On The Eighth Day, God Created Trilby Richardson

Prologue: The Other North Pole

December 1983

Trilby Richardson skipped past a Radio Shack display window. As she breezed by, the television screens flickered, and one of them sputtered out altogether.

Tee! Careful!

Martha pulled her six-year-old daughter away from the window. The screens returned to normal.

Sorry, Mom. The girl brushed chestnut hair from her face. Her jeans and red sweater hung loosely; Martha bought everything extra big for the girl to grow into and wear a little longer.

They navigated with care the bustling armies of mall shoppers, the people hurrying to and fro with bright packages. Many of these bags were decorated with snow scenes, snowmen and snowflakes and children peltering one another with snowballs.

Mom?

Yes? Mother yanked her daughter from the path of a woman staggering under a stack of red and green boxes.

Why doesn't it snow here on Christmas?

There was a crash behind them. Mother and daughter looked around. The lady hadn't made it.

Well, it's just warm all year around here. It just never gets cold enough for snow.

The girl's response was a big Yuch! and a scrunched-up face. Never ever? No snow forts, no snowmen, no snowball fights or anything like that?

Honey, count your blessings. Snowstorms have done plenty of damage back east. And lots of retired people go to Arizona or Florida—

Couldn't we have just a little? The North Pole's always covered with snow. The girl moved along and seemed to glide more than walk; her tennis shoes made not a sound on the polished floor. I've seen it in pictures all month and it's always white with snow and ice, and green with Christmas trees. Then I look outside and I think, it's Christmastime but still like summer. There's no snow or icicles or anything. And the schools never close for snowstorms.

Before her mother could answer that one, she said: I wish just for once we had a white Christmas!

There was a long silence. Well, Tee...um...how about a new dress?

Silent Night played over the mall sound system.

Martha thought: Well, let's see. She wants to see the North Pole. Someplace bright and cheery, where the cold nips your nose and there's music and fun...

Yes.

Mom? Trilby scrunched up her face. Why are you grinning that way?

The writer of Deck The Halls might have drawn his inspiration from the San Diego Olympic Arena in December. The pro shop, with frost-sprayed windows and green boughs hanging over the door, was like Santa's cottage. The uniformed men at the skate rental counter wore caps like big elves. The colorful rows of lockers where people laced up were like little boxes stacked together, and who knew what Christmas surprises they might hold? Why, to anyone with a child's imagination, the red and green rental skates themselves were like Christmas stockings that could be strapped on and taken out to play Hans Brinker. And finally, the Pole itself—the vast white wilderness of ice, an arctic desert until the graceful dancers in pretty costumes, the sportsmen waving hockey sticks, the competitive skaters spinning and jumping and spinning while jumping, and the crowd of boys and shrieking girls simply there for fun, all transformed it into a the very place of merriment, thrills and spectacular sights.

It was into this place that Martha and Joe Richardson brought their daughter the next Saturday afternoon.

Wow! The girl bounced on her feet as they waited in line to go in. She pressed her pixie face against the plexiglass barrier and stared at all the people teeming on the frozen lake. By the time she got her hands on her green rental skates, her excitement level had doubled.

Mom! Trilby pulled on her right skate—Daddy!—laced up her left skate, so hurriedly her fingers got tangled in the strings—Come on! Let's go! For her parents were still in their stocking feet.

Just a minute. Martha fumbled with her own strange new plastic footgear (How do people ever squeeze into these things? she wondered). Just a moment—

The girl was gone.

Trilby! shrieked Martha.

The Richardsons jumped up in their untied skates and hurried, jostling through the crowd to the edge of the ice, laces trailing behind them. Then they saw their daughter. The girl was slip-sliding, wobbling, arms flailing, brown hair flying, whizzing over the ice. Two hockey players tried to scramble out of her way and went clattering head over heels. Then Trilby finally lost her balance and thudded to the ice as well; but she sat on her bottom and giggled.

Trilby! Martha grabbed her head with both hands. You get...

The girl, back on her feet, waved. Come on!

And she raced off again, flailing and stumbling but somehow staying on her feet. In moments she was out of sight.

Martha gaped. Joe's lips moved in silent prayer. Then they bent down, laced up as fast as they could, and stepped onto the slippery ice, clutching the hockey boards for dear life.

Martha heard a giggle, snapped her head around. There was Trilby, her face flushed red, more alive than she had ever been in her short life, perfectly balanced on her blades.

Haven't you gotten it yet?

Ohhhh! When we get home...

Something happened then. Trilby slid to the center, where the competitive skaters practiced tricks, and started scraping ice with her left blade.

