by Diana Wieler
But he knew. He had lost control, and it was still lost. His insides were shaking.
Why did everybody have to have a theory? How come a divorce couldn’t just belong to the people who’d had the marriage? Alina Brandiosa had been gone four years.
“Hey,” said the clerk at the front desk. “Hey, you. Are you sick or something? Do you want me to call a cab?” She looked nervous. “We just had the rugs done, you know?”
A.J. jerked himself to his feet, before she called hotel security. The night was pressing too hard on him.
“Why don’t you eat your rugs, lady,” he muttered, walking back towards the dance hall.
It was time to go home, or at least time to go. He pictured driving around with Tully with the windows open. It was cold for September, but A.J. didn’t care. He wanted to hang his arm out the window and let the air blast his face. Maybe they could drive to Regina. A.J. quickened his step.
Tully owned a red 1969 Mustang, almost original and almost perfect. It had been his parents’ car, the one they drove around the country when they were hippies, travelling to rock concerts and just bumming around. Tully thought he’d been conceived in that car. “It was the state of Oklahoma. You can guess which city,” he said with a grin.
Mr. and Mrs. Brown were respectable now. Tully’s mother ran a health food store and his father was a counsellor for the handicapped. They bought a station wagon and lent the car to Tully on the condition that he love it and cherish it forever.
A.J. loved the Mustang. It was a notchback — the kind with a boxy roof — a classic if there ever was one. The engine was a 289 V8, not racing power by any means, but enough. A.J. loved the vibration of it, the rhythmic way it idled and charged. He loved the white interior that still smelled faintly of leather and wrapped him up, safe. It was a quiet car. Even gunning down the highway with the stereo pounding, the Mustang felt as private as a bedroom. You could talk in there.
A.J. wasn’t good at talking. He could answer questions all right, and if somebody wanted to joke around and trade insults, he could do that, too. But telling was hard. It took him a long time to get started.
Tully knew that. “Let’s drive to Junior’s for a shake,” he would say. Junior’s was a tiny burger place in Regina, almost seventy kilometres away. It was an hour’s leisurely drive, each way. That was usually long enough.
Tully could be a whirlwind in a car, driving, talking, eating and powercramming for a test, all at the same time. But when he listened, that’s all he did. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t give advice.
A.J., staring out the windshield at the passing prairie, could feel himself unwinding as he talked. He never solved anything, but it helped him to go home when sometimes he didn’t think he could. The passenger seat of the Mustang was a little cubicle of air where he could say what he thought, without thinking. He loved that car.
And right now he was in the mood for one of Junior’s shakes. A.J. eagerly pushed open the door to the dance hall. But Tully was gone.
TWO
DAWN cut a broad arc against the retreating violet sky as the red Mustang rolled up in front of A.J.’s house. Tully turned off the engine and stepped out. The cold air was a rude surprise. He hunched his shoulders, conscious of his open collar and naked neck.
He felt grimy — the rumpled, chafed feeling of having slept in his clothes, although he hadn’t slept at all. Last night’s liquor was a bitter film in his mouth now, and there was a dull, buzzing pain the size of a dime behind each eye. More than anything, he wanted to get back in his car, go home and collapse into bed. It was still early enough for his parents and his siren of a sister to be asleep.
They’d never know, Tully told himself. You could get out of this one with your skin.
But he had hockey practice this morning, and there was no question about missing it. He couldn’t even be late. In Triple A the coach didn’t chew you out, he locked the door.
This year had been an awakening. He and A.J. had only been to a few practices, but already Tully could tell that playing for the Cyclones wasn’t going to be like playing for Riverside, or Eastend. The rules were the same — don’t mouth off, don’t be late, do what you’re told — but they seemed different because Coach Landau enforced them. There was more barking, more goading, less horseplay and wildness. The parts Tully liked best were the parts that were disappearing.
