by Susan Swan
Once outside, we couldn’t stop talking about what Chief Doucette did to John. Ben thought the Chief gave John a Chinese wrist burn. I thought the Chief must have pressed his billy club against John’s windpipe. My aunt hissed that John didn’t do himself any favours by getting angry. That shut Ben and me up for a while.
41
TWO DAYS LATER, MORLEY GAVE A PARTY FOR THE RATS. THE cases of Brading Ale that had been hidden inside Tubby’s sofa were stacked all the way up to our living room ceiling. On our dining room table, Sal had set out a coffee tray along with a baked ham with pineapple rings and cloves, the way my father liked it. John walked in with his mother and Jordie. Their eyes lit up when they saw the beer.
“Now that’s a sight for sore eyes!” Jordie elbowed John, who gave everybody his big, grand piano grin. “Good to see you, Doc Bradford,” John pumped my father’s hand. “And you too, Mary ... Ben … Louisa. Hey, it’s been a coon’s age, eh?” He winked, because we had just seen him in the infirmary.
“Are you ready for our big game next week?” Morley asked. Before John could answer, Mrs. Pilkie said, “You’re going to get a review for my boy, aren’t you, Doc Bradford?”
“We’ll have to see, Georgie.” Morley smiled. “Though you and I have been in tough situations before, haven’t we?”
“So you’ll go to Toronto to talk to the doctors?”
“Mother Pilkie,” John said. “Not another word or you’re going to jinx us!”
“I don’t want to do that. Do I, doctor?” Mrs. Pilkie asked, but Morley had already moved off to greet another guest. As soon as my father was far enough away, I said, “Hello, John.” And Ben said, “Hello, John,” too.
“Well, now. John, is it? It’s about time the pair of you called me that!” His smile grew bigger. He squeezed Ben’s shoulder and kissed my hand in his old Gentleman Jack style. “Doesn’t your niece look grown-up, Louisa?” He pointed to Big Louie’s heirloom brooch pinned to the front of my Peter Pan blouse and he and Little Louie laughed when they saw me blush. “Is that the brooch you got for Christmas?” I took it off and the four of us examined it.
“Real pearls, eh?” He bent close and whistled.
“Little Louie thinks pearl brooches are too fancy for girls my age.”
“Do you, Louisa? I think it looks downright pretty.”
Secretly, I thought Little Louie was right, but I didn’t let on. The four of us went into the kitchen where Sal was feeding coal into the stove that Sal called the old bugger behind Morley’s back.
“So Sal,” John said, shaking her hand. “Mary’s going to skate for us tonight, eh? And you’re going to give me a cig, aren’t you, Sal?”
“Nope,” Sal replied. “You take good care of yourself, John. We want the Rats to win.”
“Sal’s right. You shouldn’t smoke,” Little Louie said.
“Go on, the two of you!” John laughed. “Do you think my playing makes a difference, son?” he asked Ben.
“Yep,” Ben said. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a defenceman like you.”
Sal and Little Louie laughed like anything, my aunt’s voice warbling high and girlish next to Sal’s low, appreciative chuckles.
“Ben’s right. We’re all counting on you.” Little Louie smiled at John, showing him her pretty white teeth. John winked as he took a cigarette from Sal. I couldn’t help thinking how much had changed since the afternoon he came for tea with the other men from Maple Ridge. Kelsey Farrow no longer wrote about the death of John’s wife and baby daughter in the newspaper. Nobody, Little Louie and Sal included, thought of John as a killer. He was the hockey star who was going to bring the Pickering Cup back to Madoc’s Landing after twenty-five years.
“Okay, Mary.” He tapped my bottom. “Away you go and get your skates. You too, son,” he told Ben. I said okay, my heart in my mouth.
WHEN I RETURNED, CARRYING MY skates, Morley had left for Cap Lefroy’s house with his doctor’s bag. Nobody seemed to miss him in the living room, where the players were laughing and talking. I heard Sal asking if anybody wanted another Brading Ale. Coming down the front stairs, I almost ran into John and Little Louie in the front hall. At first, they didn’t see me, and I stopped on the last step, waiting to be noticed.
