bennett’s former peers accepted his reappearance without explanation. They had not changed physically over the several years since he’d seen them, presumably due to their regular participation in this sport, plus the considerable physical commitment to teaching, which involved a lot of hustling on flat terrain. For the purpose of providing demonstrations, good instructors would skate uphill repeatedly, to model moves over and over for the class. This was at least as calorie consuming as skiing on the more challenging trails that instructors favored on their own skiing time.
At the close of the workday, Bennett finished his last lesson, and headed for the lodge. What day was it, had the weekend arrived yet? A voice from the side of the bar congratulated, “You looked strong on Seagram Trail today, really centered.” It was Allan Gottlieb, his old friend and fellow housemate of many ski seasons gone by. “Wow, you look fit, Allen, I think I saw you on the north side, too. Youda man!” Allan tilted his head up at Bennett and promised to catch up later, carrying a tray full of ten or so beers towards the other end of the lodge.
And so it went après-ski. It was as if no time had separated Bennett and auld acquaintances. No wonder there had been little hoopla. Once having made the grade, there was no need to further distinguish or re-qualify oneself to these people, in this place.
The lodge bar was a short stop following a day on the mountain. Great music from the 80’s was playing loud, and the beer was as tasty and cold as it should be after a day of having dedicated oneself to the service of paying novice ski students. Across the big oval bar, Bennett spotted his old friend Jim Chase, one of the first people he had ever befriended at Trapper, some 15 years earlier. They exchanged big smiles and a wave, and Bennett worked his way through the crowd, circumnavigating the big, oval bar towards Jim. Guidos from Queens and Brooklyn were in the way, as were loud girls with big hair from God-knows-what boroughs, refusing to yield. Everyone seemed impossibly tall today. By the time he made it to the spot where Jim had been standing, Bennett found only a couple of old local men sipping whiskey. They glanced briefly at Bennett, noting his ski school jacket, then turned away, as if to register their indifference, or perhaps disdain. The lodge lights dimmed, signaling that the 5 O’clock closing time was nigh. After that, one had to have a plan to proceed to designated homes, restaurants and clubs. As Bennett scanned the scene, there were only strangers dispersing, and he was struck with the sudden, urgent concern that he had not confirmed any plan with anyone for the evening. Bennett found himself quite alone.
SIX
Tired and beer-buzzed, it was challenging to find the rental car in the parking lot. Then, Bennett realized he was walking through the employee lot. Had he parked here earlier this morning out of old habit? What kind of car had he rented? All the Avis and Budget cheese boxes he had borrowed over time blurred into a continuum of mediocre and forgettable Luminas and Berettas. “Wait, I’ll check the key,” he reminded himself. Reaching into his right hip pocket, where he had kept every car key since he was 17, Bennett pulled out an unusual instrument. It was an ignition key, but not to his rental car. It bore the “Porsche” logo.
S***, how did this happen. Mentally replaying his earlier actions at the lodge, Bennett was certain that he had never placed those Avis keys on the bar, hence the unlikelihood of a swap in error.
It was very cold now, and completely dark. Standing alone in that unpaved part of the parking lot, Bennett could barely discern the ground’s irregular and gullied surface, made by tire tracks in Fall mud that were solidly cast in Trapper Mountain winter. He could also distinguish another object, a white, 1981 Porsche 911 Targa, parked at the far edge of the staff lot, standing apart from the very few other cars still scattered there.
Without really knowing why, following some instinct, Bennett approached the car deliberately. Pressing the little flashlight button on the Porsche key, he located a pea-sized ding just below the driver’s door handle. Hypnotically, he tried the key in the door handle. The power locks obliged him, and a confirming tone sounded. Bennett knew he was not stealing a car. This was his old 911. There would be an opportunity to offer some explanation. One that would be plausible to the guy he had sold the car to years before, in Florida. The buyer of Bennett’s old car would understand. Or, maybe this was a harmless dream. But for now, he would simply drive.
The car’s interior blended the old smells of expensive leather and raw fuel that had long been missing. A twist of the ignition key set in motion a spectacular sequence of cacophony, vibration and undeniable power that he suddenly wondered how he had come to live without.
But lifestyle changes had steered him towards more utilitarian vehicles since the move to Florida, notably the birth of Stacy, the beautiful daughter Maria had brought forth into their lives. They had initially brought the Porsche to Florida as their only car, but it had seemed so inappropriate in the scheme of parental responsibilities. A station wagon had followed, then a big Caddy for Maria.