“Well, why do you keep doing it?” Summer had asked once, in the blank way that sisters ask things like that. Tully had stared at her. Because it’s like flying, was all he could think. There was prestige to making a team, and winning — especially scoring — was an incredible rush. But hurtling ahead under his own power, faster than he could run, faster even than he thought he could skate, was as close to the sky as he could get. Driving wasn’t like that, and dancing wasn’t like that. Nothing was like that.
Tully pushed himself away from the Mustang and headed for the house.
When there was no answer at the front door, he felt the prick of panic. What was taking so long? He knew Mr. Brandiosa wouldn’t be home — he worked the early shift at the dairy — but A.J. always waited. He wouldn’t just leave without me, Tully thought. Irritated, he jogged around to the back and peered through the window in the door.
He could see A.J.’s equipment laid out, arranged as carefully as a store display. The jersey was clean and supple, the stick bright with fresh tape. The pads — always foul things, grey and stiff because they couldn’t be washed — were spaced in a half-circle, airing out.
Tully had seen this before but it still staggered him. Nobody does this, he thought. His own gear was in the trunk of his car from last practice, fused by sweat into a solid mass that would make his eyes water when he opened his bag. But all the guys were like that. When you played hockey you were rumpled and rank. It didn’t matter.
Except that the spread on the kitchen floor reminded him that for this guy, everything mattered. Tully tried the door, and finding it unlocked, gently pushed his way in.
It took three calls before A.J. sat upright, swearing. “All right, all right! I’m awake. Jesus.”
“Good, I thought you were in a coma,” Tully said, grinning. He was rooting around in a dresser drawer. In a moment he sent a pair of blue jeans sailing across the room; they landed on A.J.’s lap with a whump.
“Gotta forget the Wheaties today.” Tully tossed a shirt onto the bed. “It’s already ten after.”
A.J. was sitting like a statue, his dark eyes fixed on his friend. Tully remembered that he was wearing last night’s dress clothes, which looked like they had been wadded by a hydraulic press. He couldn’t walk into the locker room like this. He turned and began rifling the dresser again.
“Mind if I borrow something?” he asked. There was still no response. Behind his back, Tully heard the rustle of sheets and then the sound of A.J. leaving the room for the bathroom down the hall.
What was the matter now? Tully wondered as he pulled on sweatpants and a rugby shirt. Was A.J. fighting with his dad again? Was he still strung out about how well he’d do on the team? Tully worried about him sometimes. What might look like a bad mood on somebody else could mean disaster for A.J. He was a guy who dissolved from the inside out.
The blond boy leaned out of the room. “Come on, superstar — quarter after!” he called down the hallway. It was enough to send them both barrelling down the stairs. Tully revved up the car while A.J. gathered his gear.
The first few minutes of the drive were uncomfortably quiet.
“So, last night was a blast, wasn’t it?” Tully asked.
“No,” A.J. said abruptly.
Tully was taken aback. It had been a great night for him.
“What happened? You get roped by your relatives? Or did the floor open up and swallow all the girls?”
“No. It was the long walk home.”
The words hit Tully in the chest. His memory clunked forward. The hotel was on the other side of the city.
He’d left t
he reception last night on a rush of adrenaline, blind to everything except where he was going. When he’d thought of A.J., briefly and much later, he’d assumed he’d caught a ride or something.
Or something. It would have been a long, long walk in sneakers; in dress shoes it had to be hell. No wonder A.J. was ticked off.
Still, he hadn’t actually promised to drive A.J. home. And wasn’t the whole point of going out to get some excitement? Adults were always saying you were supposed to grab every opportunity.
Except Tully knew he had a hair trigger when it came to opportunities. And he didn’t so much take them as plunge into them. Head first. And sometimes he hit the bottom of the pool.
“Sorry,” he said, his eyes on the road in front of him. He had the feeling it was the first of many sorrys he’d have to say that day.
A.J. shrugged. “Yeah, well,” he said. There was a pause, then, “You going to catch hell for not getting home?”
Tully welcomed the change of direction. “Supremely,” he said.
“Was it worth it?”