“Somebody’s making that up,” John said. “Doc Bradford wouldn’t let me down.”
“Sssssh,” Little Louie said, and put her hand on John’s shoulder.
John spun around. “Well, well, we’re here gabbing and you’re all ready to go, eh?” He sounded slightly ashamed of himself.
“Mary, it’s too late to skate now. Ben has gone home and John and I need to talk,” Little Louie said. The fierceness in her tone took me by surprise.
“It’s only nine o’clock,” I protested.
“Maybe Louisa’s right, Mary. Off to bed, eh?” He waved me away, and I trudged back upstairs. Now I didn’t have to worry about looking dumb, except that I had got my nerve up for nothing. And there was something else. If Little Louie hadn’t sent me to bed, he would have come outside and watched me skate. And even though I’d have made a fool of myself, I would have had him to myself. Well, almost to myself because Jordie would have come and Little Louie too. But John would know I was skating for him, my special friend.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I remembered my brooch. It wasn’t in the living room, or behind the potted plant by the kitchen window. It wasn’t anywhere. Sal started to say something, but cut across it. “It’ll turn up,” she said. I hardly heard her. By then my mind was on something more serious. I was waiting for my aunt to wake up so I could ask for her help. “My friend” — which is what Little Louie called having a period — had come in the night. It was crazy to want something as icky as blood. Just the same, I had longed to get “my friend” so I could be a grown-up woman like Sal and Little Louie, instead of an N.B. And now here it was. Between my thighs felt sticky and the bottom of my pyjama bottoms was stained red, as if somebody had spilled tomato juice down there, the place that nobody spoke about.
42
AT ONE O’CLOCK IT STARTED SNOWING AND, PER USUAL, I FELT the same lonely sensation I often experienced in a blizzard. As if the snow was walling me in flake by flake. That week in The Chronicle, Little Louie had written: “An icebox winter has led to a jump in book borrowing. Already, residents in Madoc’s Landing have taken out 6,300 library books compared to the total number of 3,227 by this time last year. For those of you who hate winter, our library offers a ready-made escape.”
As I put on my snowpants, the phone rang. Little Louie grabbed it and covered the receiver with her hand. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped but, when she saw me watching, she rearranged her face so she looked normal. Then she said “thank you” and put down the phone.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Just a nurse at the Bug House,” my aunt said.
“Why would she call you?”
“She’s helping with my research, Mary,” my aunt replied, her tone warning me not to ask more questions. Taking me by surprise, she smoothed down the collar of my Peter Pan blouse >and asked why I wasn’t wearing Big Louie’s brooch. “Don’t you like it?”
“You said it’s too fancy for a girl my age,” I answered, not wanting to tell her it was missing. Either I had lost it, or somebody had taken it, and I wasn’t interested in considering those possibilities just now.
“Did I really say it was too fancy for you?” My aunt frowned and didn’t press me. She seemed lost in some world of her own (i.e., she didn’t do up her galoshes the way she normally did or put on her wool toque). When I handed her the toque, she stuffed it in her pocket. Looking slightly dishevelled, she helped me buckle on my brace, and we went out into the winter twilight. She wanted to drop a book off at the library and pick up her paycheque at The Chronicle before we met Morley at his office. The sidewalks were hip-deep in snow, so we tramped down the middle of the road. Every so often a car passed us by, very slowly, the falling snow muffling the
noise of its wheels.
We stamped into the library, kicking the snow off our galoshes. I waited on the upper floor where I wasn’t usually allowed to go because I wasn’t old enough. While my aunt handed over her book, I stared at the middle-aged women in cardigan sweaters with jewelled clasps and the old pensioners in their hunting caps and boots. They didn’t look studious, yet there they were hunched over books, the storm wind moaning outside the high glass windows. A moment later we were back outside and on our way to The Chronicle.
AT THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE, KELSEY Farrow was typing at a roll-top desk. He grinned at the sight of Little Louie coming in without a hat, snowflakes glistening on her loose blond hair. “What do you think of them denying Pilkie a review of his case?” he asked as he handed her the envelope with her cheque.
A frightened look passed across Little Louie’s face. “Is it true? I hoped it was a rumour.”