For the moment, though, the main thing was to drive to some sensible destination, but where to? Reflexively, Bennett stomped the heavy clutch pedal, and shoved the car into first gear. Rolling out across the uneven parking lot, he was careful to let the car idle its way across the rutted hardpan, into the paved part, over towards the woods that obscured the section of homes adjacent to the far edge of the Trapper Mountain parking area, known as “The Major’s Throne.” The Paisley house was the very first lodge he would come to there.
Following the lights from the Paisley Lodge through the trees, Bennett found the hidden driveway, and rolled up beside several cars parked there. There were a couple of ratty SUV’s and some older model cars. What kind of losers would Bennett find renting the Paisley House this season? He walked up the stairs to the elevated, main level porch deck, and deeply inhaled the winter night air. Turning his back to the front door, Bennett looked up at the swaying pines that separated the Paisley House from the parking lot, as they yielded to heavy wind. He watched the treetops gently brushing the full moon just above the mountain. There was the groan of the snow cats alternately heard, then made inaudible by the wind gusts that periodically blew sound waves away from where he stood.
There were voices and music coming from the other side of the front door, and Bennett turned again to face the big, two-story chalet. Just beyond that door would be the big living room with its hearth, open to the big country kitchen, and the two main bedrooms that he and Rich Silver had claimed for themselves when they co-managed this place some 12 years ago. The upstairs was comprised of the four tiny attic bedrooms that they had pawned off on other paying ski instructors.
Bennett was trying to muster up the courage, or imagination, to craft an explanation of why he was knocking on the door of this place. Just how might a group of strangers react to a middle-aged vagabond in a ski school jacket?
Just as Bennett cocked back his fist for a knock, the front door of the Paisley House suddenly flung open, swinging inside the house. Tony Corsica stood inside, smiling that big, broad stupid smile that never meant anything in particular, but was infectious, nonetheless. “Oh, it’s just you, ugly,” said Tony. “I was expecting a young lady from one of my private lessons today.” Bennett stood there a moment, startled at Tony’s familiarity. Except for seeing each other on the hill earlier that day, these two men had not been in the same room, shared a conversation, or corresponded since the end of ski season twelve years ago. “I… I was just wondering who had the Paisley House these days,” stammered Bennett. Tony shook his head, answering, “Don’t worry, we haven’t sold out your share yet, although we’re drawing lots to see who gets the big rooms next year.” Then, Tony turned around and walked back into the house, with the door left open behind him. Another voice inside shouted angrily, “Would someone close the goddamn door? You lazy b******s are bringing our heat bill up.” Bennett knew that to be Joe Marco’s voice. Joe had been one of Bennett’s original share-renters the first year there. “Is that you in there, Joe” quizzed Bennett, still on the porch. “No, it’s your mother, get in, or stay out, but close the f***ing door!”
Bennett stepped inside the Paisley house, and closed the door behind him, banishing the cold. Without looking up from his prostrate position from one of the couches, Joe greeted, “Hey, knucklehead.” Actually, the “couches” were in fact, two church pews, which Eunice Paisley’s long-deceased husband had fitted with vinyl-covered cushions. “Uh, hello, Joe, good to see you, too,” Bennett shot back, a bit more relaxed by the nonchalant greetings of his friends. Joe sat up now, and looked directly at Bennett. “Rich Silver is pissed at you. You might want to sleep with your door locked tonight.” Bennett’s jaw dropped. “What, he’s still mad at me?” he asked. Then, scanning around the big, open first floor layout, Bennett noticed that nothing, absolutely nothing, had changed from the last time he had been there. The furniture, the drab, dark wall paneling... Even the cheap synthetic orange-rust colored drapes still hung shabbily on curtain rods over the windows. “Yeah, what you did last week was really low, not that I wouldn’t have done it first, if I’d met her before you.” Bennett was staggered, “Last week? What did I do last week?” he asked incredulously. “Last week, I was in Florida.” Joe laughed and waved Bennett away, opening a book he had been reading, and went back to his prone position on the “couch” Tony Corsica had manned the kitchen sink, and was washing dishes. He too laughed, offering, “Yeah, that’s a good one, try that one on Rich, you were in Florida.”
