Feeling a bit blasé, I left the garage and I walked for a while down the 138. The sun hadn’t quite set. The stars were out, but a long trail of pink and orange clouds still hung in the sky. Looking from one side of the road to the other, my hands in my pockets, kicking gravel onto the potholed asphalt, I wondered if I should head east and take the Mill Road up to the woods. Or follow the setting sun to the west, towards the village, and maybe grab some fries at Chez Lisette. But I didn’t have a chance to tackle these highly existential questions. A rusty old black Comanche pickup was coming down the road. As soon as the driver recognized me, he swung off onto the shoulder. He braked on the gra-vel, coming to a stop one foot in front of me. It was Tommy.
“Hey, boss!” he said, opening the door for me.
I climbed in and sat down on the ripped imitation leather. It smelled like transmission oil and maple leaf cookies.
“How’s it going, boss?”
Boss, what a joke. He had started calling me boss during the finals. Every time I said something on the ice before a faceoff, he snapped off his answer as if he was in the army with his signature “yes, boss.” But he gave it everything he had. And we managed to net one to escape with the win. He’d scored 19 points in the finals; he was proud of himself and with good reason, finishing fourth among all scorers, behind Félix and a guy named Marcoux from Sept-Îles who skated faster than his own shadow and who had been drafted by Bathurst in New Brunswick.
With his disciplined approach, he would have benefitted from working with coaching-sergeant Larry, who had offered to design him a training program. Tommy had agreed, but only for on-ice workouts. His personal trainer, who was also his advisor and nutritionist, would be his cousin, the owner of the Baie-Comeau gym. The program seemed to have gotten results, at least as far as appearance was concerned. Because in less than three months, Tommy had become a different person. He wore blue jeans that were tight on his bulked-up thighs and a white shirt cut to show off his huge shoulders and muscular arms. Even his face had changed, becoming wider, his chin jutting and more angular. Whenever you looked at him, he was clenching his teeth and the muscles of his jaw were rippling. His neck was bigger too, with large veins that protruded when he clenched his teeth. For a while now, he had seemed overly nervous or even aggressive. And always in a sweat.
“Where’re you off to?”
“I’m going to meet Karine,” he said, clenching the biceps of his right arm.
“I thought you weren’t seeing each other anymore.”
“Nah. We’re still cool. She’s waiting for me with some friends at the restaurant. We’re going to make a bonfire out at the point. Want to come?”
A bonfire at the point… That means a ton of people, music cranked up loud (which I hate right down on the water) and plenty of booze. Everybody would be offering me some. I’d be turning down beers just until I’d have had it with hearing people insist; finally I’d take one but only drink half of it. I had to work out tomorrow. I had trees to plant.
“I don’t think so.”“Come on. Let’s go have some fun!”
“I’ve got to get up early tomorrow.”
“Look, I train hard too. But that doesn’t stop me from having a little fun. You’ve got to relax. What do you think the Habs do when they’re not playing hockey? Do you think they go to bed early after eating their cookies and drinking their milk? Come on! What time do you get up?”
“I’m not sure exactly.”
“What time do you get up at?” he insisted.
“Six o’clock.”
“So, I get up at five,” he told me. “I run 15 kilometres every morning. Then I lift weights at the gym. Run some more, lift some more weights. Does that stop me from having fun? No!”
And then Tommy began to growl. And he shook his fist at the highway. I said nothing, refusing to get sucked into his macho game. Good for him if he had an iron constitution. As for me, everything tired me out and all I could think of was sleeping. I had no desire to go to the point. But there was no point in arguing with him, or even in getting out of the truck, since the rusty old Comanche was already rolling down the road. Five minutes later, we turned into the parking lot at Chez Lisette.
Not many people had gathered at Pointe-Noire. True enough, a stiff cold wind was blowing down from the mountains, enough to discourage the faint hearted. There were only three cars, and now, Tommy’s pickup hitting the beach with a bang, scattering people every which way. Real funny, he must have thought and guffawed, smacking the dash several times with his open hand. Karine, who was sitting up front with him, didn’t say a word. But she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, as if she was afraid.
