A Cold Day in Paradise

by Steve Hamilton

  “The fuck you’re sorry,” he said. Spit and sweat hitting me in the face. All around us the other players in the same dance, every man picking his own partner according to how much they really felt like fighting. The old referee was skating around us, blowing his whistle. I guess he finally remembered how it works.

  “I didn’t mean to trip you,” I said. “Just calm down.”

  “Fucking Indians,” he said.

  “I’m not an Indian,” I said.

  “Yeah, fuck that,” he said. “I know, you’re a Native fucking American.”

  I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.

  “What’s so funny?” he said “Did I say something funny?”

  “You always get high when you play hockey?” I said.

  “The fuck you talking about.”

  “You’re higher than the space shuttle,” I said. “If I were still a cop I’d have to arrest you. Skating while impaired.”

  He gave me a good push and skated away. The dance was over. “Fucking Indians,” he said.

  We finished the game. Vinnie scored once in that period. Another of his teammates scored in the third period to tie the game at 2-2. I made a couple nice saves to keep us tied.

  In the last minute of the game, my new friend the blue center had an open shot at me. He wound up and launched a rocket. No slapshots, my ass. I got a glove on it, knocked it just high enough to hit the crossbar with a loud ringing sound that reverberated through the entire arena.

  The game ended. There would be no overtime. The next game was ready to start, as soon as they got us out of there and gave the Zamboni a chance to take a quick run over the ice.

  He stared at me, breathing hard.

  I look back on that moment now, the two of us looking at each other on the ice. I wonder what I would have done if I had known what would happen in the next few days. I probably would have hit him in the face with my hockey stick. Or broken off the end and jabbed him in the neck. But of course, I had no way of knowing. At that moment, he was just another hotshot asshole hockey player, and I was the old man who just took away his third goal.

  “No hat trick today,” I said to him. “Looks like the Cowboys and Indians have to settle for a tie.”

  THE NIGHT WAS cold. It had to be below zero. My wet hair froze to my head the moment I stepped outside. Across the street the Kewadin Casino was shining proudly. It was a big building and it was decorated with giant triangles that were supposed to remind you of Indian teepees. It was almost midnight on a frozen Thursday night but I could see that the parking lot was full.

  The Antlers was not far away, just over on the east side of Sault Ste. Marie, overlooking the St. Mary’s River. As soon as you walk in the place, you see deer heads and bear heads and stuffed coyotes, birds, just about any animal you can think of. I usually don’t spend much time there, but Vinnie was buying that night so what the hell. It was the least I could do, even if it was American beer.

  “Here’s to our new goalie,” he said, raising a glass of Pepsi. We had pushed a couple tables together in the back of the place. His eight teammates were all there, all quietly working on their second beers.

  “Stop right there,” I said. “You said this was a one-night gig, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you were great, Alex. You gotta keep playing. Do you realize that those guys had a perfect record before tonight? We just tied them!”

  If his teammates shared his enthusiasm, they didn’t show it. I looked at each of them, one by one. A couple you’d know were Indians the moment you saw them. The rest were like Vinnie—a lot of mixed blood. Maybe you’d see it in the cheekbones. Or the dark, careful eyes.

  They were all drinking. Most if not all would get drunk that night. More than one would get to a state well past drunk. I knew it bothered Vinnie. “I feel guilty sometimes,” he once told me, “living off the reservation. A lot of my tribe, they think I abandoned them. When I was growing up, I could go down the street and walk in any house I wanted to. Just walk right in. Open the refrigerator, make a sandwich. Go turn the TV on. Everybody was my family. I really miss that, Alex. But I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was too much, you know? Too much family. And somebody always in trouble. Somebody in jail. Somebody passed out drunk. I just had to get out of there.”

