Sonja & Carl

by Hillier, Suzanne;

  In his rich, sonorous voice, Jim McNeil announced each player in the lineup, starting with the Mississauga team, who were hailed as each skated forward, accompanied by the applause of the Mississauga supporters who sat directly across the ice from the Davenport crowd. He then started to introduce the Davenport team, waiting for the applause to dissolve before going on to the next player. Then, at the very end, with theatrical bombast, he thundered, “Centreman Carl Helbig!”

  The Davenport rows went mad with welcome, and then the chanting started: “Hel, Hel, Hel . . . Big Hel . . . Big Hel . . . Big . . .”

  No wonder he had wanted me to attend: I would be a witness to this veneration.

  The national anthem was played, the puck dropped, and soon ten players were moving around the ice at high speeds. The Davenport contingent was focused, however, on number 14. He was a superhero, moving with effortless speed. The eyes and heads of the Davenport groups followed him as he rushed toward the Mississauga goal with the tank-like relentlessness of Mutti transformed into muscle and heft. He could not be stopped. I glimpsed his face, stiff, pink, with eyes focused slits.

  The Mississauga goalie sprawled against the onslaught, but the shot was so fast that, like the goalie, I missed the entry. The goal light flashed, the crowd erupted, hooting and hollering their approval, and the chants began again, “Hel . . . Big Hel . . . Big Hel . . . Big . . .”

  “Davenport goal scored by number 14, Carl Helbig, unassisted,” shouted Jim McNeil, his voice raw with pride, the contrived Broadway showmanship gone.

  His teammates encircled him, closing in on him with a helmeted cocoon, sharing in the triumph.

  “You know what I think,” pronounced Jerry Henley to Carl’s followers, “I think he’ll be scouted by more than the Penguins and Senators. I can see the Bruins or Blackhawks.” Everyone nodded in solemn agreement.

  The goals kept coming and the chanting continued.

  The final score was eight to two for Davenport, six goals and two assists by Carl Helbig. He had come over to acknowledge us after it was all over, face maroon, teeth flashing, without his helmet, his short blond hair plastered against his square wet skull.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said, smiling at me. And then to Jerry, “Some guys are here from away, they want my number.”

  “I told you,” crowed Jerry. “Diddin’ I tell you? The paper even said it.”

  He was, I thought, basking in the sun of the indomitable Helbig, who couldn’t have read it in the paper in any event. With Jerry, it was as if some psychic welding had taken place, and there was a dual future for both, full of chants, shared agility—and money.

  “I didn’t think you’d be into this kind of thing.”

  It was Candace Stewart in her huge T-shirt with its GIVE ’EM HEL in bright red letters and a snug angora cap with a hole in the back for her long, butter-coloured ponytail. Her eyes were as cold as the icy rink currently in the process of being Zambonied down.

  “I was invited,” I said, knowing at once it was the wrong answer and that this was a girl who had shared a closeness other than tutoring with Carl Helbig.

  “Oh really,” purred Candace, not missing a beat, “guess someone was trying to involve you in school activities, to make you a bit well rounded—not as if you do normal.”

  The obvious reply was that she was quite right and that I did not wish to socialize with the group that made up the Helbig-Henley congregation. They were, I thought, ordinary—childish even—and then I realized with a little shudder of self-awareness that I had become, as Ma had proclaimed a few weeks ago, “high on yourself,” high as a result of my hoped-for scholarship, Mutti’s dinners, improving finances, and academic kudos—a heady combination. And I was even thinner. No, I didn’t want to do normal. Yet I was lonely, not that I’d admit it—not even to myself.

  I ignored her. Let Candace Stewart think the Hockey God, Carl Helbig, was attracted by my dark, intense self and not my academic help—although surely Candy must be suspicious of the attraction.

