Loveland

By Lisa Marie Mercer

Jonathan plans to visit every month, but when he discovers that Vicki, his former lover is involved with the Committee to Rebuild the World Trade Center, he joins the cause, and his Colorado visits become less frequent. Meanwhile, in Colorado, documentary filmmaker and Loveland ski instructor David La Vecchia wants Mariel to help him make a film about her father's life. Then, Mariel's brother sends her a packet of letters sent to their father by Kate, a former Women's Army Corps member who trained with their father at Camp Hale, and is currently working at Loveland. Kate and Mariel meet, and Mariel slowly learns the secrets of her father's past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Aug 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781594317941

Book preview

Prologue

Mariel

If conventional wisdom had a face, it would surely frown upon the way I conducted myself throughout the second part of my life. Yet since the hypothetical face of conventional wisdom could only belong to a conventional, read, boring person, I feel no need to justify my actions. After all, my spiritual, physical and emotional adventures have been a tradition in my family for generations. Who I am to break a family tradition?

The anonymous body of know-it -alls; commonly know as they, says that everything happens for a reason. Reason? Ha! Some of the most unreasonable acts in the history of the world shaped my life, as well as my family history.

This is my story.

Sept. 11th 2001

They could not have picked a more beautiful day.

It’s a day that inspires poets and songwriters.

It’s a clear day, so of course, you can see forever.

It’s a day to reflect on the glory of being alive.

It is definitely not a good day to die.

Look out the window and watch the woman walking her greyhound near the Battery Park City waterfront. Do you see her? The one with the long hair falling to her waist? It’s hard to miss her. The long dress with a laced up bodice is certainly out of place amongst the stiff gray suits that characterize business wear for the yuppies of Lower Manhattan. She belongs in a world of castles carriages and kings.

Suddenly, she hears music. Ravel’s Bolero. She has an urge to dance, but then, she realizes that it’s the ring tone to her new cell phone. This is her fourth. She often loses things, including her mind. Fumbling through a bag filled with papers, cards, tissues and other items that have long ceased to be useful, she answers on the last ring.

Bonjour, Papa

Mariel darling. I’ve arrived early for our breakfast date.

Oh no! I’ll finish walking Whistler and hurry-

No don’t. I’m sitting here at Windows on the World enjoying the view.

She laughs. Don’t get too drunk, Dad. I’ll see you at 10:30 as planned. Je t’aime, Papa.

No answer.

I love you.

Still no answer.

"Je t’aime. I love you. Can you hear me now??

She is disconnected. Then, she stares, transfixed.

Physical paralysis characterizes the shock stage of the grief cycle.

Whistler, her greyhound, drags his Mommy from the danger, just as he did three nights ago. He wonders if he has earned himself another cookie.

* * *

I use the third person when I tell this story. Call it denial, delusional, whatever. Just let me believe, for at least a moment that it happened to someone else. Reality will eventually slap me in the face and remind me that I lost my father, my hero and my role model on 9/11.

America lost a World War II hero, who dedicated his life to battling bigots and religious fanatics of all persuasions; from Meir Kahane to the Ku Klux Klan. He died at the hands of a bunch of religious fanatics, who were enticed by the reward of post-mortem sex with virgins. And they call that reason? Well I say, to Hell with reason!

Irrational anger is the second stage of the grief cycle..

If I had listened to reason, I would have listened to my dad after the 93 bombings.

This is Kristallnacht all over again, Mariel. They are already implying that this was a Jewish plot. You need to get out of that neighborhood. Something much worse is going to happen.

These were strong words from dad, who defined the shelter drills of my elementary school days as ridiculous. In retrospect, they probably were. Did people who worked in the offices at the World Trade Center duck under their desks when the planes hit? I think not. My older brother thought it hilarious when, as a toddler, I would confuse the Castro Convertible jingle with the news announcements about the Race to Space with the Russians. I somehow understood that the Russians and Castro were both communists, whatever that meant, so I pranced around the house singing, Who was the first to conquer space? Castro the Communist! Dad was not amused. He saw it as an example of the McCarthy propaganda that characterized that distasteful period in American history. He did, however, take the 1993 bombings quite seriously.

I did not listen to my father in 1993. Jonathan and I had just moved to Battery Park City. I was too stubborn to leave my new home. Home? Where is home? Whistler understands my confusion. He drags me towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Lady Liberty observes the exodus of the huddled masses, racing from the scene, yearning to breathe free. God, if you’re there, why hast thou forsaken us?

We arrive in Brooklyn Heights. Whistler had brought me to grandma and grandpa’s house. For better or for worse, this is now home. Perhaps, if I’m nice to my mother, I will discover that my father somehow escaped.