  He lives in Paradise, right down the road from me. He’s my closest neighbor, maybe my closest friend next to Jackie. He deals blackjack at the Bay Mills Casino when he isn’t doint his Red Sky hunting guide thing. “You know the difference between a Indian blackjack dealer and a white blackjack dealer?” he once asked me. “This is going to sound like a stereotype, but it’s true. The white blackjack dealer never gambles. Those guys in Vegas? They see a thousand people playing blackjack all night long, maybe fifty of them walk away big winners, right? You think those dealers are gonna cash their paychecks and play blackjack with it? I’ve got a couple cousins who lose every dime, every week, guaranteed. They cash their check, maybe they buy some food and beer, then they go right to the casino and lose the rest of it. Every fucking week, Alex. You know what they tell me? You want to hear what they say? They tell me that there’s no word in Ojibway for “savings.” You know, as in life-savings. A nest egg. The only word that comes close is this negative word, you know, like hoarding. Keeping something to yourself. Which they wouldn’t have even known if they hadn’t taken a course in Ojibway at the Community College. But now that’s supposed to convince me it’s okay to always be broke. It’s like they’re saying that they’re real Ojibway and I’m not. I’m just tired of it.”

  Vinnie sat at the table, staring at a moose head on the wall. Nobody said anything. Just a quiet frozen winter night at the Antlers.

  Until the blue team showed up.

  They busted into the place with a lot of noise and a gust of arctic air that rattled the glasses on our table. “Goddamn,” one of them said, “will ya look at this place?”

  They pushed a few tables together at the other end of the room. There were nine men and nine women. Most of them had leather bomber jackets on. Even with the fur collars, they couldn’t be warm enough.

  My new buddy the center went up to the bar, told the man to start the pitchers coming. He had one of those hockey haircuts, cut close on the sides and long in the back.

  “So who the hell is that guy?” I finally said.

  “Who, the center?”

  “Yeah, Mister Personality.”

  “That’s Lonnie Bruckman. Some piece of work, eh?”

  “He always play high?”

  Vinnie laughed. “You noticed, huh?”

  “Hard not to.”

  “Guy can skate, though, can’t he? I think he played for one of the farm teams somewhere. Most of those guys on his team are ringers. Old teammates from Canada. He brings in a new guy every week.”

  Bruckman took a couple pitchers back to the tables. When he came back for more, he spotted us. Our lucky night.

  “Hey, it’s the Indians!” he said. As he came and stood over us, I got a good look at him without the hockey gear on. Whatever he was on, he had just taken another dip, probably in the car on the way over here. Coke or speed, maybe both. “Nice game, boys,” he said. “Can I bring a couple pitchers over?”

  Nobody said anything.

  He looked at Vinnie’s glass. “What ya got there, LeBlanc? Rum and coke? Lemme buy you one.”

  “It’s just Pepsi,” Vinnie said.

  “You’re kidding me,” Bruckman said. “An Indian that doesn’t drink?”

  He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in two weeks.

  “We’re all set here,” Vinnie said. “Thanks just the same.”

  “Hey old man,” he said to me, “that was a nice save you made on me. You took away my hat trick, you know that?”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

  “I’ll get you next time.”

  “Won’t be a next time,” I said. “I was just filling in tonight.”

 
; “You gotta play again,” he said. “You’re good. Believe me, I know. I played in the Juniors, on the Soo Canada team for a couple years, same team Gretzky played on before he went up. I would’a gone up myself if I wasn’t an American.”

  Here it comes, I thought. There’s always an excuse. All the guys I played ball with, and most of them never went to the major leagues, of course. Maybe one in a hundred guys who starts out in the rookie leagues ever makes it. The other ninety-nine, they all have a story. Coach never gave me a chance. Hurt my knee. Didn’t get enough at-bats. It’s never just, “I just wasn’t quite good enough.”

  This American thing, though, that was a new one, because of course you’re only going to hear that one from a hockey player. I should have let it go. Just nodded at the guy, smiled, let him stand there making a jackass of himself, laughed at him later. But I couldn’t help it.

  “That’s a shame,” I said. “They should really let Americans play in the NHL. It’s just not fair. Ain’t that right, Vinnie?”