Trilby? Joe and Martha caught up to her, slipping and sliding.

Snowman. Maybe a real small one, but—could we have one? Please? She smiled so sweetly at them.

Honey, said Martha. I don't think you're allowed to do that here...

Something caught her attention. People were stopping. Racing hockey boys came to sudden halts in white sprays. Snowman, someone said.

Snowman? A nearby skater in blue sweats scratched her head.

A pack of boys shouted assent, and proceeded to flay the surface with their blades. White fountains sprayed up everywhere; people stopped, tumbled to the ice, fell on their behinds or oofed on their stomachs, and gathered the snow, giggling, faces red, smiles Christmas-cheery. Soon the skating ceased altogether and everyone crowded into the center of the ice, packing together their waist-high snowman.

Someone stuck two quarters in for eyes. Someone else stuck his glasses in over the coins. Another person wrapped a plaid scarf about its neck, someone else threw in a ballcap, and still another participant came slip-sliding up with a flattened coke can from the recycle bin; this became the comical nose.

Finally, as the crowning touch, a teenager pulled off his orange rental skates and stuck them at the bottom, proclaiming him Frosty the Champion!

Then everyone stood in a circle around the snowman, regarding their lumpy creation. As if led by a common impulse, they joined hands in a big circle, and began to sing:

It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old

From angels bending near the earth, to touch their harps of gold.

Peace on the Earth, good will toward men, from heaven's gracious King;

The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing.

Before Martha knew it, the public session ended. The attendants shooed everyone off the ice and the Zamboni rolled out to get the surface ready for hockey practice. In the locker area the players were suiting up, donning pads and helmets, taping sticks.

Five minutes later, Martha shuffled into the pro shop, leading her daughter by the hand. Joe walked behind her. Bells above the door jangled their arrival.

A girl with yellow hair and a face full of freckles stood behind the counter. Martha approached her with fear and trembling. Miss?

The girl waited.

About that whole thing out there? It was...well...our daughter who started it. We don't really have any excuses.

Joe said, But we can assure you—

The door bells jangled again. The Richardsons turned and saw, shuffling through the glass entryway, a polar bear of a woman with a white mop of hair, white tennis shoes, white slacks, white jacket and an enormous girth ready to burst the whole outfit at any moment.

Folks, the girl behind the counter finally said, this is Mrs. Grinch. Her husband owns the rink.

Mrs. Grinch inched her bulk forward. Her belly jiggled as she moved. Her eyes were fixed on some point straight ahead. Suddenly Martha realized it was her daughter the woman was staring at, and from the moment this woman entered she had taken no notice of anything else. And now the behemoth zeroed in on little Trilby, scrunching down to scrutinize the girl who returned her look with innocent curiosity.

What's your name, little skater?

Trilby.

Mrs. Grinch lifted a tentative right hand. Trilll-by. Well I'm pleased to meet you, miss Trilby. Very pleased indeed.

Mrs. Grinch, said Marth. We really are very sorry about what happened, and whatever we can do—

Forget about that! the woman snapped at her. I'm not worried about that, can't you tell?

Mr. and Mrs. Richardson jumped back. The little girl stood where she was, holding her mother's hand, regarding this massive woman with curious eyes.

Now, said Mrs. Grinch sweetly. Might I ask...your daughter—did she come to you—in the usual way?

The parents bristled. She's our daughter, said Joe firmly, and nobody else's but ours.

Mrs. Grinch seemed to ponder something. Her eyes searched the air, as if she might find there what she wanted to say. The way she moves...her very presence... An expression came over her face, a wondering, excited look, and she said no more.

She's always been that way, said Martha, perhaps a little too loudly.

Really? The abominable snowwoman (that's how Martha was starting to think of her) tilted her head, and her brow creased. For a moment she maintained this expression.

Finally she transferred her attention to the girl behind the counter. Katie, would you give these people a pass for their next visit? They're not to be charged for admission or skate rental.

Thank you! Trilby shrieked and laughed and jumped about. Thank you Mrs. Grinch!

The parents burst out, Now Mrs. Grinch wait a minute you don't have to—

It's okay. Mrs. Grinch spoke quietly. Believe me.

She turned and waddled out.

The Richardsons exchanged glances. What was that all about? asked Martha.

