by Rice, Luanne
She felt so relaxed and safe, and she suddenly realized that Martin didn’t have to see to row. He knew where to go by instinct. This was his lake, and he knew every rock, each bend, by heart. He rowed backward, without turning around, staring straight into May’s eyes, hands on his oars.
She found herself wondering whether he could see her or not. When she smiled, his face remained impassive.
“Floating branches,” Kylie called out. “Go a little left.”
Martin barely seemed to hear, but he pulled harder on the left oar and they missed the gnarled root system of an old pine tree. As they continued, they saw a family of deer swimming to the island. May heard Kylie laugh, describing them for Martin: “Two parents and two fawns,” she said.
“You’re my fawn,” Martin told her.
“Me and Natalie.”
“That’s right,” he agreed. “You and Nat.”
At the fishing hole, Martin helped Kylie with her rod. She threw her line into the water, satisfied that this would be the day they’d catch the big old trout. Martin beckoned May over. She had never been much of a fisherman, but she let him hold her from behind, teaching her how to pay out line and whip the pole.
“You want the fly to imitate what the fish are eating,” he told her.
“What are they eating?” May asked.
“Black flies, right?”
“Right, Kylie,” he said. “That great-granddaddy’s down there waiting.”
She nodded, cocking her head slightly. May watched, wondering whether she was listening for the fish, whether she could hear. The blue notebook had been unused ever since that night when the dreams and voices stopped. Kylie had had no new visions, and the strange thing was, May missed them.
They drifted on the lake. As the sun rose higher, they pulled their hats lower. May stopped worrying that anything might happen. Denial closed over her head, like water over a smooth gray rock, and she let herself think this summer day would last forever. They ate their lunch, and the light turned hazy. The air turned gold, bathing the Cartiers in magic and hope.
Kylie caught two small trout, and Martin caught three. They threw them all back. As Martin rowed them home, May felt as if they were back to normal. Rowing, driving, skating: he could do it all.
“There’s a rock on our right,” Kylie called. Then, a few minutes later, “Wow! Look at that loon diving for fish!”
Perhaps Lac Vert did have healing powers. Maybe a miracle had occurred in the blessed golden light, and Martin would see again. They would repeat this fishing trip for many, many summers to come. They would skate the lake when winter came, wondering whether the great-granddaddy trout was asleep in the mud below.
But once they were home, the sense of peace and insulation vanished. The telephone was ringing, and May ran to answer it.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, May. This is Jacques Dafoe.”
“Oh, hello, Coach,” she said. For a moment she thought he had gotten wind of Martin’s visit to Dr. Theodora Collins, but his tone was too easygoing for that. They exchanged small talk about their summer, their children, and the rapidly approaching hockey season. Martin stood by, waiting for the phone, and May’s stomach ached as she sensed her husband’s tension. “I’ll put Martin on the line,” she said.
“Hi, Coach,” Martin said. “Ça va?”
While Martin talked, May unpacked the picnic basket. She rinsed out the thermos and plastic containers, put the uneaten peaches and grapes in the refrigerator. Martin seemed to be listening more than talking, and May felt her heart pounding. When Martin hung up the phone, he leaned his head against the wall and didn’t speak for a long time.
“Martin, what is it?” she asked, afraid of what he was about to tell her.
“Coach wanted me to hear it from him,” Martin said finally. “He’s calling a team meeting; we’re getting together next Tuesday to meet our new goalie.”
“Your new goalie?” May frowned, thinking of Martin’s friend Bruno, the Bruins’ goalie for the last seven years.
“Management traded Bruno and two minor-leaguers for him. We now have a two-time Stanley Cup-winning goalie on our team. Nils Jorgensen.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not”—his voice rose in a homicidal bellow—“KIDDING!” He punched the wall, sending his fist straight through the matchstick paneling. Thunder jumped up from his spot beneath the kitchen table and started barking. Kylie just stood against the door, her mouth open and both hands pressing the door behind her.