  “It’s gotta be a conspiracy,” Vinnie said.

  “How many Americans are there?” I said. “I bet we could count them on one hand. Let’s see … John LeClair, Brian Leetch, Chris Chelios …”

  “Doug Weight,” Vinnie said. “Mike Modano, Tony Amonte.”

  “Keith Tkachuk,” I said. “Pat LaFontaine, Adam Deadmarsh.”

  “Jeremy Roenick, Gary Suter.”

  “Shawn McEachern, Joel Otto.”

  “Bryan Berard, is he American?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Derian Hatcher, Kevin Hatcher. Are they brothers?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But they’re both American.”

  “Mike Richter in goal,” Vinnie said.

  “And John Vanbiesbrouck.”

  “All right already,” Bruckman said. “You guys are real comedians. I didn’t know Indians could be so funny.

  “We forgot Brett Hull!” Vinnie said.

  Bruckman grabbed Vinnie’s shoulder. “I said all right already.” His smile was gone.

  “Get your hand off me,” Vinnie said.

  “You’re making fun of me and I don’t fucking appreciate it,” he said.

  “Last guy who made fun of me lost most of his teeth.”

  The whole place got quiet. His teammates were all looking at us, as well as the men at the bar. There were maybe a dozen of them. They had all been watching the Red Wings game on the television. The bartender had a sick look on his face. He probably had a nice streak going. Seven nights in a row without a drunken brawl.

  “Bruckman,” I said. I looked him in the eyes. “Walk away.”

  He held my eyes for a long moment. He was sizing me up, calculating his chances. I could only hope the chemicals racing around in his brain didn’t make him decide something stupid, because I sure as hell didn’t want to have to fight him without skates and pads on.

  “You were lucky,” he finally said. “I should have had the hat trick. You never even saw that puck.”

  “Whatever you say, Bruckman. Just walk away.”

  “Look at you guys,” he said. “You Indians are so pathetic. I don’t know why they ever let you have those casinos.”

  The bartender showed up with a baseball bat. “You guys gonna knock this shit off or am I going to call the police?”

  “Don’t bother,” Bruckman said. “We’re leaving. Too many drunken Indians in this place.”

  He gave me one last look before he went back to his table. I didn’t feel like telling him I was really a white man just like him.

  When they had all put their leather jackets back on, knocked over a few chairs, muttered a few more obscenities, and then left without paying for their beer, the place got quiet again. Vinnie just sat there looking at the door. His friends all sat there looking at the table or at the floor. I tried to think of something to say to break the spell, but nothing came to me.

  “You know what bothers me the most?” Vinnie finally said.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Those women that were with them? One of them, I think I recognize her. I think she’s somebody I grew up with. On the reservation.”

  The following is an excerpt from MISERY BAY by Steve Hamilton

  Part One

  Chapter One

  It is the third night of January, two hours past midnight, and everyone is in bed except this man. He is young and there’s no earthly reason for him to be here on this shoreline piled with snow with a freezing wind coming in off of Lake Superior, the air so cold here in this lonely place, cold enough to burn a man’s skin until he becomes numb and can no longer feel anything at all.

  But he is here in this abandoned dead end near the water’s edge, twenty-six miles from his home near the college. Twenty-six miles from his warm bed. He is outside his car, with the driver’s side door still open and the only light the glow of the dashboard. The headlights are off. The engine is still running.

  He is facing the lake, the endless expanse of water. It is not frozen because a small river feeds into the lake here and the motion is enough to keep the ice from forming. A miracle in itself, because otherwise this place feels like the coldest place in the whole world.

  The rope is tight around his neck. He swings only slightly in the wind from the lake. The snow will come soon and it will cover the ground along with the car and the crown of his lifeless head.

  He will hang here from the branch of this tree for almost thirty-six hours, until his car runs out of gas and the battery dies and his face turns blue from the cold. A man on a snowmobile will finally see him through the trees. He’ll make a call on his cell phone and an hour later two deputies will arrive on the scene and the young man will be lowered to the ground.

