by Susan Swan
In his photo, Morley stood with his teammates. He wore a frayed shirt, because he gave his good wool sweater to Dr. Shulman, whose father was even poorer than Morley’s dad, Duke Bradford. The photograph showed Morley in his prime, and my father did look young and brainy, with his kind, sad eyes, and his hair parted in the middle of his forehead, making two black wings. The young men standing with my father were dressed in different sweaters and pairs of padded shorts. Morley’s university had no money for sports uniforms, so the players had to come up with their own outfits.
I put Morley’s photograph back and stuck the photo that John gave me under my sweater.
I SAT DOWN BREATHLESSLY AT the place Sal had set for me, and smiled at Morley who was coming in for dinner. The late night edition of The Telegram with the stock listing on its pink pages was under his arm. Unfortunately, Morley wore his Other Worldly Stare (i.e., the lofted eyebrows that meant somebody was seriously ill). I felt terrible for him having a patient at death’s door, but I was counting on John’s photograph to get Morley’s attention back on the living. Morley lowered himself into his chair, his eyes flicking over to the telephone that Sal had set down next to his placemat. Now my aunt breezed in carrying a volume of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
“I have something important to say,” I announced.
“Go ahead, kid. Spill the beans,” Little Louie said.
“I — I — saw — somebody my father knows —”
Morley yawned as if he hadn’t heard me, and I found myself clinging to the arms of my chair. Slowly but surely, my body was growing lighter. Soon I would be as weightless as a cloud drifting across a mountain face. Then, per usual, the phone rang. My father picked up the receiver with his long-fingered surgeon’s hands that could poke around in a boy’s stomach without killing him. “Oh, it’s black, is it? Have you been taking iron pills? No. It should be yellowish-brown and shaped like a banana. You’d better come and see me this week.”
My aunt giggled and, for a second, I forgot John’s photograph and giggled too. Morley put down the phone and trained his kind, sad eyes on Sal, striding in with our mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes were Morley’s favourite and mine, too, and this serving bore my aunt’s signature: a pinch of paprika and fork marks that marched like ski tracks up the snowy peaks. Morley and I preferred my aunt’s potatoes, because she whipped them with an electric beater and applied extra dollops of butter and cream. Sal beat them by hand with a big fork, using only a drop or two of milk.
“Dr. Bradford, Mary has something to tell us,” my aunt said.
“Pardon, Louisa?”
“Tell us, Mary,” my aunt commanded.
“I saw John Pilkie today. He was in the old sugar bush.”
“That’s enough, Lady Jane,” Sal said, setting down the mashed potatoes.
“I’m not telling tales!” I took out the photo of John in his Detroit hockey sweater and showed it to Morley. “John told me to give you this. He says he’ll play for your hockey team if you help him get a review of his case.”
Morley grabbed the photo and brought it close to his face. “He wants to play hockey again, does he?” The snapshot had pressed a button inside my father, springing him to life.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” my aunt asked.
My father met my aunt’s gaze. “Louisa, everything’s going to be fine. Pilkie doesn’t leave the grounds. He does chores with that Coverdale fellow, but the other prisoners have complained so Rob is putting an end to it.”
“Dr. Shulman is pretty lenient, isn’t he?” my aunt said. Morley nodded and began gulping down her potatoes. I waited for him to tell us how Dr. Shulman was going to stop John from doing what he wanted, but Morley kept bolting down his food, his eyes on his plate. The phone rang again and Morley picked it up. “Who is it this time?” my aunt asked. “Cap Lefroy,” my father said. He stood up, tucking John’s photo into his vest pocket.
“Thanks for the photo, Mary!” he called on his way out the door.
I couldn’t believe my ears. My father was pleased with me. And there was something else. Morley coached the Madoc’s Landing Muskrats, because he was too old to play hockey himself and John was smart enough to know just how much hockey mattered to a man like my father.