  I shuffled with the crowd from the cold arena listening to the excited voices, hearing words like scouted, drafted, Bruins, Hawks, and Senators. Being scouted or drafted I concluded was similar to being anointed, and from what I could tell the anointment was encrusted with jewels, lined with such inducements as a signing bonus and a contract that could last for years and bring in millions, millions far beyond my realm of thought. Across from the sea of packed bodies I spotted Mutti vigorously chatting with several members of the crowd. I waved at her but she was too preoccupied to respond.

  THE PLAYOFFS LASTED for ten days. There was only one more game left, Davenport against Etobicoke, and it was to be played at the Davenport Arena. At school, everyone spoke of Carl Helbig, but he was not there. There had been no tutoring for ten days. Every night he was in a different arena and every day he was celebrated by the school.

  I was not, I told myself, one of his puck bunnies. I was, I hoped, someone he looked up to, although sometimes I felt it was more than that. Even more importantly, I needed the money. Nothing had come in for ten days. Six hundred dollars lost and all because of damn stupid hockey.

  “Tonight’s the last game, you coming?”

  He had dropped in after class, probably, I thought, to receive the kudos of his adoring fans. He was their hero, and Lear and Gatsby could both go to hell. I was standing by my locker, books in hand, surprised but pleased he had sought me out.

  “I saw you play at that first game against Mississauga and you were very . . . impressive.”

  “But not impressive enough to see again?”

  I felt his hurt. It appeared vital to him that I see him in a different light than the frustrated and limited student I met with five days a week.

  “You’ll impress the whole school, even all of Davenport. You don’t need me there. I won’t be missed. I realize your athletic abilities far outweigh your academic ones. You’ll do fine without me.” And even saying this I wondered if it were true; perhaps he wouldn’t do well without me—except in hockey.

  “Great. Thanks a lot.”

  He turned and stamped away, and I thought I heard a muttered “Bitch.” He strode through the door that opened out into the school parking lot where Mutti’s Volkswagen stood waiting. I wondered if he was angry enough to stop our tutoring lessons. I hoped not; it would be the height of stupidity to forfeit his chance of graduating from high school because his teacher, and that was how I liked to see myself, refused to attend a final hockey game—important as it may be to him and to Davenport.

  I worked on my courses that night in the chilled apartment, occasionally feeling a nudge of guilt, thinking that perhaps I should have attended. It seemed so important to him and I could make up for the sacrifice of three hours. I would hopefully do well, although there was no news on the scholarship.

  Davenport won ten to six, and Carl Helbig was awarded the league’s most valuable player award. There was a huge celebration and the Davenport Guardian carried the victory in headlines on the front page with a large picture of Carl smiling broadly in his hockey gear and a play-by-play description of the game. Too bad, I thought sourly, that it would take him so long to read his own praises. At the same time I was glad for him; it would make up for everything else. I wanted him to be happy.

  He was not in class the next day; hungover, I surmised, but he appeared the day after.

  “You’ve become quite the celebrity, Carl,” said Miss Steinbrink. No longer a disgrace to the German people, even our teacher was impressed.

  But at the end of the day he was there, waiting for me, smiling.

  “Still interested?” I asked.

  “Of course I’m still interested. What is it with you, anyway? Without you I can’t make it. I probably won’t make it even with you, but at least with you I’ve got a fighting chance.”

  We walked together into the cold. As usual I was wrapped in my black duffle, my head down, and beside me strode the most valuable player of the Ont
ario Junior Hockey League, earmuffs covering his shiny pink ears, eyes narrowed against the late afternoon chill. He opened the door of Mutti’s Volkswagen and I jumped in without even thanking him.

  “I’ve got something to show you when we get back—something exciting.”

  “You’ve done some English on your own?”

  “I said exciting,” he answered with irritation.

  We drove in silence, the Volkswagen finally beginning to heat up, our breath clouding the frozen windows.

  “Too bad you missed the game,” he said.

  “Yes, I should have gone. But as your friend Candace Stewart says, ‘I don’t do normal.”

  “What a bitch.” He laughed, not without affection.

  We entered the bright little pink box of a house heavy with the rich smells of fried steak and onions, mingling with bubbling cabbage, turnip, and potatoes. I had missed the food.