May stepped forward, to somehow touch him, to let him know she was with him, but he burst past her. May saw him jogging down the path to the lake, but his pace increasing to a dead run. With Kylie and Thunder beside her, May watched her husband’s back become a blur as he disappeared around the corner of the mountain.
When she turned around, she saw Kylie staring at the cross-stitch picture hanging by the window. Together they stared at the small animals sleeping peacefully side by side. May saw the words, neatly running all around the border: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard lie down with the kid, and a little child shall lead them.”
Kylie must have been reading them too, because she looked up at May, a frown on her face. “I was the little child,” she said. “Natalie told me. I was supposed to lead him somewhere, but I was too late.”
“No, you weren’t,” May said.
Chapter 26
THE BRUINS HAD SCORED THE trading coup of the decade: Nils Jorgensen was joining the team. With Nils the Knife and Martin the Gold Sledgehammer on board, the Bruins would take this year’s Stanley Cup without question. “Expect fireworks at first,” the sportswriters predicted. “The Jorgensen-Cartier rivalry is long and bitter, and it won’t be resolved just because they’re wearing the same jersey.”
Preparing to leave for Boston, May knew she had some unfinished business. Martin kept talking about canceling his appointment with Teddy, but nothing on earth would make him miss the team meeting. He still wanted to call all the shots.
Packing for the trip, May took the letter Martin had thrown into the wastebasket out of her bureau drawer and smoothed out the wrinkles. Carrying it over to Martin, she held it up.
“You threw this away.”
“I know.”
“I opened it,” she told him.
He shook his head as his face turned red. She watched his eyes narrow and felt a shot of fear. Maybe he would walk out on her again. But she grabbed his wrist and held him still.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, trying to pull away.
“I knew you’d feel like that, but I disagree. You should read it.”
“I have more important things to worry about.”
May tried to smile. “I know you think that’s true, but you’re wrong.”
“My worst fucking enemy is about to be my teammate,” he exploded.
“Martin, read your father’s letter.”
“I’m going to forget you opened it, eh?” he asked. “We’ll just drop it here and now.”
“You left me once,” May said, still holding his wrist. “That broke my heart. It really did, Martin. So much so, I’ve kept quiet all summer about something I know is so important to all of us. You have to read his letter. Please—”
“Drop it, May,” he said dangerously.
“I won’t,” she told him.
He shrugged and went back to loading their things into the car.
The next day, Martin walked into the Fleet Center past a pack of reporters and photographers. Flashes burst all around him. Questions were shouted at him, but he ignored every one. One step in front of the other. May had dropped him off. She had volunteered to walk him in, but that would have looked suspicious. He moved slowly, deliberately, taking care not to trip on the TV crew’s wires.
“Martin, is the rivalry over?”
“Are you going to shake and make up?”
“Forgive and forget?”
“Marti
n, are you going to give Nils a new scar today?”
Ignoring the journalists, Martin disappeared into the locker room. The lights were dim, but he could hear voices. The familiar banter of teammates, joking about last season and one-upping each other with stories of wine and women on vacation. Martin heard Ray laughing, and he headed toward the sound of his voice.
His mouth felt dry. He couldn’t see where he was going, and he was terrified he was going to be found out. A dark veil covered everything in his path. He saw clusters of men standing around, but he couldn’t make out faces. Everything in the room was imprinted on his brain: the lockers, the water coolers, the benches. Making his way around a bench, he crashed into someone crossing his path.
“What the fuck!”
“Sorry,” Martin said.
But his apology was not accepted. He felt a shoulder jam his chest, fingers closing around his throat as he was shoved into the lockers. The metal crashed, and his teammates groaned. Martin swung on instinct, landing a punch that sounded like plates breaking. The two men were rolling on the ground, and even though Martin couldn’t see the face, he felt enough hatred to know he was brawling with his new teammate Nils Jorgensen.
“Break it up!” Coach Dafoe shouted.
