Crazy Blood (36 page)

Now the starting gate swung out and she launched, the crowd cheering. Studying her videos, Wylie had come to admire her unhurried starts, then how she built momentum into the body of her run, then closed with dramatic finishes. April now looked like she had just gotten out of bed and was easing her way into the day. After all, she had no clock and no opponents to beat down the hill. Why hurry? She put a little ragamuffin into it. But Wylie and everyone watching knew that she would need velocity—lots of it and soon—to get the big air she needed for her tricks.

She came off the start with a 50/50 on the downrail, held it long and casually, like a surfer having fun on a small but well-shaped wave. Wylie watched her with a smile. The crowd hooted and hollered as April, much larger than life, charged toward them on the big screen. She gapped to a board-slide switch out, then drove up the ramp with a sudden speed that seemed to be supplied from behind her, rocketlike. Then off the lip she flew, up and up into the blue sky, above the green treetops, the crowd
oohing,
Wylie agog. She twisted dervishly in midair, decomposing into a blur of board and body from which a favorable outcome seemed doubtful, then landed the cab-tail 270 in perfect balance, as if on springs. She scorched loudly across the trough and up the opposite flank, then launched back into the air for a switch back-side 540 multiple body roll that seemed a defiance of time and space, a thing too complex and rapid to be clearly seen. She landed with the lightness of a leaf. The crowd was wild, and Wylie held his breath.

Then she flew into authentic view from the grandstand. Wylie watched as her compact white-and-turquoise form banked frontward off the edge and back into the air. Such joy in it. The crowd hollered louder as April carved down toward them, her dazzling speed seemingly given to her again. She banked high twice and laid down another 540, so much closer to him now that Wylie could hear the sharp carve and grind of her board.

She landed with a loud crunch and shot up the next bank toward her final jump. Such wonderful speed now, even more than before, as if she'd been saving it. She sprang up over the blue edge paint and into the sky again—her biggest air so far—Wylie and the crowd sensing something new here, a raising of stakes. Higher and higher she rose. At the apex, she dropped her head and shoulders and the snowboard flashed upward, April tucking under it, board bottom to the sky, comets of ice falling, one hand on the rail for a long roll that accelerated to a blur of turquoise and white, woman and board, tangled and twisting. Then down she came. Wylie couldn't tell what part of her would hit the ground first. The crowd had gone silent. Suddenly, April's snowboard slashed into place beneath her and she landed hard. Her legs collapsed, springlike, and she wobbled slightly. Then she uncoiled into balance, raising her fists to the crowd and sending a wave of snow into the photogs. She carved to a stop in the middle of the out-run, beaming.

“I think I just saw, like, history,” said Belle.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

That evening, Wylie and April drove to Village Square for the Gargantua Mammoth Cup Runneth Over Party. It was already in full swing when they got there, and Wylie had to park across the street in the pay lot. He and April walked arm in arm, leaning into each other. They both wore their winners' jackets, which had been hand-sewn by a local designer and underwritten by Vault Sports. The jacket bodies were Mammoth team blue, the sleeves white and red, respectively. Wylie wore a new blue shirt and his best jeans and black cowboy boots, recently polished. Under her winner's jacket, April dared a black miniskirt and leggings, black boots, and touches of lapis set in silver.

“I'm so happy and full right now,” said April. “I want it to last forever.”

He looked at her and found it difficult to believe that he was about to walk into a party thrown partially in honor of himself and his date—easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He knew that in no real way did he deserve her; in fact, pointedly did not deserve her. But if this was the flip side of life not being fair, he would take it. “Maybe it will,” he said lamely.

“I had a long talk with Mom this afternoon. We're good. I'm sending her home. I'm going to travel on my own and learn to take care of myself. She'll still handle all the business arrangements. Logan's going to work with Sandra Brannen in Jackson, so he's covered. I'll train hard for the X Games and the FIS circuit, and spend every free minute with this Welborn guy out of Mammoth.”

“He might like that.”

“I hope I don't drive him crazy with all my habits.”

“I hear he's just dumb in love with you.”