“Oh, it’s true all right. Dr. Shulman told me himself. Pilkie’s going to be plenty upset.”
“I suppose you’re right, Mr. Farrow.” My aunt gripped my arm, and the two of us stumbled out of the newspaper office. I could feel the tension through her hand, and I knew Little Louie was more upset than she was letting on. I didn’t blame her. If John was unhappy before, he was going to be miserable now. The thought filled me with dread.
Outside, the temperature had dropped. I told her to do up her galoshes and put on her toque and she obeyed me as if I was Sal telling her to mind her P’s and Q’s. Then I wrapped my scarf so tightly around my face that my breath left ice droplets on the wool. The streetlights didn’t come on until we were in front of Morley’s office.
WE HAD TO WAIT IN the front. Morley was at the back with a patient. Through the wall, we heard his voice reassuring them. I pretended to read Ladies’ Home Journal, but I was hanging on his every word. “It’s very hard, isn’t it, Mrs. French?” my father asked. My father’s kindly tone made the blood thud in my ears, and I wished that his big, sad, healer’s eyes were showering me with hope instead.
A soft female voice said, “Yes.”
“Don’t worry about the operation. Percy will be fine. I’ll see to that,” my father said.
Now my father’s voice grew louder, and suddenly, he was coming down the hall towards us. He wore his white doctor’s coat. A woman followed him wearing a coat with ermine cuffs. She was obviously from the city and she was holding the hand of a small boy. I stared at his split upper lip, which was the pink shade of an earthworm before I remembered my manners and dropped my eyes.
“This is Mrs. French and her son Percy,” Morley said.
“Nice to meet you.” The woman gave us an embarrassed smile.
“Percy’s going to look brand new when we’re done, Mrs. French,” Morley said. “Aren’t you, Percy?”
The boy said “yep” the way Ben did.
At the door, the woman turned, as if remembering something, and said to my aunt, “I came all the way from Toronto just to have your husband fix Percy’s cleft palate. He’s the only doctor I trust.”
My aunt didn’t look at her. Instead she sat blowing smoke rings at her galoshes. The woman sighed and hurried out the door with her son.
Some Sad Facts about the Leafs
To impress Morley, I recited a few sad facts about the Maple Leafs. In the 1952–53 season, the Leafs were two points short and missed the playoffs. In 1953–54, after a one-year break, the Leafs went to the playoffs, but lost to the Detroit Red Wings. In 1954–55, the Leafs were one game short of making the Stanley Cup playoffs.
“Maybe the Leafs will do better tonight,” Morley said.
“I hope so,” I replied. “But the Canadiens have already won seven games — and the Leafs only two.”
Encouraged by Morley’s smile, I added: “Oh, I forgot. In 1956–57 the Leafs missed the playoffs again.”
“Mary, please,” my aunt said. “I’m too nervous for words.”
“Little Louie’s upset, because Kelsey Farrow says John Pilkie isn’t going to get his case reviewed,” I blurted out. “And I’m upset too.”
“I heard about that, but John will still score for us tonight — you’ll see. Everything’s going to be fine.” Morley cuffed my cheek with his large hand, trying to catch me up in his enthusiasm.
“I hope so.” I felt bad all over again. How would John play tonight? Oh, please, I thought. Don’t let him mess up.
43
LITTLE LOUIE, SAL, MORLEY, AND I REACHED THE PORT WALDIE arena at six p.m. Grinning with excitement, Morley disappeared down the passageway to the players’ dressing room, and my aunt and I headed to the food stand to buy popcorn and hot chocolate. Outside, the blizzard had obliterated Port Waldie. I had written in M.B.’s Book of True Facts that it used to be called the Chicago of the North. It was famous for the Georgian Bay Trestle, the longest wooden railroad bridge in North America. A truly amazing feat of engineering, the 145-foot span of Ontario red-and-white pine curves across the 2100-foot stretch of swampy Port Waldie Bay.
