Fit to Die (3 page)

“Perhaps we could leave it till tomorrow,” suggested Nora rather timidly.

“No, no,” I said. “We must strike while the iron's hot, and that stork still needs to cool its wings.”

Louise and Nora went off together, and I had the
impression that Nora was pleading with Louise to be there.

In the meantime, I nipped out and bought two more bottles of sherry. After all, we still had three more forms to learn.

Louise did come at four o'clock, but she had her walker, and she looked rather pale. We had been coaching Nora for about forty minutes, when she was totally thrown off balance by Merrilee suddenly appearing in the stairwell opening. We hadn't heard her coming up, and it gave us all a shock, I must admit.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “did I startle you? I had no idea you were practising here. I sometimes walk up and down the stairs to keep myself limber, you know. You should all try it.” She gave her tinkling laugh and started down the stairs. I thought Louise was going to throw her walker after her.

Anyway, that finished practice for that session, and we retired for a sherry to restore our equilibrium.

The next day I could sense more rebellion in the ranks, and I had to exhort both Nora and Louise to stick with it. “We've already done five of the forms, and there are only eight in the first set. There's just ‘Needle at the Bottom of the Sea', ‘Wave Hands Like Clouds' and ‘Repulse the Monkey'. So we're almost through, and then it's only a matter of repeating them until they become second nature.”

“I'm not sure I want a Chinese second nature,” muttered Nora. “I was all right with my Canadian one.”

They both declined the sherry that day, so I knew things were serious. I later saw them both coming out of Nora's room. I wondered what they had been discussing without me.

That evening I read right to the end of Mrs. Yee's book, and I discovered there was a form of tai chi which involved using a stick. Well, actually, it was supposed to be a sword, but I figured a stick would do quite well, and I thought the change
might spark their interest again. I got a yardstick and coloured one end green and the other red.

When I showed it to Nora the next day, I went back to the baseball simile. “If the batter is right-handed, as you are, Nora, when he draws the bat back, his left arm is down and close to the body but when he hits and follows through, his left elbow comes up, and his right arm is close to the body. If he only held the bat in one hand, his right hand would drop below his left arm. It's a nice circular motion, all from the waist. Let's try it with the stick and see if it helps give you that feeling of drawing a circle.”

The stick helped for some of the forms, but at one point it clattered out of Nora's hand and bounced into the stairwell. Nora burst into tears. I had to go down a flight and a half to retrieve it, and I was a bit breathless when I got back.

“I think I'll just stand here, ready to stop it in case it takes flight again,” I said, still puffing. I decided to ignore the tears. “Right, now let's try ‘Playing the Harp' once more. You're not concentrating, Nora, and I think you called her to the wrong side, Louise, and your walker got in the way. Okay, let's go. Play the harp, Nora.”

Nora glared at me. “Stuff your stupid harp,” she hissed, and she ran straight at me with the yardstick pointed at my chest like a sword. I involuntarily took a step backwards, and the next thing I knew, I was tumbling head over heels down the stairs.

I heard a shout, “How's that for ‘Needle to the Bottom of the Sea'?”

•  •  •

From my room in Pavilion C when they wheel me over to the
window, I can watch the group doing tai chi on the lawn. Merrilee is out in front, but I don't see Louise and Nora anywhere.

AUDREY JESSUP'S
aversion to exercise changed when she read of a Manchester University study claiming that the body cannot distinguish between actually doing an exercise and thinking about doing it. So if you catch her with glazed eyes contemplating her navel she is, in fact, thinking herself into svelte perfection.

VICKI CAMERON

I change Michael Calendri's right front tire. That's my job. They told me crewing on an Indy race car team would make me popular with the girls, but it doesn't generate much conversation, changing the right front tire. I work less than thirty seconds over the course of a race. That's my whole job, thirty seconds.