Bargaining characterizes the third stage of grief.

Damien

I hear the explosion as I unlock the door to my mother’s apartment. Another day in New York, another explosion. My mother is lying on the couch, sobbing her eyes out. So what else is new? Trying my best to sound chirpy and cheerful, I call to her.

Good morning, Lady Catherine. I come bearing a feast suitable for a queen! But why the tears?

She looks up at me, and sniffs, A plane just struck the World Trade Center. Aaron was supposed to meet Mariel for breakfast at Windows on the World. He went early because…because it was a nice day and he wanted to take pictures.

Here we go again. Are we having one of our bad dreams, darling? She jumps to an upright position. Sometimes I forget that this former Ziegfeld Girl is still quite agile. She shakes her finger at me. Shit! Now I’m in for it.

"No we are not having one of our bad dreams. I may be losing my mind, but I’m not delusional. And don’t talk to your mother that way!"

I roll my eyes and walk to the television, expecting to see some sort of soap opera that has somehow confused her.

Damn!

Watch your language!

Sorry. She sits down on the couch and moans. He went early so he could take pictures…

I place my arm around her shoulders and interrupt her. She’s a crazy old broad, but she’s my mother and I love her. Well don’t plan their funeral yet. Dad’s a war hero. And remember what my crazy sister did during the 93 attacks? She pushes my arm away, jumps up and paces around the room. Uh oh. Rant alert.

That foolish girl!

Gee, mom. Why don’t you tell me what you really think of your daughter?

No daughter of mine should have been so stupid to think that she could carry a 50-pound oxygen tank for ten blocks- Especially when she was two months pregnant.

She saved many lives that day.

Here it comes; the famous, Catherine Savan snort of disdain. She killed her child! Then she got that, that, heart thing. Again with the heart thing. Get over it, Mom. Of course, I can’t say this. Instead, I walk over to her and massage her shoulders. That heart thing was something she was born with. If she hadn’t had that miscarriage, it might have been too late when they finally discovered it. And just think, she joined the church after all of that." Maybe if I appeal to her Christianity…

Getting baptized at that pagan Cathedral of Saint John the Divine is hardly what I’d call religion. And then there’s that so called spiritual advisor of hers. That jogging nun.

Okay, that didn’t work.

Sister Felicity helped Mariel keep her sanity. I reasoned.

‘What sanity?" she retorted.

Touché! But people who read horoscopes should not talk about paganism. This infuriates her.

Nancy Reagan reads horoscopes!’ This is an argument I will never win. Under my breath, I mutter, and that’s supposed to be a good thing?" The doorbell rings. Saved by the bell. It’s Mariel’s husband Jonathan.

Where’s Mariel? he demands.

Not here, Catherine answers.

He stands, paralyzed at the doorway. I was in the middle of a case. Suddenly, the bailiff comes into the courtroom and tells us that we need to evacuate the courthouse. At first, everyone thought that it was just another bomb scare. But then, we heard the news. I just didn’t know where to go. So I followed the others and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge.

Sit down, I say. Let me fix you a drink.

At the word drink, Catherine stops sobbing. Pour me one too, sweetheart.

Mom, you know you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with your medication.

She throws the remote control across the room. My daughter and husband are dead. Pour me a goddamn drink! It’s not worth an argument. I pour the drinks and position myself between them on the couch.

A few sips later, Jonathan is ready to talk. I knew something was wrong the other night. We had gone out to dinner. When we got home, Mariel was worried that she had eaten too much. She told me that she was going out for a run, even though it was already 10 PM. You know how she gets.

Catherine glares at him. If she knew how to control her appetite, these things wouldn’t happen. Uh oh. Here it comes.

If you hadn’t fed her so much nonsense about keeping her figure…" Jonathan retorts.

Stop it, both of you! I interject. Go on, Jon.

She asked me to go with her, but I refused. Later, when she came back, I knew something was wrong. But she wouldn’t talk to me. Spent the rest of the night on the couch with Whistler. On Sunday, she was watching the news. Something seemed to bother her. Then I heard her call Aaron to tell him that she wanted to meet him today.

The doorbell rings.

Aaron? shouts my mother.

Mariel? shouts Jonathan.

Mariel

I enter my parents’ apartment and see Jonathan, my mother and Damien gathered in the living room. This is a recipe for yet another disaster. Whistler dances around the room, oblivious to the tension, and wondering why nobody is petting him. Jonathan jumps up and smothers me with hugs and kisses.

Thank god you’re alright.

God, I say, had nothing to do with it. I begin to cough.

My mother accosts me. Where the hell is your father? I’m still coughing, but this doesn’t faze her.

Must you always ask the obvious, mother? I choke.