Wylie looked out at the square, teeming with lights and people. Village Square was Mammoth Lakes' largest and most focused commercial development and one of its more recent. It looked like a Christmas card. The buildings were alpine-modern, the shops and restaurants upscale and expensive. Four-story condos lined the curving village walkways and a handsome Westin Hotel anchored one end of it. There were streetlamps and wooden benches and sculptures. A smooth, fast gondola whisked people up the mountain to Canyon Lodge. The square's focal point was a tall, peaked clock tower, which had become a key civic symbol of the city.

Tonight, the village was at its best. Eaves and roofs shouldered the heavy snow, and icicles dropped shining beads into the light of storefront windows. The snow had been blown off the plaza floor, and there were three bars and a dozen food stands spouting fragrantly competitive clouds of steam into the cold, clear air.

Walking up the steps to the plaza, Wylie was startled to see Cynthia Carson standing in the snow under a tall red fir, pointing a small camera at them. She was very close but scarcely visible in her winter-bark camo jacket and matching knit cap and gloves. The camera clicked twice, then dangled on a strap on her wrist. She held a pen in her camera hand and a small notepad in the other, her thumb marking her place. Her blue eyes looked backlit. “You won.”

“Thank you.”

“How did it feel?”

“Good.”

She wrote deliberately, then looked up at April. “My name is Cynthia Carson.”

“Yes, I know who you are,” said April.

“Sky believes that your contact on the X Course went past incidental,” Cynthia said.

“I thought he would,” said Wylie.

“And what do you believe?”

“Neither of us gave one inch. The referee saw no infraction. It's part of ski cross.”

Cynthia wrote again—carefully and slowly—then nodded, as if she'd anticipated Wylie's words. “Sky feels that he must follow through on his warning to you.”

“I wish he wouldn't.”

“I understand his position.”

“I'll bet you do. But I'm not going to apologize to him for things I didn't do.”

“His broken right arm has been set. He and his fiancée are up in Reno tonight. He feels humiliated.”

“He ran a good race. I hope he lets us all be, Mrs. Carson.”

“Don't escalate.”

“I'm going to the party now.”

“A pleasure to meet you, April. I never liked board slopestyle until today. I don't understand how you do it, but it's courageous and very beautiful.”

Tonight, Village Square was overhung by a white canvas canopy outlined in strands of twinkling lights. Stainless-steel heaters glowed within and propane-burning fire pits threw up lapping waves of orange flames. Wylie guided April under the canopy, and as the revelers recognized them, they broke into hoots and shouts and glove-muffled applause. The DJ spun “Can't Hold Us,” and suddenly phones and cameras were clicking and flashing. Wylie smiled and waved, then took April's right hand and raised it high. A platoon of reporters, photographers, and video shooters materialized from the crowd and made straight for her.

The winners' tables were bar-style, round and high, and spread throughout the canopied square so the guests could step up and talk with the athletes. Wylie joined the two Colorado ski-cross finalists, who pressed an open bottle of champagne on him, hugged him tipsily, and offered bleary smiles to the circle of ski-cross admirers. Wylie sipped a long, cold shot and hugged two girls who wanted him in their selfies.

Claude Favier broke away from a group and strongly shook Wylie's hand. “Never have I been more proud for Chamonix! I wish you all the good luck in Aspen. And in Europe, if you choose to compete.”

“I'm taking those CR Fives on the FIS circuit, Claude.” It sounded strange to hear himself say this in public for the first time. The World Cup circuit!

“It will be a challenge, but you are a good ski-cross racer. Do not let European snobbery destroy your confidence. I know the very best wax technician on the Continent and I will introduce you to him. He can read a racer's mind and reveal it in the waxing. He can improve any racer's speed.”

“I'll send you a picture of me on the podium at Val Thorens.”

“With the CR Fives prominently visible!” Then the Frenchman's smile dropped and he leaned in close to Wylie. “I saw your dramatic pass of Sky yesterday. Something in it disturbed me. Later, the chief of race allowed me to view the video. I watched it several times and decided that you did no wrong in the passing of Sky Carson. You raced honestly. But Sky is very temperamental, so you must be civil to him.”

“I can manage it.”