  Mutti was standing there, eyes steady on Carl. “It is time to feed our champion,” she stated.

  It was not until we were sitting at the study table, stuffed with steak and tapioca pudding, book opened at Act Three of King Lear, that he presented me with the envelope.

  Inside was a letter printed the letterhead of the Boston Bruins and signed by the administrative vice president. They were offering him a contract, a projected $1 million a year for three years, with an option for them to extend for an additional three, terms to be negotiated at that time. Prior to this he would attend training camp for three months starting the end of June. A cheque for $300,000 as an advance on the signing bonus of $500,000 was attached to the letter.

  “I saw a lawyer about it yesterday, a guy familiar with these things, but he wants me to see a specialist in sports contracts in Toronto. He says the final contract could be worth millions. I heard from the Oilers too, but I’m sticking with the Bruins.”

  He kept watching me for a reaction.

  “It’s so much money. I don’t even think about that kind of money.”

  He nodded eagerly, obviously pleased he had impressed me.

  “You’re sure you want to continue this tutoring? It looks to me like you’re going to be just fine without a high school diploma.”

  “Too boring for you, like watching a hockey game?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “I’ll be glad to continue.”

  I should have attended that final game. It was unsettling that he was so dependent on my approval. This was not a relationship I had sought or expected.

  “Oh sorry, I forgot. You need the money.”

  Of course I needed the money. Was he implying that I should be pursuing this repetitive boredom out of the goodness of my heart? I looked at him closely, standing with his V-necked pullover, as blue as his narrowed eyes, with the usual crisply laundered shirt inside it, blond hair no longer drenched with hockey sweat, standing there looking at me, his mouth tight with annoyance. Or was it hurt? I asked myself whether I deserved his hostility.

  “Yes, I need the money, but I’m happy to teach you. I’m really impressed with your offer and you’re a great hockey player. I should have gone to the game and I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t fit in with your group and I feel awkward.”

  It was a concession I felt forced to make, but it was only half true. I did not fit in with his group, but not because I felt awkward. I felt, if the truth be known, superior. But my answer had the desired effect. He sat down at the table smiling for the first time and lightly touched my arm.

  “No need to feel awkward. You’re smarter than the whole crowd of them put together.”

  I dismissed the comment with a smile and a shrug.

  “No one’s offering me a million-dollar contract. Now let’s start on King Lear, Act III.”

  Of one thing I was certain: at this rate no one would ever know King Lear better than I did.

  He had forgotten the paragraphs I had drafted that were to be part of the forthcoming exam, the academic plagiarism that made us conspirators against the system, but after a few hours, much to my relief, he started to remember.

  “What if the questions aren’t on the exam?”

  “Don’t worry, they will be.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then write them down anyway, it shows you know something.”

  “I may have trouble reading the questions.”

  “Then I’ll ask the monitor to read them out loud.”

  “And if she won’t?”

  “You are,” I said, suddenly weary of it all, “just making problems. What you’re memorizing is what I believe will be part of the exam, if not all at least some, at least fifty per cent.”

  So it went on—and on. April and May, five hours instead of three, five days a week, and then six days a week, then there was over $5,000 in the bank, more than enough for residence, and the hoped-for scholarship would cover the university fees. I could even buy myself black stretch pants, a black pullover, and a new black duffle jacket for the winter, together with boots, and a cropped black leather jacket for the fall term. I would get my hair styled, shoulder-length, getting rid of the bun. I mentally ticked off all my requirements. It was such a pleasant time-waster and occurred every night before I slept and every morning after I woke up. I would start university as a new person.

  The exams were during the first week of June. Following my instructions, Carl moderated his behaviour, no longer leading his congregation of worshippers at the back of the class.

  “We won’t,” I told him, “sit together at the exams. It might cause suspicion, especially if your work shows improvement.” But after the English exam was handed out, I turned around and we exchanged smiles. Four out of five questions as predicted.

  He was called in and questioned: such a drastic change had to be accounted for. But he answered the questions and got his high school diploma.