Tully looked at him and winked. A.J. shook his head, grinning in spite of himself. Moments later the Mustang roared into the arena parking lot. The boys scrambled into the dressing room, flinging clothes, and made it onto the ice just in time. Coach Landau glared at them, then blew a short blast on his whistle.
A.J. had heard that Gary Landau had played in the NHL once, for about a year. He was a wiry man in his mid-thirties, with just a trace of stomach over his belt. His hair was solidly brown, the colour of an acorn, but around his intent eyes there were lines where the wrinkles would be soon. Waiting on the ice, A.J. avoided those eyes. He was never quite sure what was behind them.
“All right, gentlemen,” Landau called, “you get to play with your pucks today.” Ripple of laughter. “But let’s get you good and warm first. Give me five minutes of manmakers — right now!”
Manmakers — which A.J. thought was the stupidest name in the world — was a power skating drill. It was designed to build up your legs and lungs, and make you hate God for giving you legs and lungs in the first place. Starting at the backboards, the skaters sped to the blue line, stopped on a dime, then raced back to the boards. Next time it was the centre line and back, then the farthest blue line.
The boys began, stiff-legged, grumbling a bit. Endurance skating was grueling, and everyone was inclined to back off, now that the team had been picked.
A.J. knew he couldn’t back off. He was carrying the word with him; he felt it was stitched on his jersey. Number 27 — marginal. It burned him, even now. He’d had another call this week, the coach from Riverside Community Club, asking him to play. He’d cut the call short, too short to be polite. He knew how easy it would be to slide back down to that kind of hockey. Just for a minute, though, he’d wished Landau had known somebody else wanted him.
Except he doesn’t know, A.J. thought, charging for the blue line. And he won’t. All that counts is here. He pushed the fury into his legs, elbowing out past the crowd.
He couldn’t keep it up. At the three-minute mark he was gulping air, and the pain was like a small dagger in his side. A.J. was fast, good for short bursts over the ice, but he was too bulky to maintain it. He plowed forward, cursing himself, but he knew he was losing it.
“Drop!” Coach Landau cried suddenly. The boys skidded to a halt and fell to the ice where they were. A.J. went down so fast his helmet struck the ice. A “drop” command meant twenty push-ups.
For a few moments A.J. lay still, his nose an inch from the ice, his breath burning his face. Around him he heard wheezing, then the rustle of clothing and stifled moans as the boys began pushing their exhausted bodies up.
Listening to them, he almost grinned. This was one drill where weight training did help, where the endless lifts and curls made a difference. He took two deep breaths and dug his skate points into the ice to anchor himself. Body rigid, he pushed himself up lightly, easily.
“One, two, three,” he muttered softly. He felt pressure in his shoulders, a stretching, but there was no pain. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the others slowing down, and he managed to quicken his pace. The exhilaration surged through him like liquid heat. He hoped Landau was watching. “Eleven, twelve, thirteen …”
When he had counted twenty, he forced himself up so fast he saw stars. He started circling unsteadily, proud he was the first one on his feet. He glanced in Landau’s direction. The coach was busy setting out pylons, looking the other way. A.J. almost moaned out loud.
The orange pylons were spaced in an obstacle course, for puck control drills. One at a time, the boys were to thread their way in and around, carrying the puck.
The pylons made A.J. nervous. He was a charger, best in a straight line of attack. He could manoeuvre when he had to, but on a course like this he knew he was slow. He felt like a bear on a skateboard. And then there was the other thing: his eyes were drawn to the puck even before he started.
He got caught, once. Landau’s cry of “Get it up, Brandiosa!” caused a chorus of guffaws. A.J. glared at the far boards, turning crimson under his helmet and visor. But he made it through his turn without any other mistakes, and slid gratefully back into the line-up.
Catching his breath, A.J. watched the others intently. Most were pretty good, but there were a few who looked awkward on this particular drill. A.J. was relieved that Landau was just as tough on them.
“Watch me, Millyard — not your pecker.”
“Come on, come on! What kind of drugs are you on, Rudachuk?”