I Was Ten when I Found Out
How Much My Father Loved Hockey
I was ten when I found out how much Morley loved hockey. It was the first time Frank Mahovlich played with the Toronto Maple Leafs. The game started the way it usually did with Clarence Campbell addressing the crowd as “Ladies, Gentlemen, and Frenchmen,” and nobody thought anything about how rude Campbell was being. Campbell was an English-speaking Canadian and the English had more power then, so they got away with prejudiced remarks. Then, too, our national game was how Canadians worked out our differences. Contrary to what you might think for such a peace-loving, northern people, winter is our passionate season. Hockey is where we show the aggressive side of our character, and everybody is crazy for the fast, wild male world of ice hockey, a world of blowing snow and stormy winter nights when cars go slip-sliding over icy roads to get to the game in time and men fight their guts out inside freezing arenas.
It didn’t matter that there were Quebec players on the Toronto Maple Leaf team or English-speaking men playing for the Montreal Canadiens. In those days, there were only six NHL teams and each season we relived the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, which the French and English had fought in Quebec. You could see the thrill of battle on the shiny, hopeful faces of the fans and on the faces of the hockey players themselves.
On the Saturday night in question, Morley had gone to Toronto on business, and Sal and I were watching Hockey Night in Canada. We knew my father wouldn’t be pleased when the Montreal Canadiens started to win. “It looks like we have an overexcited fan,” the announcer bellowed as the camera zoomed in on a familiar figure climbing the wire fence behind the goalie’s net. Sal and I gaped as the figure swung free off the fence and shook its fist at the referee. “My Lord!” Sal cried. “It’s Doc Bradford!” The camera zoomed in, and my father jumped down and waded into a crowd of men in long, dark winter coats pushing and shoving each other. While we watched, my father squashed the hat of a man wearing a Canadiens scarf. “Well, I guess that Montreal fan got his,” Sal muttered.
After the game, Sadie, the Bell operator, handled calls all night about my father taking down a Montreal Canadiens fan on national television. My father had been sitting beside a Montreal Canadiens fan, so the story goes, and every time the Canadiens scored a goal, the Canadiens fan had slapped Morley’s back so hard Morley’s fedora fell off. Morley told the man to stop, but the Canadiens fan kept up the backslapping until finally Morley flattened the man’s hat. Morley wouldn’t confirm or deny the story, although Sal had seen my father get into hockey fights before. She claimed the fights taxed his heart.
24
TWO DAYS AFTER I GAVE MORLEY THE PHOTOGRAPH OF JOHN Pilkie, the upstairs phone rang. When I picked it up, Morley was talking to Dr. Shulman on the other end. Unable to believe my luck, I listened in, covering the receiver with my hand so they couldn’t hear my breathing.
“Sib will help me coach the Rats this year. He’ll settle John down.”
“If John plays by the rules,” Dr. Shulman said. “He’s got a temper, Morley. Last week he had the cell block banging their dinner bowls.”
“I can control John’s temper,” my father replied. “I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you.”
“John listens to me,” my father said. “And it’ll help your cause if John wins games for the Rats.”
“Well, maybe so.”
“Give John’s guard a gun and tell him to keep it out of sight,” Morley said.
“Guns are against hospital policy,” Dr. Shulman replied. “But all right. Just this once. For hospital safety.”
“Good,” my father said. “By the way, the newspaper is sending my sister-in-law Louisa to write up the team. Kelsey Farrow is sick.”
“They’re sending a woman?”
Morley laughed. “Louisa is working part-time for the newspaper now. She’ll be okay. She wrote some sports stories for The London Free Press.”
“All right, Morley. See you at the Beaudry farm.”
“You can count on it.” The line went dead. My aunt hadn’t told me she had gone back to newspaper reporting. Maybe she felt shy about it, but it was good news. Now she would have a chance to find out that John was nicer than she thought.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, BEN AND I and Little Louie climbed into the Oldsmobile convertible with my father. Ben and I wore shorts, while my aunt had on one of her old sweaters, jeans, and a pair of saddle shoes with frayed laces. With her tousled yellow hair and messy clothes, she didn’t look like a real reporter. Humming to herself, she took out a notepad and began to scribble down what the Rats were going to do in the day ahead. Morley explained that the men would lift weights and scale the chicken-wire fence donated by the town reeve; they’d also shoot pucks at a board, trying to get it through small, puck-sized holes in the wood, and they’d broad jump, high jump, and jog down the lumber road that ran through the Beaudry woods. Little Louie wrote it all down.