Chapter One

December 1995

Pacific Coast Sectional Figure Skating Championships, San Diego, California—Senior Ladies Free Skate

The young woman flew across the ice. She raced backwards and around, scissoring her legs, as the mighty overture from Die Zauberflöte boomed from the arena loudspeakers; then she leaped into the air and whirled, touching the ice again with her right foot, arms spread, eyes dancing. Her blue dress sparkled, her boots and mirror-blades propelled her through a wonderland of dancing, spins, and gymnastics. Flashbulbs popped around the stands, the cold air surged in and out of her lungs as the music thundered on. When she jumped she soared, spinning forever in midair it seemed, and eased down so gently she barely left a tracing in the glassy surface. And in between the aerodynamic magic tricks she performed her expert choreography, translating every Mozart note into beautiful form—her gestures, the blazing blue in her eyes, the shining of her face, all combining like the notes in the overture, or Da Vinci brush strokes, to work magic in a thousand enthralled hearts!

The anthem finally crashed to a close, the girl crowning her long program with a fast upright spin, whirling into a blue and chestnut blur with arms raised over her head and finally, reluctantly, stopping.

The arena exploded with applause.

For Dylan Browning, who sat six rows from the ice, time had stopped. The judges held up their score cards; he didn't notice. She still whirled and twirled in his mind, the girl of eighteen who now stood at center ice with face and arms raised, glistening with sweat, her chest moving in and out—Trilby Richardson.

Dylan? A deep voice intruded. You okay?

He turned to see The Face. It was the father of all concerned faces, craggy like Lincoln's, with hair as white as the girl's boots.

Yeah. Perfectly okay, Pastor.

He wasn't okay at all.

Quick, Dylan! Move!

Pastor Jedidiah Trumbull, all nervous energy, leaped out of his seat and hustled Dylan up the concrete steps between applauding spectators toward the exits.

Dylan got one last look at Trilby. She was smiling at the nine grim masters of her fate who sat on nine thrones judging the twelve senior girls who had honed their skills all year to perform here tonight and, with a few pencil strokes, would decide their fates.

"Dylan, come on!"

The two men pushed through doors that were like Alice's looking glass, leaving the wonderland of ice and lights, back into the black parking lot. It was warm for December in San Diego and Dylan had come to the event in shirtsleeves, shivering inside the icy cavern.

They clattered down the stone steps and stood at the bottom, looking up at the concrete monolith arena. The nearby Sports Arena Boulevard roared with busy traffic the way the crowd had roared with approval for Miss Richardson.

Dylan sighed. Pastor, do we have to leave already?

Look. Jed pointed.

People were coming out the doors, flowing down the steps.

You see that man there? Jed's wide, alert, bespectacled eyes always darted about, searching and analyzing everything.

I guess so.

His face—see that? He was impressed. Awestruck, almost. And others, too. It's all over the place.

So it's not just me, thought Dylan.

But he said, Pastor, she wasn't the only skater here—

Really. Jed stroked his chin and appeared to ponder this interesting statement. Maybe this is my first skating event, but I don't think they're always packed wall to wall, standing room only! We were lucky to get seats for tonight. And did you see how wild the crowd went when she appeared?

Indeed Dylan had. And at the Regionals last month, and again tonight, he had seen why. Her grace, remarkable even for a figure skater. Her exuberance and a joy that flashed in her eyes even as her blades flashed in the lights during her footwork and flying leaps. A presence about her that he could not explain, but very definitely feel.

"All the other gals got smatterings of polite applause, if they skated well, the pastor went on. But when Miss Richardson appeared..."

He stopped a passing senior citizen. Excuse me, sir! What did you think of that last skater? Bright, disarming smile.

Drawing up his smallish frame, the man said: If Nietzsche had been here to see Trilby Richardson, he would have changed his mind about God being dead.

He walked away.

The Pastor turned a triumphant grin upon Dylan.

Come on. He strode to the battered van. There's something you need to know.

Huh? Dylan looked startled.

Chapter Two

Jed's vehicle was a monument to the great preacherly clan of the Trumbulls—a dusty attic detached from a house and fitted with wheels. Pictures, taped on the windows and tacked to the carpet on the ceiling, faded black and white shots of ancient relatives in overcoats and top hats, toothless and white-haired; scattered tracts, piles of pamphlets, and a thick unpublished manuscript scrawled by Jed's late father. This manuscript was the elder Trumbull's legacy to his son, along with the church he had founded, and Jed went nowhere without it. The van also contained the frayed, yellowed wedding dress of Jed's dear departed mother who, he often said, had never failed to intercede for him; it swung on a wire hanger in the back. The van smelled of old books and years, and Jed said he often went out into it at night to pray.

The Pastor looked straight ahead as he drove. Good to get out, isn't it, Dylan? Really, you shouldn't spend so much time by yourself, hiding in that apartment...things will change once we get you moved in...you know, Gracie spent all last weekend working on your room?