When it was Tully’s turn, A.J. realized he’d forgotten all about his friend. There was no doubt Tully was exhausted. His skate blades hardly seemed to leave the ice as he moved towards the pylons.
He’s been awake twenty-four hours, A.J. thought, wincing. How was Tully going to get through this?
But when the blond boy had the puck on his stick and leaned into the first curve, the tiredness fell away like a cloak. He wasn’t fast, but he moved in and around the pylons with uncanny pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome.
The group was silent now, and A.J. felt his own eyes growing wider. He knew his friend was a good skater, but he couldn’t remember him being this good. He made the difficult loops look so effortless. It was eerie.
A.J. wasn’t the only one who noticed. As Tully rounded the last curve, Landau said quietly, “Once more, Mr. Brown.”
Tully turned and threaded his way through again, with the same easy grace. The puck never seemed to leave his stick. It wasn’t spectacular, because drills never were spectacular, but it was surprising. Tully hadn’t come onto the Cyclones as a hotshot.
When he came off the run, he bowed.
Some guys laughed, some groaned. A.J. grinned. That ham, he thought, feeling a small tug of envy.
Practice was almost over and everyone was tired and anxious to get into the shower. Sweat was on A.J. like a second skin. He felt dirty and defeated.
“All right,” Landau said grimly, “we’ll save the scrimmage for next time. I wouldn’t put this bunch against a team of mother-in-laws. We’ll finish up with some two-on-ones, if you don’t mind,” he added over the rumble of protest.
Two-on-ones were exactly what they sounded like. Two forwards, a winger and a centre, advanced on a defenseman, trying to get around him to take a shot. It was practice for the forwards, and the goalie, of course, but the real pressure was on the defenseman, the man in the middle.
Tired as he was, A.J.’s heart began to pound as he waited his turn against the boards. He’d played against the winger, Al Weitzammer, before, on other teams. He’s still got it, A.J. thought as he watched Weitzammer skilfully manoeuvre and fake his way to a shot every time. A.J. was out on the ice almost before Landau motioned at him.
The trio started at the centre line, with A.J. positioning himself between the forwards and the goal. He was a good backwards skater and it served him well. He felt the winger going wide and echoed him effor
tlessly, forcing him wider. The seconds stretched painfully as Weitzammer hung back. When they were hardly ten feet from the goal crease, it happened. The winger suddenly slid in close, hardly a blur in A.J.’s right eye. He felt the pass fly behind him, but the second Weitzammer dropped his head, A.J. was there, connecting with a solid shoulder. The puck went skidding out against the boards.
A.J. stared into the mirror, letting his eyes slide out of focus until his face was a blur and the razor was only a glint in his hand. He was afraid to look at himself, afraid he’d break out laughing.
“Now that’s defense! Good play, Brandiosa! Did everybody see that?”
It was no big deal, really. He’d always been good at anticipating shots. Hadn’t every coach said that to him?
Except this time it felt different. After being tense for so long, he was swamped with relief, and it made him giddy. It was only one play, but it went a long way.
He couldn’t show it, though. Triple A was cool hockey. A.J. scowled slightly as he drew the razor through the foam. But his teeth were laughing.
Tully sidled up to the sink next to him and casually turned on the taps. He soaked his face and neck with warm water, then leaned forward on his elbows, grinning at A.J.’s sombre reflection.
“Hey, bigshot. Don’t forget. I knew you when you were nobody.”
A.J. coughed, choking back the crazy giggle that was sitting in his throat. But it was no good. He had to let go, or explode.
A.J. scooped up a handful of wet foam from the sink and let it fly. Splat! It caught Tully across the side of his head, over his ear. The blond boy whirled around, groping for a towel and cursing revenge.
“Foam fight!” somebody cried in the background.
“Gillette wars!”
Tully grabbed a can of shaving foam and dove for A.J., who had the good sense to run. He still got it — a white trail down his naked back. Sputtering with laughter, A.J. dodged around the lockers and darted for the sinks again. He needed ammunition.
There was a stray can on the counter. A.J. grabbed it and spun around, pressing hard on the button.