Why did you have to meet him today? she demands.

"Gee, I’m sorry I didn’t read his horoscope before I-

Don’t go there! Damien warns. I ignore him.

made plans to meet him, I continue. For a moment, she softened. In a pleading tone, she asks, Do you think he’s…

Well duh! I cut her off. So much for my bargain with God.

Don’t you get fresh with me, young lady!

Mom, real mothers don’t say that. They haven’t used those clichés since those stupid movies you used to make. Don’t call me mom! she hollers. You’re not my daughter. You were never my daughter.

I cuddle up next to my husband and whisper, next thing you know, she’ll be yelling ‘wire hangers.’

He puts a finger to his lips, admonishing me to avoid making matters worse. Tell us what happened, baby, he says gently. Slowly, I recount the story, but the sound of my mother in the bedroom, fumbling through the dresser draws, distracts me. What the hell is she doing?

She comes out, holding something in her hand. Whistler believes that he’s finally getting his well-deserved I rescued Mommy treat. He rushes to see what she’s holding.

Your father had a will, she whispers.

Oh that would be very important to you. It’s wrong, but I can’t resist the sarcasm.

It’s about his funeral arrangements, she snaps. I’m not ready to hear this. Nonetheless, I ask her to read it. She goes into hysterics. We can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. Whistler, the damn traitor, rushes over and adorns her with his wet, sloppy doggie kisses. Enjoy it, Mom. This is the only grandchild you’re gonna’ get.

He wanted to be cremated, can you believe that? Cremated! He wanted to be cremated, and have his ashes thrown over the Loveland Pass! The irony of the situation doesn’t escape us. An uncomfortable silence ensues. Finally, Jonathan is the first to talk.

We have to honor his wishes.

Oh yeah. What are we supposed to do, sort through the rubble of corpses and look for his remains? He ignores my crude sarcasm and continues.

No, but we can go to Loveland and have a memorial service. Damien, who never quite got it about Colorado, interjects.

Oh no. No way am I getting on a plane after this. Besides, air traffic will probably be restricted.

Jonathan puts his hand on my brother’s shoulder. That’s what cars are for, he says. But we should wait a few weeks before going out there. It’s probably going to take some time to get the family and friends together.

All of us stay at my parent’s house that night.

Anti Defamation League Chairman and Brooklyn College History Professor Aaron Savan was amongst the victims of the September 11th tragedy. Savan had planned to eat breakfast at Windows on the World with his daughter, physical therapist Mariel Savan Leeds. Savan, a former member of the 10th Mountain Division, was a French Jew whose family left Paris right before the Nazi invasion. He is survived by his wife, former Ziegfeld Girl and Hollywood starlet Catherine Savan, his son, choreographer Damien and his daughter Mariel. Savan was a well-known historian, whose books about the 10th Mountain Division have hit the top of the New York Times Best Seller List.

The morning news has disturbed my practically non-existent slumber. Oh lovely. We’re famous. How the hell did they know? I call out to my mother. Mom, did you call the news station about dad?

Of course I did. The world has right to know. For once, I agree with her, but Jonathan, sensing the potential for yet another fight, attempts to distract me.

Do you want me to see if we have Internet access?

Whatever.

He takes out his laptop. A few minutes later, he says, "Power up your dad’s computer. They’re talking about you on Ski-Chat.com.

Have you ever wondered if history would be different if Al Gore had invented the Internet during the Holocaust? If the rumors had been confirmed at an earlier date, would anyone care? I recall the stories from members of my family. Relatives would arrive in the States with rumors of a crazy dude named Adolph Hitler, who wanted to exterminate Jews, Gypsies and other subversive groups of people. Since the stories appeared to be hearsay, nobody believed them. Yet nowadays, if something is on the Internet, everyone believes that it’s true, even if the information makes no sense whatsoever. In fact, the Internet has replaced the New York Times as the ultimate source of what is true and accurate, whatever the heck that means. Perhaps the Internet is the proverbial They.

After 9/11, the Internet was a major form of communication for people throughout the entire world. On September 12th, the New York Times wrote More than news, what people all over the world craved in the wake of yesterday’s terrorist attacks was connection to each other, and many of them found that most easily achieved by going online. My husband and I were frequent posters in a ski-related Internet message forum. Most people knew that we lived near the World Trade Center. My elite status on the forum is the result of my family history, but dad’s fame extended beyond the circle of ski and military historians. He played an active role in the civil rights movement, and, despite the horrors he and his family experienced, he believed that people were ultimately good at heart. His optimism never ceased to amaze me.