A half hour later, Morley returned, grim-faced and silent. I wondered if he was worried about John. But it was too late to ask him what was going on, because the Rats were coming down the corridor in their gold and white sweaters. John was clomping along at the back of the line with Kid McConkley. I held up his old hockey card and waited for him to grin and wave, but instead he threw my aunt a wild, furious glance. She stiffened as if she’d been slapped and threw him a sad look back. Then he lowered his eyes and didn’t glance our way again. I called out his name. He still didn’t look up, but there was a change in the way he was holding himself so I knew he had heard me. His face was pasty and he was wobbling as if he couldn’t stand straight. I held my breath as he skated slowly around the arena, listing to the left and right like a boat bobbing around in rollers. Next to me, Morley sat pensive and silent, his eyes trained on the players. As John glided by unsteadily, Morley yelled, “Thattaboy, Gentleman Jack!” Ignoring us, John looked up at the empty scoreboard. Morley lifted his eyebrows in surprise. John always waved at Morley in the stands.
The organ started, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” John cut his skates hard at centre ice, sending up a shower of spray. Per usual, he bowed to the crowd; then he took out his harmonica and played a few bars of “Roll Out the Barrel.” The crowd broke into clapping. The clapping stopped and he surprised us by putting down his stick. For a moment, he waited, poised like a performer about to do a trick. “That man just loves grandstanding,” Sal whispered. I didn’t bother answering. A strange, wild mood was drifting through the arena. John bowed again. While we held our breath, he jammed his thumbs in his ears, waggled his fingers and stuck out his tongue, making the loony face he had for me in the sugar bush. Was this one of his jokes? Slowly, people started to laugh. John started skating around the arena, and now their laughter faded. He was baring his teeth at the shocked crowd, and waving his gloves like menacing paws. Around us people chattered nervously. A few of them shouted his name. He ignored their cries, and wobbled through a pirouette, his arms criss-crossed daintily across his chest. He stumbled coming out of his spin. Little Louie grabbed my arm and squeezed it when he caught himself. He took a few strokes on his skates and stretched out his hands, lifting up his leg behind him like a female figure skater, I covered my mouth to hide my giggles. Then I froze. I knew what he was doing. He was getting back at Morley.
“He’s drunk,” Little Louie whispered. My father nodded. A few people jumped to their feet and began to boo. Someone blew a bugle. Oblivious to the catcalls, John skated the full length of the arena again, his leg out behind him, his arms still uplifted daintily. As the organ switched back to “When the Saints Go Marching In,” he tried to stop. Too late: he crashed into the boards and lay on the ice. A long sad “ooooh” passed through the crowd. The referee skated over and helped John to his feet. For a moment, it looked like he was going to fall again, but he held steady and waved apologetically at his stupefied teammates. Morley was already moving do
wn the aisle. The referee opened a door in the boards, and my father stepped onto the ice. He walked slowly towards John. Two referees followed my father, carrying a stretcher. My father put his arm around John’s shoulder, and talked to him. John’s face took on a humble expression as if he felt sorry for what he’d done. Or was he just pretending? Morley gestured at the stands, and John nodded, dropping his eyes. Morley waved away the referees carrying the stretcher and strolled off the ice. John skated after him, his expression troubled. Morley appeared unperturbed, although I was pretty sure that was not what my father was feeling. It was not what Little Louie and I felt either. Without John, the Rats would lose their advantage over the Port Waldie Icedogs. Our breath heavy in our throats, we watched Morley take John by the arm and lead him down the passageway to the dressing room.
44
THE FIRST PERIOD STARTED. KID MCCONKLEY TOOK JOHN’S place. We all cheered when Kid McConkley scored the first goal with an assist by Toby Walker. There were no more goals after that. My father’s eyes drifted towards the dressing room door, but John didn’t reappear. After a half an hour on the ice, Toby Walker and Kid McConkley lost their spunk. They, too, had expected John to skate onto the ice and help them. Who else could pass the puck at exactly the right moment so the forwards could score?
In the third period, the Icedogs took four goals and my father grew morose. Sal whispered encouragement. Morley ignored her, his eyes on the referees, as if he was getting ready to smash one of the officials in the jaw. Sal must have been worried about him doing something like that, but the game finished without my father punching anybody. The Rats lost eight to one. It was a humiliating defeat, their worst of the season.