  On that night, I know nothing of this young man or this young man’s death. Or what may have led him to tie that noose and to slip it around his neck. I am not there to see it, God knows, and I won’t even hear of it until three months later. I live on the shores of the same lake but it would take me five hours to find this place they call Misery Bay. Five hours of driving down empty roads with a good map to find a part of the lake I’d never even heard of.

  That’s how big this lake is.

  “It’s not the biggest lake in the world. You guys do know that, right?”

  The man was wearing a pink snowmobile suit. He didn’t sound like he was from downstate Michigan. Probably Chicago, or one of the rich suburbs just outside of Chicago. The snowmobile suit probably set him back at least five hundred dollars, one of those space-age polymer waterproof-but-breathable suits you find in a catalog, and I’m sure the color was listed as “coral” or “shrimp” or “sea foam” or some such thing. But to me it was as pink as a girl’s nursery.

  “I mean, I don’t want to be a jerk about it and all, but that’s all I hear up here. How goddamned big Lake Superior is and how it’s the biggest, deepest lake in the world. You guys know it’s not, right? That’s all I’m saying.”

  Jackie stopped wiping the glass he was holding. Jackie Connery, the owner of the place, looking and sounding for all time like he just stepped red-faced off a fishing boat from the Outer Hebrides, even if he’d been living here in the Upper Peninsula for over forty years now. Jackie Connery, the man who still drove across the bridge once a week to buy me the real thing, Molson Canadian, brewed in Canada. Not the crap they bottle here in the States and criminally try to pass off as the same thing.

  Jackie Connery, the man who wasn’t born here, who didn’t grow up here. The man who still couldn’t cope with the long winters, even after forty years. The one man you did not want to poke with a sharp stick in January or February or March. Or any kind of stick, sharp or dull. Not until the sun came out and he could at least imitate a normal human being again.

  “What’s that you’re saying now?” He was looking at the man in the pink snowmobile suit with a Popeye squint in his right eye. The poor man had no idea what that look meant.

  “I’m just sa
ying, you know, to set the record straight. Lake Superior is not the biggest lake in the world. Or the deepest.”

  Jackie put the glass down and stepped forward. “So which particu lar lake, pray tell, are you going to suggest is bigger?”

  The man leaned back on his stool, maybe two inches.

  “Well, technically, that would be the Caspian Sea.”

  “I thought we were talking about lakes.”

  “Technically speaking. That’s what I’m saying. The Caspian Sea is technically a lake and not a sea.”

  “And it’s bigger than Lake Superior.”

  “Yes,” the man said. “Definitely.”

  “The water in the Caspian Sea,” Jackie said, “is it saltwater or fresh?”

  The man swallowed. “It’s saltwater.”

  “Okay, then. If it’s technically a lake, then it’s the biggest, deepest saltwater lake in the world. Apples and oranges, am I right? Can we agree on that much?”

  Jackie turned, and the man should have let it go. But he didn’t.

  “Well, actually, no.”

  Jackie stopped.

  “Lake Baikal,” the man said. “In Russia. That’s fresh water. And it’s way deeper than Lake Superior.”

  “In Rus sia, you said? Is that where it is?”

  “Lake Baikal, yes. I don’t know if it has a bigger surface area, but I know it’s got a lot more water in it. Like twice as much as Lake Superior. So really, in that respect, it’s twice as big.”

  Jackie nodded his head, like this was actually an interesting fact he had just learned instead of the most ridiculous statement ever uttered by a human being. It would have been like somebody telling him that Mexico is actually more Scottish than Scotland.

  I was sitting by the fireplace, of course. On a cold morning on the last day of March, after cutting some wood and touching up the road with my plow, where else would I be? But either way I was close enough to hear the whole exchange, and right about then I was hoping we’d all find a way to end it peacefully.

  The man in the pink snowmobile suit started fishing for his wallet. Jackie raised a hand to stop him.