Ben handed me a Red Wings hockey card. I took a gulp of air. On the hockey card, John was a dead ringer for the singer Ricky Nelson. Why didn’t the resemblance strike me before? The very same shining cowlick. The very same full bottom lip and glistening eyes.
“Is this for me?”
“You have to play me for it,” Ben whispered, putting the hockey card back in his banana box. He had traded his baseball glove for the old banana carton, which was exactly the right size for Ben’s collection of hockey cards. He had 192 “Toppies,” the name for the American cards, every one in full colour, plus 308 Canadian cards called “Parkies,” which were only in black and white. Ben’s most valuable card was Rocket Richard of the Montreal Canadiens who had scored his six hundredth goal the year before, and Gordie Howe of the Detroit Red Wings who had scored his four hundredth. Sal called Gordie Howe and the Rocket “dirty players” while hockey stars like Jean Beliveau of the Canadiens and Frank Mahovlich of the Leafs were known as “gentlemen.” Ben and I didn’t care about these distinctions. We only cared about finding out the number of each player’s goals and assists.
AFTER HALF AN HOUR ON the county roads, we arrived at the Beaudry farm. Except for the gold and red maples on the Beaudry hill, it could have been a day in late August. The air was soft and warm. On the horizon, the Western Light poked out of the heat haze like a pale candle.
I introduced Little Louie to the players who were dressed in shorts or bathing trunks. They were local men, in their late twenties or thirties, and I knew most of them. She shook hands with Toby Walker, whose son went to school with Ben and me, and Kid McConkley, now the foreman at the lumber mill. Kid looked trim, but most of the men were overfed or just plain old. How could they play hockey? My aunt threw me a puzzled glance before Morley sent Ben and me off to fetch water buckets. Sal had set the picnic table with French’s mustard, green relishes, hardboiled eggs, whole tomatoes, lettuce, cheese wedges, and slices of buttered Wonder bread. While Sal brought out a cooked ham, Morley laid out his instruments on a second table. There was a reflex hammer, syringes and prescription forms, plus several copies of Time magazine, which Morley used as splints in an emergency.
I staggered over with my bucket, hoping my father would notice how hard I was working. In his honour, I’d memorized new hockey facts. I knew, for instance, that the colours of the Leafs’ uniforms — blue, white, and silver — were chosen to represent the blue of Canadian skies and the white of Canadian snow. I also knew that Johnny Bower, the Leaf goalie, made forty-five saves in 1958. Thinking about how I was going to impress my father made me feel hopeful.
OUT ON THE ROAD, THE hospital van turned down the lane of the farmhouse and headed for the front porch where Ben and I were sitting. Jordie Coverdale climbed out of the driver’s seat and a man wearing a fringed leather jacket and jeans with a crease down the legs hopped out the passenger side. At first, I didn’t recognize John out of his Bug House overalls, but he spotted me and sang out: “How-de-do, cowgirl!” Some of the men turned my way, looking surprised. Morley turned too, lifting his eyebrows. I felt a twinge of pride. John had said hello to me first.
“You can change in there, John!” Morley shouted, pointing at the barn. John hurried off, while Jordie unzipped a long duffle bag. There was a shotgun inside and two hockey sticks. He grinned at the sight of our bugged-out eyes. “It’s a semi-automatic twelve-gauge,” he said lifting out the shotgun. He checked its lock carefully. “Doc Shulman made me pack it on account of John. But John’s playing hockey again so he’s not going anywhere.” Ben and I nodded gravely and Jordie withdrew the hockey sticks from the duffle bag and handed them over. They were smaller than the standard hockey stick, and made in the same style, with a long sloping wooden handle and a flat blade covered in sticky black masking tape.
“John carved these for you,” Jordie said. “And here’s a spare puck. John wanted you guys to have some fun.” I didn’t tell Jordie that I never played hockey on account of Hindrance.
LITTLE LOUIE JOINED BEN AND me just as John came out of the barn dressed in neatly pressed navy shorts, a white T-shirt, and high-top running shoes. The three of us were impressed by how young and cleaned-up he looked. He wasn’t fat and bald, like Toby Walker. Per usual his pompadour was slicked back neatly, although a few black curls hung over his forehead. Maybe it was because he ate his Cheerios, but the other men’s hair didn’t stand up so straight and shiny.