Dylan gazed out the window. He heard Jed only vaguely, as from far away.

You're doing an excellent job leading the singing, Dylan. I just thought I should tell you that. People come up to me after almost every service and ask, 'Where did you get that fine guitarist—that promising young man?' You're making quite a mark in our church. And when you move in—! Well, he wheeled the van around a corner, did God answer our prayers for a young, strong musician or what? He beamed with all the brilliance of the Bethlehem Star.

What did you want to tell me, pastor?

Jed paused. What do you think of that girl yourself?

Well...

Dylan fell silent. He sat and stared out the window, thinking: She's beautiful. Very beautiful. But it's not just her eyes, or her form, or her chocolate river of hair, or even the way she made the other skaters all look like they had lead feet. He held the memory close in his mind, the shining girl and her magical choreography that brought Die Zauberflöte to life in a way that Mozart, if only he could have seen it, would have appreciated. She was a person, but more than a person; a skater, and this was only natural, for such a creature could do only something that expresses beauty.

She's rather striking, he said.

Jed laughed. Striking? You don't know the half of it. Check this out!

He plunged a hand into the back and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The rear seat was barely visible for all the attic-clutter, yet he always seemed to know exactly where in this incredible jumble to find what he needed at the moment.

This, he slapped it on Dylan's lap, appeared on page five of the San Diego Union, ten years ago. He wheeled the van around a corner.

Dylan read...

Mom, let's go!

Little Trilby bounced by the door. Her pink skate bag was clutched firmly in her hand, her white boots were inside, her blades newly sharpened, and all that stood between her and her Xanadu-cave of ice was a mother spying out the window. Her brown ponytail jiggled as she pleaded, pestered and cajoled in her squeaky eight-year-old's voice.

"Dear, we have to wait a minute. He's out there."

Martha could see him parked at the curb just to the left of the Richardson driveway. The car, a rusty brown hatchback, seemed crouched there, waiting to pounce; and the old man hunched at the wheel like a personification of the all the predatory instincts that drove sharks.

Is it that crazy man?

Crazy man, indeed. Sixty-year-old road rager, curser of passersby, relentless tailgater of anyone who dared to drive down his street, terrorizer of his old neighborhood across town until they drove him out. Two weeks ago he had moved into an apartment down the street from the Richardsons. Six days ago he chased an elderly couple's old Ford in his car, practically ramming them from behind, and they could see his enraged face in their rear view mirror, shouting words best unheard.

Why isn't this man in a hospital? Martha wondered aloud. Doesn't he have any relatives?

And now he lurked outside her house. Twenty minutes earlier he had pulled up to the curb—he had a habit of parking at various places along the street and just sitting there for long periods of time—and now appeared to be waiting. For what? Someone to harass? Martha's face flushed with anger.

Suddenly she noticed that the door was hanging ajar, and her daughter was nowhere in sight.

Trilby Anne!

The girl, with her catlike motion, had tripped the doorlatch and slipped out, leaving her skate bag. It was not entirely unexpected. Once the girl had learned to walk, Martha was always running here and there, pulling her out of closets or away from the refrigerator, and once off the street where she almost got run over by a horn-blasting truck.

Trilby!

Mother dashed out the door. Trilby was halfway across the green yard, heading straight for the car. She did not skip, or simply walk, but appeared to breeze over the lawn in a smooth motion that barely disturbed the grass. Martha ran, thinking What is she doing! Get back here!

Finally the man noticed Trilby. She spoke something, and he looked at her as if finding this girl rather curious. Then, as if stricken by a grand mal seizure, he convulsed in his seat.

"Tril-beee!" Martha lunged for her daughter.

The man's eyes were fixed not on the girl, but on a point above her and to her left. Martha saw nothing at all there. But the man must have, because he shouted something and flailed about, all arms and hands, and as Martha grabbed her daughter the engine started with a roar and the car shot off with a loud screech of tires.

Martha's voice thundered louder than the car. Trilby! I never want you going up to strangers again do you hear me—

A crash cut her off. The car had careened over the curb and plowed into a telephone pole. Steam billowed up from under the crumpled hood. As for the man, he must not have been hurt, for he got out and went babbling down the street as fast as his pudgy legs could take him.

Martha clutched her daughter's arms. The girl hung her head and put a finger to her mouth.

Young lady. Martha released her. "If you ever do that again..."

She stopped. Trilby had such innocent eyes. I won't, Mom, she said with a voice just as innocent. I'm sorry I scared you. Can we go now? Her face brightened.

Uh...sure, honey. Martha was just glad