It's an important job, precise and speed-driven. I have ten seconds to change that tire. One second to get myself and my air gun in place. Seven seconds for the tire. Two seconds to get back to the wall with the gun, swinging its hose clear. I can't have a bad day, ever. I can't be off my beat and take a second too long. I can't take a half step in the wrong direction and get in the way of Jerry changing the left front tire. I have to be a sprinter, too, and dart in front of the car when I've changed my tire before the driver screams back toward the track. Other right-front guys on other teams have been run over by their drivers. Hit and run by their own man. Michael has never hit his right-front guy. I've never given him a reason to shake a fist at me. Our crew is finished four tires and fuel in twelve seconds.

My goal is to be the first tire changer finished every time. Right now I am half a second behind Jerry, on left front, but he doesn't have to sprint in front of the car. I watch the other
right-front guys on the other teams, looking for ways to shave off a nanosecond.

The crew next to us today is the upstart Lavatin team, one car, one driver, a hodge-podge of sponsors and Ray on right front. Ray is good. I've been watching his footwork over the season, his explosive start from the pit, his finesse with the pneumatic air gun. He whips that hose in an arc behind him so it's precisely in the right spot to unscrew the wheel nut. He has that used tire off and a new one on in one and a third seconds better than my best time.

The entire Lavatin crew is speed obsessed. Even more than the rest of us. The driver, Kurt, sits in the cockpit with eyes blazing right through his visor. His hands are clenched on the steering wheel, and you can see his anger at every pit stop. I hear he resents pit stops and the twelve seconds it takes to refit his car for the next set of laps. I hear he isn't much of a team player, just wants to get out there and win.

All that focus and raw talent has put him in the lead today. He's a lap and a half ahead of Michael, and we're sweating in the pit, pumping ourselves up for speed, more speed. I've piled the old tires further back than usual, to give everyone more room to work. I scope out the Lavatin pit, and their tires are not as precisely piled as ours. They keep their old tires up front, forming a privacy screen between them and the next crew. Their new pile is closer to the wall. I measure my stride and pile our new tires four inches closer to the wall. I practise and shave a quarter second off my takeoff.

Kurt is coming into the pits on the next lap. That Ray, he's braced to leap the wall. I have two more laps to wait, so I give Ray my full attention.

Ray's sloppy tire pile is to blame. He reaches his right front on time, but the hose catches on the tire pile, and he has to
give it an extra yank to get it in position. Costs him a quarter second. Throws him right off his game, and he's a half-second slower changing the tire. Kurt's eyes are pinpricks of fire. Ray finishes and explodes into his sprint.

Kurt hits the gas and roars out of there an eighth of a second before Ray clears the car. Runs right over Ray's ankle. Ray hits the pavement in agony and comes up in a white heat. I don't know if it's anger or pain. He says he's fine, wraps an icepack around his ankle, pops a handful of pills and starts flinging the tires around, clearing his hose path. I watch him for signs of slowing down. If he's feeling any pain, he doesn't show it.

Michael hits the pits and I spring over the wall, using Ray's finesse with the hose. It works. I shave three-quarters of a second off my time. I see Michael grinning as I sprint past him.

Kurt holds the lead. Next Lavatin pit stop, Ray shucks the icepack and is over that wall in a blur, changing that tire in the best time I've seen. Motivation, that's the key. Somehow I've become so obsessed with time and precision and style that I've lost sight of the real reason we are all here—to win.

Ray leaps back over the wall and lands funny on his ankle. The rest of the crew huddles around him and carries him to the doctor in less time than their pit stop. A mechanic takes his place and starts warming up.

Two laps later Kurt hits the wall on the third curve and explodes in a ball of metal and flame. The television crews go nuts. The Lavatin team become zombies, white faces and jerky movements. We don't have time to worry about it in our pit. Focus, focus, focus on winning. All the drivers hit the pits under the yellow flag. We do everything but floss Michael's teeth.

With the Lavatin car out of the lead, Michael has a clear shot. He drives like he does when the finish line is only ten
laps away. Flies right past them all into the straightaway, picks up the checkered flag, the trophy and the fat envelope.