If you don’t ski, or if you aren’t interested in liberal politics, you’ve probably never heard of my dad, but you have surely heard of my mother, the once famous Ziegfeld Girl, who was disinherited by her wealthy parents for marrying, good heavens, a Jew! Me, I’m just a humble physical therapist and aging aerobic bimbo, whose life is far less extraordinary than the lives of my parents.

I type in Ski Gypsy, and struggle, as always, to remember my secret password. Jonathan hears me cursing under my breath. ‘Sugarloaf, he says from the other side of the room. Lower case. Ah! That’s it. It was September, when people would usually be planning their upcoming ski trips and purchasing new gear, but everyone is breaking the no politics" rule and talking about the attacks.

AltaSkier

Has anyone tried to get in touch with Mariel and Jonathan?

Jim Sears

I always thought that Aaron Savan would be skiing into his 90’s. What a way to die.

David La Vecchia

We’ve lost a major hero. I hope Mariel’s alright.

Ski God

High-ranking public officials and prominent columnists in the Middle East have revealed that Jews were warned against coming to work on September 11th. Wake up, America! While George and the American capitalists have you believe that this was an Islamic plot, it’s clear to anyone with half a brain that this stinks of the workings of America, the Jews and the Masad. Let’s hope the Nazi forum moderators won’t close this thread.

Would you look at this crap, I yell to my husband.

Check out his profile, Jonathan answers.

How did you know what I was reading?

Because you’re muttering like a crazy person. Look at his profile.

I click on the profile icon to learn more about this supposed Ski God.

Oh my God! He teaches at Deer valley. He teaches at one of the world’s most upscale resorts and he complains about American capitalism!

Thought you’d appreciate that. But you probably shouldn’t go all Ann Coulter on him.

Do you think that if Ann Coulter weren’t thin, blond and gorgeous, anyone would listen to her garbage? I ask, more to myself, than anyone else. Damien has been on his cell phone, rambling in French to his lover Henri. He switches back to English.

She’s a guy in drag. Check out the Adam’s apple.

I sniff a laugh and go back to the forum. Dave LaVecchia has already posted a reply:

Well, since you’ve mentioned Nazis, I’m invoking Godwin’s Law. You’ve lost the debate before it even started.

My hero, I whisper.

What? asks Jonathan.

Nothing. I type a message.

Thank you all for your good wishes. I am doing as well as can be expected. We will be holding a memorial service for my father at the Loveland Pass, on September 27th, at 11:00 a.m. You are welcome to join us. When ski season begins, my father would like you to ski down Summit Ridge in his honor."

Whistler sticks his nose against the keyboard and gives me his aren’t you forgetting something? I grab his leash and walk out the door. He insists that we walk toward Atlantic Avenue. The shop owners always gave him scraps of lamb. Dogs never forget. But there’s a problem. Arab families own most of the food stores along Atlantic Avenue. I’m afraid of what I might see. Rightfully so. Somebody had vandalized the stores. Windows were broken, and glass was scattered on the sidewalks. Ahmed and his wife Samira stand in front of their store. I had known the lovely Lebanese couple since childhood. Their daughter Layla was one of my closest friends. Damien even dated her, before he realized that he didn’t swing in that direction.

Ahmed and Samira’s store is completely destroyed. I know I should offer my condolences, but I have my own issues at the moment. Then, Samira catches my eye. She walks over to me and says, I’m so sorry, Mariel.

Yeah. So am I. What else could I say?

Part One: Transitions

Chapter 1

Mariel

America was in a state of mourning. As we drove across the country, it was evident, wherever we went. The American flags that hung from the homes were supposed to be a show of patriotism. Instead, they seemed like a sign of despair. People took notice of our New York City license plates wherever we went. In our past travels, Jonathan and I always found that small-town Americans were suspicious of New Yorkers. Now, we were an anomaly. Everyone wanted to talk to us. Only a few of the older people recognized my mother. After all, she hasn’t made a film for 30 years. The drugs and alcohol took care of that. But she greeted people like a Hollywood starlet greeting her adoring public, maneuvering her dramatic black shawl with the grace of a 20 year old, and peering out from her dark sunglasses to add to the drama. I had to hand to it her. Even at her advanced age, she still had the flair that once brought men to their knees.

It occurred to me that I had never made the proverbial, post-college drive across America, and that I was like the distant, elusive relative, who only visits her family when its time for a funeral. This was not the ideal way to explore your country.

We took turns snoring through the endless flatlands of Kansas. After five days on the road, we finally arrived in Colorado. Damien, who has trouble with altitude, struggled to find his breath in the thin air. Me, I felt like I had come home. When we reached the Loveland Pass, located at the Continental Divide, I had an inexplicable desire to kiss the ground, in the same way I’ve seen orthodox Jews react when their plane lands in Israel. It’s