“Martin—” Ray was pulling him back.
“Get off him.”
Half the Bruins yanked at Jorgensen, the other half pulled Martin. He felt his cheek, split and bleeding, already starting to swell. Someone was handing Jorgensen a towel, and the trainer went to get a few ice packs. Martin sat on one bench, Jorgensen across the way. Coach Dafoe stood between them, and the rest of the team circled around.
“Well, you boys get that out of your system?” he asked.
“He ambushed me!” Jorgensen complained.
“Just a warm Boston welcome, eh?” Martin said. “Can’t you take it?”
“Nothing like a friendly icebreaker to start the season off right,” Ray said, trying to make peace.
“I ought to fine you both,” Coach Dafoe said. “But I’m in too good a mood. Boys, I’d like you all to look around. Take a deep breath and commit this moment to memory.”
Martin felt the ice pack in his hand, and he held it to his cheek. He looked around the vast echoing space and saw shadows. He could taste the adrenaline, the aftereffects of the fight, and the anticipation of what Coach was about to say. Martin had sat through thousands of team meetings, and this one was charged with more electricity than he’d ever felt before.
“This is our moment,” Coach said. “This is our shining moment. We’re going all the way this year, boys. We’re taking the Stanley Cup home.”
“It’s a good feeling,” Jorgensen said. “Believe me, I know.”
Martin felt the freight train in his chest, and he nearly crashed through Coach to knock the smugness out of the goalie’s voice. Other Bruins booed, but a few laughed. Martin heard Ray chuckle, and he could almost see his friend shaking his head in that self-effacing way he had.
“Our greatest challenge,” Dafoe went on, “as we have seen today, will not be the Edmonton Oilers. It will be ourselves.”
“Him,” Jorgensen spat. “Not me.”
“Hockey is a sport of rivals, and you two have had one of the greatest competitions in history. When the books are written, kids’ll be reading about the Cartier-Jorgensen rivalry long after you’re both dead. The Knife versus the Sledgehammer. You’ll be linked to each other more famously than you’ll be to your wives.”
“Just like Romeo and Juliet.” Jack Delaney laughed.
Martin blinked. He made out the blurry shape of Nils Jorgensen, and he could taste the hatred. Jorgensen had ruined his vision, stolen his chance for two Stanley Cups. Listening to Coach say they’d be connected forever made Martin feel sick.
“So what I’m saying,” Dafoe continued, “is that I expect you to put the past behind you. I don’t care how you do it. Go into a field and fight till you knock each other bloody, go out on the ice and fire pucks at each other all day, go out to dinner with your wives and have a good time—hell, take them to the Ritz and charge it to me!”
“In hell,” Martin muttered.
“Yes, for once I agree,” Jorgensen said in his Swedish accent. “Hell will freeze over before we dine together.”
“ ‘Dine together,’ ” Martin snorted, making fun of his prissy tone.
“Enough!” the coach yelled. “I’ve had about as much as I’m going to take from you. The both of you! Nils, welcome to the club. But when I give my players a suggestion, I expect it to be taken. And Martin, you know better. You’re acting like a dumb kid, and you’re not dumb and you’re sure no kid. Do I have to tell you this might be your last chance to take the Cup?”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Martin growled.
“Getting old.” Jorgensen chuckled.
“Hey!” Ray said warningly.
“The Ritz,” Coach said thoughtfully. “I like that idea. Okay, men, listen up: This is what’s going to happen. I’m making a reservation at the Ritz dining room, this Saturday night, table for four. To avoid controversy, I’ll make it under my name: Dafoe. But I won’t be there.”
“You’re kidding,” Martin said.
“I’m not.”
“Coach—” Jorgensen said.
“Shut up,” Dafoe said. “A nice window table. You can look out over the Public Garden and bond over a nice bottle of Bordeaux. Maybe after dinner you can all take a ride in the swan boats.”
“No way,” Martin said.