The full realization that something bizarre was going on struck Bennett like an early morning nightmare. He regarded the two acquaintances who were so unaffected by his impromptu return to this place; anyway, what were they doing here, and when was Rich coming back. Suddenly, a profound physical fatigue nearly collapsed him, as Bennett headed down the hallway for his old bedroom. Even though this must be a dream, he had to go to sleep to wake up from it. If he awoke in this place tomorrow morning, and the Porsche was still there, he would deal with those great concerns then. But for now, a desperate craving for sleep was all that made any real sense.
Opening the door to his old room, Bennett bumped into something. Scratching from memory, he found the wall light switch, and saw his old room, exactly as he remembered it, except for the layout of the furniture, consisting of a bed and two dressers. They had been juxtaposed 90 degrees from the original scheme. Corsica and Marco were laughing hysterically in the living room. Hadn’t this prank been played on Bennett before, a dozen years ago? Redecorated or not, the room and its promise of a soft mattress sucked him in. Tearing his ski clothes off, Bennett was grateful to have found this warm, if weird and impossible den, as he fell into the old African-motif plush blanket on the bed, the one that his mother had given him for his first ski house, before she got sick, back in ‘79. Back when everything seemed exciting, and a night’s sleep after skiing was sublime.
SEVEN
A violent banging on a door suddenly awakened Bennett. Then, somebody was pacing heavily across the room he was in; what room, exactly, was still uncertain. Rich Silver yanked the spring-loaded blind on the window, the rollup type, and daylight exploded into the east-facing room. “Almost time for first lineup,” he said, “I wouldn’t want you to get fired before I have the chance for payback.” Rich was fully dressed for skiing, except for his ski boots. He stormed out of the room, and Bennett heard the front door of the Paisley house slam shut. There were no other sounds after that, save for the starting of a small-engine car, and the whine of a transmission in reverse, and tires crunching on snow. Everyone in the house was a ski instructor, and they had all made haste to first lineup, early morning runs, and staff check-in.
As Bennett rose up in the bed, he knew this was no dream. He went to the closet, filing through garments on hangers, mostly ski clothes. Notably, there was a jacket with his name pin on the left chest, “Bennett O’Brien, Instructor.” Heading for the bathroom, Bennett felt sick. The first floor bathroom confirmed his nausea, as it was far from the pristine model of hygiene and cleanliness, since four ski instructor tenants upstairs had only one facility on their floor. Vengeance had led them to overuse the downstairs one, which no self-respecting bachelor ever cleaned.
Rising up from his homage to the porcelain altar, Bennett wiped his mouth with a paper towel, and moved to the mirror. Had he become dehydrated through yesterday’s physically demanding activities? He observed that his face carried a two-day stubble. But more notable, was how drawn it had become. His cheekbones marked the widest points of his face above hollow cheeks. Gone was the bottom-heavy oval shape of his face, it had inverted, tapering down to a narrow but square chin, no longer framed by jowls. Looking downward, Bennett saw tight abdominal muscles in place of the belly he had gradually acquired.
Bennett was terrified, and nearly paralyzed by anxiety. He had experienced profound dreams during deep sleep before, with story plots spanning years actually conceived within moments of REM. Upon waking, perspective had always returned though, even as reorientation to reality was obliterating those stories which had been so vivid in that other, rapidly evaporating realm.
Suddenly, the concept of, “If I’m here, where are Maria and Stacy?” hit him, and Bennett leapt out of the bedroom, to the phone in the kitchen. He hastily worked the old rotary phone to dial his Delray Beach, Florida home, where Maria would pick up the phone, and help him make sense of this. Or, even better, his beautiful baby, who was really not a baby anymore at five, would answer , anticipating Daddy’s call. To his horror, the phone returned the dreaded, “doo dah dee” tones, followed by a recorded announcement that this was not a valid number, and to please check and dial again. Bennett did retry, again, and again, and again…
Had more than a decade been stripped away from him? His mind raced through flashbacks of profound moments, which played back like movie flashbacks:
There was the summer ski school reunion where he had first set eyes on Maria, in ‘92. She was one of very few guests at the annual gathering who was not a ski instructor. Her aura had captivated Bennett from across the large suburban backyard. The crowd between them had been rendered translucent by his radar focus on the magical woman. Bennett had attended the party with Sunny on his arm, even while that relationship was in the mature stages of bona-fide dysfunction. Up to that point, a strange chemistry or dependency had kept Bennett in process with Sunny, but on this night of the party, he saw only Maria. She was older than him, or Sunny, for that matter, but was physically a fox, nevertheless. The angle of her spine in the way she held herself, her long, long hair, and the sheer presence that she owned overwhelmed Bennett, and he had resolved to meet her.