We joined the group around the driftwood fire. The wind that fanned the fast-burning fire swept fat sparks into the sky. The low flames licked the sea-sculpted driftwood, which looked like an animal roasting on a spit. Tommy, who had put in a new speaker system in his pickup, cranked up the music to the max. Too bad for anybody who’d been thinking about a relaxing evening. In fact, everyone was laid back except Tommy, who was getting more and more ridiculous with every beer he downed.
At Chez Lisette we had picked up Karine, Anna-Maria Escobar— a girl from South America who’d been living in our town for a number of years now —and Chloé, who laughed at everything. I let Tommy’s girlfriend sit in the front seat with him, and jumped into the back with the other two girls. After which I didn’t say much. Chloé and Anna-Maria were goofing around nonstop. They would say stupid things in a loud voice and laugh like nut cases. Me, I couldn’t understand a word. It was like they spoke a language from another planet, from another universe even, no way for a guy like me to understand. It was girl talk.
When they noticed I wasn’t paying them any attention, and avoiding them by trying to spot something interesting through the window of the fibreglass cab, they began asking me questions. Questions about anything and everything, which I answered like a goof, mumbling incoherent strings of words with a shrug, like it didn’t matter anyway.
“Do you get off on planting trees?” asked Anna-Maria.
“Umm,” I said.
“My father can’t handle it anymore. Too much back pain.”
When Anna-Maria’s father began to work in our area I wasn’t even born yet. He’d come every summer to plant trees for the Company. Back then, only foreigners and students would take those back-breaking, low-paying jobs.
Today, things are different.
It didn’t look quite that way to Anna-Maria’s father. He saved every penny, and ended up buying an old rundown garage. Today, it’s a super modern service station and convenience store.
As the hours passed, I nursed the one bottle of beer I’d agreed to take. It was past midnight and the whole scene was getting me down. There were two older guys who were not from the area. They showed up in an old camper with their guitars and wanted to make music around the fire. Tommy, who wanted to keep grooving to the driving beat, began calling them a bunch of old hippies. The guys did not seem very impressed by his macho redneck routine. They wished us good night saying they were going to head on down the beach.
“Great, get the hell out!” shouted our brave hero.
Karine, increasingly exasperated by Tommy, made a couple of comments that no one heard except the person for whom they were intended. He began to give her shit. It wasn’t nice to see or hear. Everyone was uncomfortable. Chloé, who was sitting close to me, whispered that I should go talk to him. I agreed … more troubled by her hand on my arm than I was by Tommy acting like a jerk.
A whole evening basically ruined for everybody who had come to party at Pointe-Noire. Most just got up and left. Karine, who couldn’t take her boyfriend a minute longer, disappeared into the night, probably to join the two older guys with the guitars.
“She can get the hell out too. Good riddance!” Tommy shouted, wiping his foam-speckled mouth on the sleeve of his team hockey jacket. “I’m getting the hell out of here myself!”
He lo
oked at me through the flickering flames.
“Hey, boss. You coming?”
No way I’d be going anywhere with him. He was smashed out of his mind. The last time I found myself in a car with a drunk driver it was Mr. Pinchault’s old Chrysler … And I’d just as soon never think about how all that turned out. Don’t worry about it, I told Tommy. I’d walk home. And that set him off even worse. He wanted to have it out with me right there, but I raised my hand and he calmed down immediately. Be reasonable I told him, and he took my advice.
He just wasn’t the same person since Shawinigan drafted him. He was angry and belligerent, like he was being persecuted all the time. You couldn’t tell him anything without him taking it the wrong way. He thought calling me boss was friendly, but it sounded plain stupid.
“Forget it,” he said. “Makes no difference to me.”
“Do you want to come fishing with me Sunday?” He nodded, his face red in the firelight.