As soon as he appeared, Kid McConkley stopped high-jumping and Toby Walker put down his dumbbells. They walked over to the other players and the group began chattering among themselves, throwing suspicious glances at John. “Can I have your attention, everybody?” My father strode into the middle of the barnyard with Dr. Shulman, their faces solemn and purposeful. John joined them, snapping his fingers so quietly you couldn’t hear their joyful pop-pop. “As some of you know already, I’ve obtained special permission for John Pilkie to play with the Rats this season,” my father said. “He’s going to help us win the Pickering Cup. I hope you will welcome him. Rob?”
“I’d like to back up what Dr. Bradford said,” Dr. Shulman remarked. “There is no security risk. A hospital guard will be with John at all times. I think you’ll find John a congenial teammate. Would you like to say a few words, son?”
John stepped forward. “It’s an honour to be back with the Rats, sir. It feels like coming home.”
Next to me, Little Louie was making notes. Was she worried the men wouldn’t accept him? Was John? He didn’t show any sign of nerves. Oh please, I thought, somebody say something.
Somebody did. Staring at his feet, Toby Walker said in low, half-embarrassed voice, “I played with John in the old days. And I’ll play with him now, too.” There was scattered applause and the men started talking loudly now, their voices strained with excitement. Morley gave John a wide, approving smile. It struck me that Morley didn’t smile like that at me, but I pushed away the depressing thought and followed Ben to the porch to drink lemonade. Sal had made several batches of it for the players who were back skipping rope, or running on the old lumber trail. By the barn, Toby Walker and Sib Beaudry were hanging from the chicken-wire fence like frightened cats. As Ben and I watched, they dropped back down shaking their heads. John scrambled up, hand over foot, easy as pie. In no time, he was straddling the top.
“I’m king of the castle, boys,” John called to the men below, raising his arms above his head. “And Sib’s the dirty rascal.” Toby Walker laughed and poked Sib. “John’s quite the card, eh Sib?” Sib grunted something back, his hound-dog eyes black and mean. I held my breath. Would he do something cruel in plain sight? No, for once, Sib had to stand there looking dumb, while John sat on top of the fence smiling back at Sib. And then, before you could say “Boo,” John jumped down and ran
at top speed towards the high jump. Or was he making a dash for it? If so, Jordie was too busy eating Sal’s cheese to notice.
In the meadow, John cleared the high jump by a foot. “Nice work, Pilkie!” somebody yelled. John grinned and began to run with his big springy steps into the Christmas trees. A moment later, Jordie started jogging after him, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Someone whistled behind me, and when I turned around, Little Louie was standing there with her notebook.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she said in a way that suggested she didn’t expect an answer.
JOHN CAME BACK TWENTY MINUTES later, his chest heaving and his face red. One by one, the other men returned, looking even worse after their two-mile jog along the old lumber trail. They drank water or lemonade while Ben and I tossed Ben’s hockey cards against the wall of the farmhouse. Our rules were simple. If one of my cards landed closer to the baseboard, then Ben had to forfeit his card. I won Ben’s Rocket Richard card and a card of the Rocket’s brother, the Pocket Rocket. Ben said we’re going to play for the Detroit Red Wings card, which had John Pilkie on it. Ben placed the hockey card against the wall and went first. Maybe he wasn’t trying hard, because he wanted me to win, but his toss was feeble. His card fell short. My new Frank Mahovlich card landed squarely on top of it.
“Look what I’ve got!” Waving my prize, I hobbled over to Morley’s table where Little Louie was drinking pop with John and my father. I concentrated hard on making my sailor’s roll as smooth as possible, and John and Little Louie grinned while Morley regarded me dolefully. It was obvious what Morley was thinking: As if Hindrance wasn’t bad enough, I was too skinny by half, and I had bags under my eyes from reading under my bedcovers with a flashlight.
After John and Little Louie examined the card, my father looked at it, and I told myself — it’s now or never. “Mr. Pilkie, did you know my father wanted to be a professional hockey player?”