“His threats are, of course, nonsense. Ah—I see a friend I must welcome.” Claude angled skillfully through the partygoers to intercept a tall and strikingly beautiful woman with a borzoi on a leash. The woman looked at the dog and the dog sat, and Claude cheek-kissed her three times in the French way.

Wylie talked briefly with a
Powder
magazine stringer who said he'd gotten a kick out of Wylie's “power pass” in the finals, though obviously Sky Carson had not. He told Wylie that Sky's broken wrist was a “green-stick fracture” and not serious. He said the FIS ski-cross circuit was much rougher than here—totally physical—then excused himself to catch up with a waiter bearing a tray of complimentary wines.

Next to Wylie, the Colorado guys had loudly begun reenacting key moments from their races, one of them snatching the champagne bottle back from Wylie. Wylie seized the moment to locate April, who stood at a middle table with the women slopestylers. The media troops had closed in again and her table had twice the crowd as any other. But, somehow sensing his attention, she looked over and found him and smiled as her admirers pressed in and the camera lights slapped her face. She had taken off her jacket and become even more beautiful.

Mike Cook brought Wylie a bourbon and they posed for pictures for
The Sheet
and
Mammoth Times.
As the photogs snapped away, Wylie saw Kathleen and Steen and his sisters yapping it up with Jesse and Jolene Little Chief. Beatrice and Belle did look penitent with their shorn hair and humble good manners.

Adam and Teresa made their entrance, to solid applause. Adam looked underdressed and bored, as he often did at social gatherings, while Teresa was radiant. The mayor and two council members stood with the chief of police and two Mammoth Lakes developers. Bart Helixon cut through the crowd, talking to somebody somewhere, wearing a trim navy suit, his window lens shimmering.

Grant Bulla and his son Daniel were engaged with the women half-pipe boarders. The sergeant looked over and Wylie nodded. Bulla had been persuasive in the legal proceedings against Wylie's sisters—urging leniency for their youth and good characters—and Wylie made a note to thank him again tonight, later. Coincidentally, Wylie spotted the Honorable Caroline Hoppe at the men's boarder-cross table. She was holding a steaming mug, nodding intently along with an animated presentation by the first-place medalist.

Jacobie Bradford delivered drinks to two young women Wylie didn't know. The women glanced at each other. Jacobie's head shined as if waxed and he had traded in his fly-fishing uniform for a tuxedo and a bold scarf in Rastafarian black, green, gold, and red. Wylie watched the snow falling in the darkness outside the canopy and heard his beloved Rexroth:
Believe/In the night, the moon, the crowded/Earth.

He looked at April again, surrounded by her crowd and unaware of him. He pictured her last slopestyle run, the skill and abandon that she'd brought to a competition that she had already won. She's right, he thought, remembering the first long walk they'd taken together—from Let It Bean to her rented home in Starwood—when she'd told him she was at her best in the air, trying to do beautiful things. Impossible things. He admired that freedom. The freedom to be the best you can be. The freedom for it to be more than a job or a means or a contest or a way out. For it to be a way in, Wylie thought.
Thank you, April Holly.
Unseen by her, Wylie saw the flash of her smile, and he had never felt this full. He wanted to be closer to her.

Soon he was. The eighteen winners were herded onto a low stage set up near one of the fire pits. More photos, Wylie thought. The gold medalists took center stage, and the second- and third-place contestants squeezed in around them. Wylie arranged himself most happily next to April. Photographers both pro and amateur filled the floor in front of the athletes, and their lights flashed away as Jacobie rolled a wheeled, hooded object through them, stopping it at the stage.

With a flourish, he yanked on the shroud to reveal the newly redesigned Gargantua Mammoth Cup—a cast statue of a lowland gorilla with an almost human expression, standing upright and holding a chalice over his head with two stout arms. Hoots and hollers rang out. The trophy was close to four feet tall, and the winner's names had already been engraved. The medalists played it straight for as long as they could, then broke into impromptu aping. Wylie held a beer to the gorilla's mouth and the photographers fired away. April slipped her arm around Wylie and he felt the wonderful heft of her against his side and the beat of her heart. He knew this was one of the great moments of his life.