We're all going to Kurt's funeral in his home town. His sponsors are already searching for a new driver. Word is Ray has three broken bones in his ankle from being hit by the car. They were holding together until his last leap over the wall.

I figure I owe Ray a lot. I learned new pit techniques by watching him. Mostly, I learned to put the fire back in my job, to remember the desire to win.

I don't have much patience for drivers who mow down their own crew.

I change Michael Calendri's right front tire. It doesn't generate much conversation. So nobody asked me about Ray. I never had to tell anyone I had seen him put an old tire on the right front of Kurt's car.

VICKI CAMERON
writes fiction and non-fiction, long and short, ranging from dog training
(From Heel To Finish: The System Of Ghent For The Nineties)
to UFOs
(Don't Tell Anyone, But… UFO Experiences In Canada).
She is the co-editor of and contributor to
The Ladies' Killing Circle, Cottage Country Killers
and
Menopause is Murder.
Her first young adult novel,
That Kind of Money,
was nominated for an Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America, and an Arthur Ellis Award by the Crime Writers of Canada. She lives and plots near Ottawa.

I sat down to write you a poem 'bout fitness;

'Bout murdering victims without any witness;

'Bout barbells, and skip ropes, and good things for killing

With violence and grimness and every scene chilling.

I thought about weights coming down with a crash

For reasons like jealousy, revenge and cash.

I thought about drugs that induced heart attacks

In people on treadmills pushed up to the max.

I thought about diving and some broken necks.

I thought about poisons and causing car wrecks.

I thought about joggers who fell over cliffs,

And how muscle builders look better as stiffs.

So I sat in my chair and I thought quite a bit

About how many people would die to be fit.

My muscle was hurting; I pushed much too deep.

Never wrote you that poem—my brain fell asleep.

JOY HEWITT MANN
has been published coast to coast. In 2001, she placed first in poetry from the Cambridge Writers Collective. In 2000, she was the winner of the Acorn-Rukheyser Award for her chapbook
Grass.
Her first short story collection,
Clinging to Water,
was published in 2000, and her first full-length poetry collection,
Bone on Bone,
is scheduled for publication in 2003. She also has a novel,
Lacrima Christi,
coming out in 2002.

VICTORIA MAFFINI

The last straw was at the 7-Eleven. With an already opened bag of Doritos in the crook of my arm, I flipped to the “Do's and Don'ts” on the back page of
Glamour
magazine. I was snickering at the too-short skirts and noticeable panty lines when a chubby figure under the caption “Anyone for a sausage roll?” sent a flicker of recognition through my brain.
I have a skirt like that, but it looks much better on
…the little black strip over the face had served its purpose until that point. My stomach dropped into my shoes. The chunky girl billowing out over the waistband of her skirt, squeezed into a tank top, was me walking in Soho with my uncle. I'd gone to visit him in New York for a week. He looked fabulous. I, however, seemed to be both bending and twisting, creating a sea of fat waves and three extra chins.

Panic.

I scrambled to snatch up all the copies left in the 7-Eleven. Sweat stung my forehead. I tried to keep my voice from quavering. “I'll take these.” I plunked down the half-eaten bag of chips and twelve magazines.

“These are all the same, you know,” the petite blonde girl behind the counter chirped.

I swiped at the sweat on my face with a grungy sleeve.
She
knows it's me.
She's read the magazine. I became acutely aware of the fact her thighs and my upper arms were the same size.

“Yeah, my friend is in one of the fashion shoots.” Any attempt at flippancy was sabotaged by the three-octave hike in my voice.

For what seemed an eternity, the girl, whose nametag labelled her Cheri, snapped her gum and stared at me. “Whatever.”

Half an hour later I slumped onto my couch, exhausted. The sheer terror of anyone seeing this magazine had led me to buy up all the copies at every store in my neighborhood. I examined my trembling fingers. They
were
fatter than before. When did that happen?

I reopened the glossy back cover. Did they use a wide-angle lens on the camera? Were there support groups for the people who have appeared in “Glamour Don'ts”? Could I sue for mental anguish and get enough money to hire a personal trainer?