“You two are going to be friends,” Coach said. “Even if you don’t know it yet. I have my doubts you’ll manage on your own, so I’ve got to do my part. And I have great confidence in May and Britta. They’ve got the brains you two have knocked out of each other.”
Martin stood. He knew May was waiting outside in their car, by the players’ entrance. His palms felt sweaty, and his stomach roiled.
“Shake hands,” Coach Dafoe said. “We’re going to get started practicing a week early, to all get used to each other, so shake hands.”
Martin could feel the energy field across the bench. A thousand emotions were surging through his body, and he knew if he didn’t get out of the locker room right away, he’d cause real damage. He began to walk away.
“I said shake hands!” Dafoe shouted.
Martin moved faster. He knocked into the end of the bench, then into someone’s gear bag. Stumbling, he went down on one knee. He heard the silence as everyone watched him try to regain his footing.
“Got a problem?” Martin asked, glaring around the room. “What are you looking at?”
“Martin, man,” one of the rookies said. “You okay?”
“No savoir faire,” Jorgensen said, mocking. Martin stared over, saw the Swede standing there with his arm extended. Martin slapped it away.
“Cartier!” the coach barked.
Martin ignored him. With his name and his teammates’ silence ringing in his ears, he left the locker room. He wanted to run, but he was afraid he’d fall. So he made himself slow down, move in a straight line down the hallway he knew so well. May was waiting outside. She had the car running and ready to go. Ray called his name, but Martin just kept going.
“What was that?” Ray asked when he called Martin later that night.
“I don’t know,” Martin said, not wanting to talk. He wouldn’t have, but May had stuck the phone in his hand before he had the chance to say no.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“The way you were knocking into everything, acting like you were drunk. You weren’t, were you?”
“You know me better than that. I don’t show up to work drunk.”
“And usually you’re not an asshole to the coach. And the team.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin said.
“Look, I know the trade’s a bitch. Getting used to Jorgensen won’t be easy.”
“He’s an arrogant prick.”
“Yeah, a real prima donna. Bragging about his endorsements and fame and fortune and what it’s like to win the Stanley Cup two years running.”
“From us,” Martin said.
“Yeah, from us,” Ray said. “But Coach is right about one thing—we have to put it behind us. Jorgensen’s the best goalie in the NHL, and now he’s ours. Look at it that way.”
“That’s hard,” Martin said.
“Maybe so, but it’s our best option.” Ray paused. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Bien sûr,” Martin said. “I’m great.”
For support, May turned to Tobin. They talked on the phone five times a day, to make up for the fact that May was taking time off from work, that they weren’t seeing each other all day at the barn.
“I’m so worried,” May said. “He’s completely isolated, won’t talk to anyone. It’s as if he thinks everything will get better if he just sleeps through it.
“He’s ashamed, I think,” she continued. “That’s the worst part. He didn’t do anything wrong, but he’s hiding out as if he can’t face his friends.”
“Just like when John lost his job,” Tobin said.
“Sometimes I want to blame hockey,” May said. “I see how rough it is, how they take their injuries for granted. I think about Serge and Agnes and wonder how they could have let him—Serge knew how bad it could be. He knew, Tobin.”
“Like John and Michael in their race car,” Tobin told her. “Believe me, I think about the possibilities. But fathers and sons…that’s how they bond. How they communicate. Sometimes I think it’s the only way they can say they love each other. In a sport so dangerous they know they could get hurt.”
“Maybe,” May said, and she could see Serge in prison, his face scarred from pucks and sticks, just like Martin.
“Your coach called again,” May said, going upstairs to find Martin sleeping in the middle of the afternoon several days later. Just as she had told Tobin: All he did lately was crawl under the covers and hope the days would pass.
“Leave me alone,” he said. “I’m tired.”
“You’ve been sleeping for fourteen straight hours,” May said, sitting on the bed. Thunder was asleep beside Martin’s leg, and she had to push him aside. “You can’t be tired.”