We left each other with a handshake. I walked down the beach with Chloé and Anna-Maria. No one said a word, Tommy’s behaviour had shocked us all. Before we had gone a hundred yards into the night we heard the noise of an engine starting. Then we saw the Comanche heading towards the 138. He hadn’t listened to me. I should’ve stayed with him. I hoped he didn’t break his neck.
I should have stayed with him like a real friend. But something else was happening that was even more compelling. Anna-Maria had headed off, and I accompanied Chloé home. Beside the house, under the fir trees, we kissed. She wasn’t laughing any more. Now she was serious; it lasted more than an hour.
I didn’t get much sleep. Tossing and turning under the covers, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. We were on the beach, in the woods, halibut fishing in Stéphane Leblanc’s boat, in Quebec City, straddling the ramparts with our feet dangling, looking at the old town together. All night long I imagined us in one scene after another, happy and in love. Finally I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning when my exhausted mind lapsed into peaceful slumber. But it didn’t even last two hours. Because at 6 a.m., the alarm clock rang. Even though I’d barely slept a wink I was feeling great. I got dressed and washed up, with a couple of quick splashes of water to my face, and hit the road running for my morning jog.
The sun was up and shining. Birds were singing, and you could tell, despite the chill in the air, that it was going to be another hot day, just like yesterday. And today, my workout was going to be a cakewalk. I was going to lift weights, plant 1,500 trees and run barefoot on the sand at Pointe-Noire ten kilometres, no problem. In fact it would be Larry, in his big quad, who’d have a hard time keeping up with me.
I ran by Chloé’s house. It wasn’t on my usual run. I had to go through the village and then take RR2 and turn off on Cleary Rd. There were only a few houses there, spaced far apart, built on the side of a sandy hill dotted with stunted birch and spruce. Chloé lived in a relatively new house with her mother and grandmother. She had a brother and sister, both younger than her. She only saw her father twice a year in Quebec City, once over the holidays, and once over summer holidays. But this year, at the age of 16, she refused to go. She’d found a job in the garage owned by Mr. Escobar, Anna-Maria’s father. And besides, she was going to college in the fall and would most likely be living with her father in Sainte-Foy. A terrifying thought, since she detested her stepmother. But that wouldn’t be for long, she told herself, just until she could find her own apartment. She was going to look for some roommates. And since I was already planning to be in Quebec…
“I’m not sure I’m going to make the team,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure you will.”
I think that’s when we kissed. Or maybe it was when she said she wanted to study art and began telling me about a log she had in her yard that she had sculpted with a chainsaw. Regardless, the fact remains that I finally wished her good night, and ran home through the woods in the dark, down a trail that led right to my house. I ran with my body thrust forward, head thrown back, moist warm breath steaming out of my nostrils. My antlers slashed through the crackling branches. Rooted deep in my head, they grew and grew as if lifting me up into the air. On I ran like a raging beast, leaving leaves and fir cones whirling behind me.
Needless to say, at 6:20 in the morning, everyone at Chloé’s was still fast asleep. I ran by once, casting a glance at the side of the house near the trees, seeing us standing there in my mind’s eye. Then I turned onto a path that brought me back to the 138. Once there, I caught my breath, running in place to unstiffen my ankles, then took off on the run towards Pointe-Noire.
There’s not very much traffic on the road in the morning. Just a few trucks heading one way or the other. The civilized drivers move over to the middle, to avoid kicking up sand or rocks in my direction. Apart from that, I’ve got the road to myself. I can run on the asphalt for long stretches at a time without seeing a soul, without hearing anything except the sound of birds singing or the wind in the trees. It was at just such a moment that he hit me from behind.
I never heard him coming. Probably because I was focused on managing my efforts and maximizing my breathing to make sure my heart was getting all the oxygen it needed. His hand smacked into my sweat-soaked t-shirt, landing with full force between my shoulder blades. I was running at full speed and I lost my balance, veering to the right onto the gravel. Trying to slow my momentum, I twisted my right ankle, the same one that had sidelined me last season. I guess I’ve got bad karma when it comes to drunks.
