Marline Williams
January, 1965
“Stupid rain ruins everything!”
The kid next door is right. Rain ruins everything. Like my 1964 Summer Olympic hopes.
I rub my patched-up shin, reliving the worst day of my life.
Me and a hundred other cyclists outside Tokyo. Chasing gold at 25 mph. Four hours in, I’m cruising in the leader’s slipstream, planning my breakaway. The next minute, some Italian joker skids in the October downpour and takes five of us with him. Funny how cursing sounds the same in any language.
I can’t get comfortable, no matter how I shift position. Doc says these complicated breaks heal on their own schedule, but come on, it’s January already. Lately, I kill time eavesdropping on the new neighbors. Not exactly polite, but I’m sick of TV and crossword puzzles.
“Winter’s supposed to snow! Nobody’s gonna come to a winter carnival in the rain!”
“Pammy, honey, don’t worry. We put a rain date on the posters . . .”
Ah, the cheerful, soothing voice of big sister Jill. I know her name because the little sister hollers it. A lot. Jill’s one of those perky co-ed types. The kind that practically skips to the mailbox. Flippy hair, big smile. Too bad something’s gonna burst her bubble one day, and she’ll discover life isn’t all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.
“Everybody’ll forget about it by then! This stinks!”
Atta girl, Pammy. You tell ’er. I haven’t seen the kid yet—she must be off to school before I get up—but I like her spunk.
“Well, we’ll make new posters and the whole neighborhood will come and we’ll donate tons of money. You’ll see.”
Nice try, but she shouldn’t get the kid’s hopes up. From what I’ve seen, these backyard charity carnivals usually raise about ten bucks, if they’re lucky. And aren’t they normally in the summer? I go back to my puzzle and wonder if Jill is the four-letter word for optimism. I gimp to the door when the bell rings.
It’s her.
With the kid.
Two things hit me like a high-speed collision—big sister’s blue eyes and little sister’s pint-sized leg braces.
“I hope we’re not intruding. Mr. Harris, isn’t it? I’m Jill Sommers. This is my sister, Pammy. Do you have a minute?”
I quit staring. Swallow hard. “Sure. Call me Mark, please. Come on in.”
Jill hovers behind Pammy, shaking her head when I reach to help. By the time the kid’s bear-traps clear the threshold, I’m sweating.
“Hey, Mark’s got crutches, too.” Pammy points with her crutch, ignoring her sister’s shushing.
“Have a seat.” I move the chair closer, trying not to be obvious. “Crutches aren’t much fun, are they?”
“Not much.” Releasing her knee hinges, Pammy plops down. “I got braces on my teeth, too.” She opens her mouth for inspection, then closes it at Jill’s gentle frown.
“Full set, huh? That’s rough. Well, uh, what can I do for you ladies?”
“Maybe you heard about our backyard carnival?” Jill says. “We’re raising money for research. For cerebral palsy.”
“Yeah . . . I did hear about it . . . somewhere.” I’m sweating for a new reason now. “Nice posters.”
“Lemme ask him!” Pammy hoists herself up, locks her braces, and crutches over. “It was supposed to be today, but the rain wrecked it. We got a rain date, but I think people will forget by then. We need a sure-fire”—she turns to Jill— “what’s the word again?”
“Attraction.”
“Yeah. That’s you, cuz you were in the Olympics. If you’re at our carnival, folks will come.”
Jill’s quick glance warns and pleads. “Isn’t Pammy’s idea terrific?”
“Terrific.” The lump in my throat squeezes like hand brakes on a curve. “But, honey, I didn’t win a medal. I didn’t even finish the race. I’m not sure anyone really cares—”
“Are you kidding? Jill made two whole pages about you in our Olympic scrapbook!”
Pammy’s indignant yelping almost drowns out her sister’s funny little mortified groan.
“We saw the crash on TV! It wasn’t your fault! You got to Japan, didn’t you? Bad things just happen sometimes. You tried your best. Jill says that’s what counts. Isn’t that right?”
I feel something like a gear shift in my soul. “Of course she’s right. I’d be honored to come. What do you want me to do? I can’t do bike tricks.”
“Me either,” Pammy says matter-of-factly. “We figured you can sign autographs and run the ice bike race.”
“Bikes on ice? Seems like a great way to break a leg.”
“Silly.” Pammy whacks my crutch with hers. “It’s just chucking little plastic toy bikes down a frozen sliding board to see which is fastest. Like bobsleds.”
“Oh, okay. Sounds cool. Get it? Cool?”
Pammy giggles. “You’re funny.”
“We’d better go.” Jill stands, laughing. “Thanks so much. It’s really kind of you.”
“Nah. Just shameless self-promotion.”
“Somehow, Mark, I doubt that.” Jill’s smile is quiet and sweet, her hand on my arm, strong and warm. She smells like flowers and looks like an angel. And all of a sudden, I’m in a slipstream of sunshine pulling me toward something better than any gold medal.
Pammy stomps independently to the door, then turns a doubtful face my way. “Hey, got any Olympics pictures of you? Before the crash, I mean. Our dad can make mimeos for the new posters.”
“Sure, I’ll dig some up,” I say, picturing the closet where I buried them.
“She’s got a million ideas.” Jill grins. “And big dreams.”
“And the prettiest guardian angel on earth.” Probably the corniest thing I’ve ever said. And the truest. “Uh, hey. What are you doing tomorrow?”
She’s even cuter when she blushes. “Probably stapling your picture on telephone poles all over town. Why?”
“Doc says I need more exercise, so how ’bout I help? Maybe a movie afterwards?”
“That’d be swell!” Pammy yells over her shoulder. “Jill, you were right. He IS nice!”
I could easily get used to hearing that funny little groan.
Marline’s debut novel, All Men Are Liars, typically triggers lively conversations when read in public venues. She’s hammering away on the sequel now.
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