Later, after many guests had left the party, the remaining visitors moved inside the house. A large Luna Moth fluttering about was freaking out some of the women, and chivalrous men moved forward to kill it. Stepping into the fray Maria interceded, and offered her hand in the manner in which one might invite a tame parrot to perch. Incredibly, the flying insect, in fact a butterfly, graciously accepted her overture. As she regarded the creature sitting trustingly on her finger, Bennett had seized the moment to approach her, entering into a dialogue apparently about the bug. His words to her were only superficially relevant to the butterfly. His references were obtuse, and suggestive of some other entente; she had been uneasy about this intrusion, and remained focused on liberating the Actias luna by freeing it through the front door.
Then, the day Maria had moved in with him, in Hackensack. She had brought love and stability to Bennett… Their wedding day, and the doctor delivering Stacey into his hands, fresh from Maria’s womb. There was their move to Florida, the nights that the three of them slept in one bed, with Stacey in the middle so she wouldn’t cry alone in her crib, and her first birthday, the first time she said, “Daddy.”
EIGHT
Bennett hurriedly gathered a few items from the closet of his room at the Paisley house, packed the Porsche, and headed for the 22A, southbound. The old Victorian was just as it should have looked in 1981, this time to Bennett's right, as he traveled southward out of Trapper, down towards the Thruway. "Had his eyes adjusted to the northeastern daylight?" he wondered. The afternoon sun was revealing so much more color and depth than had been evident on the ride up.
The Thruway segment was the same as it ever was, same as it ever was... But upon his final exit from the highway, it seemed to Bennett that things were missing, like some of the newer buildings that had spelled the development of Mahwah, Ramsey, and Paramus during the late '80's. Was he continuing backwards in time, or had his world stabilized at some point. Coming up on the familiar Majestic Pines Diner, Bennett Whisked the Porsche off Rt. 17, and into the diner parking lot. The same Greek man whom had seated him here during Bennett's days at Paramus High School greeted him with a smile, and gestured towards a small, empty booth, just past the register. Bennett grabbed a newspaper as he passed the counter, and laid it on the table as he sat down. The Bergen Record was dated December 18, 1982.
Having lost his appetite, Bennett quickly rose out of his seat and left the diner. Fumbling to unlock the car door, he was sweating, despite the temperature dipping towards 20 degrees as the afternoon sun began its descent from just above the diner. Bennett was sitting in the car, weeping and trembling in pure terror and deep grief, wondering what to do next.
After screeching back onto Rt. 17, Bennett was headed south. "I'll get to the airport, and fly back to Florida," he repeated over and over to himself. But at the split where the highway diverged into either the Turnpike or Rt. 80, he reflexively veered left, taking him northeast into Hackensack.
NINE
Well, that brings this story to a close, at least up to the part that Bennett told me when he got back from skiing last weekend. I just don't know what to think. Maybe he did some bad drugs at the mountain, or something. I mean, he's had that Porsche for about a year now. Hell, I went with him when he bought it from a guy way up in Florida, New York. I know my friend has been lonely, what with Sunny moving out last month, but to invent a wife and daughter, complete with names? He even claims to know their Social Security numbers. Last night, Bennett told me that somewhere, it is the year 2001 in Delray Beach, Florida. What would you do, get the guy help? Or maybe this is the ultimate practical joke, like when we kept planting that dead Christmas tree in each others' yards, back and forth through Easter a couple of years ago. Oh, and he's been going on about some stocks that he wants me to buy. Microsoft, and some company called Intel, and one I couldn't even find a listing for, Qualcomm, I think he said.
That is a pretty amazing tale, even for Bennett. The other day I caught him dialing Florida area codes from my kitchen phone, and getting fast busies, over and over. What would you do as a friend? Maybe this will blow over. Maybe it’s placating, but I did promise to accompany Bennett to his 1983 summer ski school reunion in August. He was very insistent about that. He says he's going to introduce me to his future wife there.
TRAPPER’S RETURN