My face grimacing in pain, I hopped up and down on my left foot. Tommy had stopped twenty metres away. He watched me as he skipped from foot to foot on the asphalt in his grey sweats, his hood curled over his head like a boxer.
“What the hell’s the matter with you!” I yelled.
“You okay?”
Everything seemed all right. I shrugged and nodded. He kept hopping up and down, his massive thighs stretching his sweatpants. His shoulders were wide, his arms massive. He looked like a monster. I couldn’t recognize him. It wasn’t my friend I was looking at. It was the Terminator.
He didn’t bother to apologize. When he saw that everything was all right, he took off on the run. I accepted his challenge, falling in behind him. Normally, I would have caught up with Tommy easily. I’ve always been faster than him. Plus, he’d put on weight with all his power workouts. I’d been working my aerobics since May; I was sure that I’d pull up beside him in no time. But it was just the opposite. I gave it everything I had; no way. He pulled away from me down the highway. There was no way I could catch him. Breathless, I stopped to watch as he kept his torrid pace, steaming ahead like a locomotive and disappearing down the next straightaway.
I stood there for a long time, stunned, staring at the empty road that snaked off into the distance. I crouched, hands resting on the black asphalt that was starting to warm in the morning sun. Off to my left, the sea was surprisingly calm, like a green mirror lit up by the rays of the sun rising over the horizon. I suddenly realized that not a single bird was chirping. Up and down the road, total silence. It was a curious atmosphere. I looked around me; the trees had fallen silent, feeding my impression that time had suddenly stopped still.
I was ready to turn back and head for home, when I spotted movement in the bushes further on down the road, just ahead of the curve where Tommy had disappeared. It had to be an animal. Probably a raccoon or a porcupine. But what appeared on the road stunned me. When I saw it come out of the weeds and step up onto the highway, I thought first of all it was a dog. But no dog looked anything like that. An animal that size couldn’t be a coyote, either. With its long legs and muzzle, and its bushy tail trailing behind, I recognized what it was I was seeing for the first time in my life: a wolf.
He lifted his head as if trying to catch my scent in the air. I was getting nervous. I couldn’t believe he was going to head towards me. These animals are usually shy. They don’t attack humans. Still, when you find yourself face to face with
this mythical beast that has for so long fed people’s imaginations, it’s impossible to keep your cool.
He seemed to size me up, as he would’ve done with prey. I thought about fleeing, but it was out of the question. I had to stand where I was, and show him I wasn’t afraid of him. Still, maybe the animal was rabid or lost. Further on down the road I heard a truck downshifting. Immediately, the wolf scooted across the highway and disappeared into the woods.
The truck flew by in a cloud of dust. Still sweaty, I shivered all over, despite the mounting heat. I could feel shooting pains in my ankle; I could barely put any weight on it.
All day long I planted trees, doing everything I could to conceal my injury from my father. But later on, when I got to Pointe-Noire, I only took a few steps before Larry stopped me: he’d spotted my limp immediately. I stopped and looked out to sea. Long fleecy clouds were passing overhead, casting long shadows that darkened the surface of the green water. I took a deep breath, trying to let go of the anger rising up in me.
“What happened?” asked Larry.
“This morning, jogging. I lost my balance and twisted my ankle again.”
“Let me see it.”
I sat down on the ground and extended my ankle toward him. He looked it over, rotating my foot. He asked me to flex it a couple of times against the palm of his hand.
“It’s not too swollen. That’s good news. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
We spent the rest of the day and early evening at the hospital in Baie-Comeau. We wanted to see a particular doctor, a sports medicine specialist. He confirmed that it wasn’t serious. But I needed a good week of rest before resuming training.
As we rolled down the road in his jeep, Larry mentioned that now I’d have plenty of time to sharpen my skates. I’d be back in action in time for the beginning of on-ice workouts. I agreed with everything he said while absolutely avoiding saying a word about what had really happened that day. If I’d said that Tommy had pushed me from behind, both Larry and my father would have gone nuts.
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