The air at the Ski Village buzzed with the scent of snow and cash. The Portable Fiesta had come to roost: stylish greetings rang out in bars and cafés, and the Season Pass lanes that led to the Tram.
Mary was keeping a low profile, parking the Senior Saab by the dumpsters, and cruising up to the yurt on cross-country skis. Despite living in the middle of a ski slope, she hadn't been boarding much. Boarders were still verboten on Ski Village slopes— supposedly a safety hazard. The locals had packed up-tracks near Wilson and along the Teton Pass Road, with disputes raging over primo terrain like Glory Bowl. The hardcore telemark skiers who'd staked it out years before claimed that snowboarders were more likely to bring down avalanches, and besides they took up more than their share of space and left ugly zig-zag tracks.
She'd been skiing early, before the lifts opened, on the old cross-country boards she'd got at Browse & Buy for ten bucks: Bonna 2400s, tough Norwegian skis with hickory bases, that climbed like crazy. She made her own trails, crossing the ski runs on catwalks, so as to leave the powder intact, and exploring the stringers of woodland and the rockbound margins. When she heard the lifts start, she'd head back to the yurt and stoke the stove. Then she'd feed Gris, eat, drink coffee, think about the song she was working on. She'd wake up Ginger, if she was there, which usually took three tries.
Even when the slopes were crowded with skiers, the woods absorbed the shouts and clatter— or maybe she'd just learned to screen out the noise. It seemed quiet, and calm in a way her life had seldom been, before.
Fact is, she didn't feel like leaving the yurt unless she had to, for band practice or gigs, or her three evenings each week in the Park Café. The band had gotten known to the point where she'd become a minor-league celebrity— or maybe novelty was a better word. The ranking locals at the Café chatted with her in a friendly way, as she served their drinks and dinners. But she didn't get invited to their parties.
She did get invited to one, by Slim the Deputy. He'd come into the Park Café— out of uniform, looking uncomfortable— then charmed her anew with his froggy smile. His high school friends, the ones who were still around the Hole, were getting together on Sunday and there'd be music. She'd accepted. She wasn't all that keen on hanging out with a cop, but it'd be good to meet some of the true locals, who'd actually grown up here.
Meanwhile, Ginger was running wild with the ski elite. She blipped from the Mangy Moose to the Satin Doll, trading hugs and smacking cheeks, and getting wasted nearly every night. When her Dad was at the house, exuding brimstone, she would park her gold Beamer by Mary's Saab, and stagger up the packed snow path to the yurt to collapse, suffusing the firelit circle with the fumes of booze and dope.
Naturally, she woke up cranky. Mary knew well those ugly morning moods, and dispensed strong coffee and tomato juice and aspirin with a soft voice. But when Ginger brought up vodka and Tabasco, and mixed a giant Bloody Mary instead of breakfast, she thought it was time for a reality check.
"Hey girl—Do you wanna go bunk with your Mom?"
"What? In rehab? No way."
"How do you think she got herself where she is?"
Ginger took a big gulp of her concoction and faced her tormentor with a slit-eyed glare. "What do you mean by that?"
"I grew up with a drunk. I care about you too much to watch you go that way— I'm serious."
"Look— get off my case. I'm just partying with friends. No problem."
"Wasted every night is a problem. What about last week, when you went off the path and passed out in the snow? Is freezing to death a problem?"
"Thanks for dragging me up here, okay? But you owe me, too. For this place."
"I've thanked you a hundred times. But it's not the same thing— I'm not doing you any favors, letting you fuck yourself up."
"How did a Catholic school girl get such a dirty mouth?"
"Hey— you want dirty? Fuck You, Rich Cunt."
Ginger set down her drink and swung a flat palm— bad mistake.
She saw fireworks as the back of her head hit the plywood floor of the yurt. Mary was straddling her, one hand gripping her throat, fist cocked, eyes wild.
"If you ever swing on me again, I'll kill you. Swear to God!"
"L-look! I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Have you ever been beaten?"
"What?"
"Did your Dad ever beat you up? Your Mom?"
"N-n-no."
"'Til you're screaming and puking and bloody?"
"God! No!"
"Mine did."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Not your fault. But I'd rather die than let anyone do that again." Her grip relaxed and she lowered her fist.
Then she broke. Wailed like a cat.
Ginger, too. Tear-wet cheek to cheek, they clutched each other in an agonized embrace, rolling across the floor to fetch up at the foot of the bed. And lay there, panting, then just breathing each other's air.
Mary ended the hush. "Pretty bad, huh?"
"Bad. Bad for sure."
YOU ARE READING
THE FERAL STRUT
Misteri / ThrillerEscaping her trailer-trash background for a summer job as a forest ranger in Wyoming, Mary Browne deals with various hazards, natural and human. But when she moves to Jackson Hole, and starts playing with her band, The Feral Sluts, she steps unwit...