  Mutti hosted the celebratory dinner, a five-course banquet. “I like your Mutti to come to my dinner?”

  “She works at night.” I felt shame at my betrayal. Ma could miss work and have a decent meal, but then they would see that she spoke no English, looked like a bag lady, and would wish to smoke, contaminating Mutti’s pristine home. Carl Helbig Sr. always smoked his cigars outside, even in the coldest nights of winter.

  “I’ll ask her,” I lied.

  After four glasses of wine, the chicken soup, the lobster salad, the fish course, and the filet mignon with Mutti’s red wine sauce, the Helbigs gave me diamond earrings for my efforts. I felt myself flush with pleasure: this gift was a first. I pictured myself wearing them, my hair back, the earrings uncovered and sparkling.

  “Sonja, the family salutes you,” said Mutti, raising a glass of Riesling and beaming at me, her firm, round apple cheeks flushed with wine and pleasure, “You prove vat I always say, there is nothing wrong with Carl. Gut teaching change everything.”

  I exchanged a smile and glance with Carl. Our plagiaristic conspiracy had succeeded and welded a bond. This was not the time to disillusion Mutti.

  “I’d like to toast Carl, the best hockey player in Ontario.” I would not have done it had I not had so much Riesling, and then Moselle, and had I not just placed the twinkling earrings in my shabby purse, pending an ear piercing appointment at Clarke’s Jewellery the next morning for $20.

  “To Carl.”

  We all stood and raised glasses. Carl smiled and looked at me. With a sinking feeling, moderated by the intake of Riesling and Moselle, I knew he cared for me and that I cared for him, but perhaps not in the way he wanted. He was leaving the next week for the Bruins’ training camp.

  We left the house together under a star-packed sky. It was late spring and the air was sharp with new grass, ripe earth, and the distant fragrance of lilacs, sweet, sad, and already dying.

  Carl drove more slowly than usual back to the rust-coloured block of an apartment building where he’d never been invited in. Once there he leaned to kiss me, but I circumvented it by deftly turning my head and kissing him lightly on a
cheek that smelled of Irish Spring soap and Aqua Velva.

  “Perhaps when I come home we can go to a movie at the New Davenport Mall,” he ventured.

  “That would be nice,” I said quickly. “Sure, give me a call.”

  We both sat without speaking.

  “I’ll miss your mother’s cooking.” I was sorry as soon as I said it.

  “More than you’ll miss me, I’m sure,” he said, not smiling.

  I didn’t answer.

  He walked with me to the apartment door and did not attempt another kiss.

  Later, as I lay in bed, my thoughts reeling, I regretted not letting him kiss me. I had wanted to kiss him, as I found him sexy and yearned for intimacy, but I knew it would add a new dimension to our relationship. I knew it would be a beginning: it would be more than the “making out” or “getting some” so prevalent at Davenport High. But it was as if getting physical with Carl would be a betrayal. I would be settling for a semi-literate jock who could never share in the things most important to me: my love of literature and my beloved novels, plays, and poetry. I did not want to spend my life watching sports and violent movies. Yet I felt a sense of sadness. I asked myself if I was using my love of literature and my superior intellect as a defence against intimacy or as an excuse for not seeing someone as he really was. I didn’t want to think so.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON an official envelope addressed to me appeared in our mailbox. I had been granted an Imperial Oil Scholarship for four years at a university of my choice, a scholarship that would cover all costs of tuition. The week before I’d been accepted at the University of Toronto for the four-year program in Honours English. I felt a surge of happiness I wished to share, but Miss Steinbrink had left town. I wanted to tell Carl, but felt I couldn’t, not after what had happened the night before.

  The next morning I broke the news to Ma, who sat wizened at the kitchen table, inhaling her second Camel.

  “I’ve been accepted at the University of Toronto and they’ve given me the scholarship. I don’t want to leave you, but it will be better in the long run. I’ll help you later on, and you’ll be happy I went, just wait and see. It’s not that far away.”