The Penalty Box

by Deirdre Martin

  “Gary can be melodramatic sometimes,” Liz murmured as she gave a big stretch.

  “Jesus, Liz! Why didn’t you tell me you had a kid?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “Everyone knows.” She nuzzled against him. “Everyone knows I’m a poor, single woman back in Didsbury after my horrible, painful divorce.”

  “I can see the experience really scarred you,” Paul replied, gingerly moving away from her. “By the way, who’s Gustav?”

  “Gustav?” Liz frowned, as if trying to remember someone from long ago. “Oh, he was Gary’s archery instructor. Why?”

  “Gary seemed perturbed to find me here instead of him.”

  “Gary was very fond of Gustav. I never had the heart to tell him Gustav had to go back to Austria to take over his father’s hosiery factory.”

  “What a considerate mother you are.” Paul rubbed sleep from his eyes. “And Laurie? Who’s she? The nanny?”

  “The maid. Lane is the nanny.”

  “Yeah, you’re a poor single mom, all right. My heart bleeds for you.”

  Paul closed his eyes for a moment, trying to take this all in. He shouldn’t have come here. Not only was he feeling like a fleet of limos had run him over, but his head was pounding and his mouth tasted like bilge water. Worst of all, he’d let his dick do his thinking. The glowering boy by the bedside was the icing on the cake. All of it was just plain wrong.

  “Why are you being so mean?” Liz’s bottom lip jutted out like a pouty little girl’s. “Especially after all the fun we had last night.” She was on him again, an anaconda coiling herself around him in a death grip. “You were good,” she purred. “Even better than you were in high school.”

  Paul snorted, affronted. I sure as hell hope so.

  “Liz?” He tried wriggling free but movement made his head pound so he lay back, marshaling his energy. “Don’t you care that your son saw you in bed with a strange man? Or that he saw my, you know?”

  “Your what? Your willy?” Liz guffawed. “Your ding dong? Your johnson? Little Elvis? Can’t you even say the word, Paul?”

  “It’s not funny, Liz. Your kid walking in here is totally inappropriate —”

  “So spank me.” She bit down softly on his shoulder. “I’ve been a bad, bad girl.”

  Paul much preferred to muzzle her. He took a deep breath, and in one strong, swift motion tried to peel her off him. She was tenacious, sticking to him like a barnacle, but he was stronger. He broke free and in a swift move that sent his pounding head spinning, he leapt out of bed and snatched up his briefs, nearly falling over as he struggled to put them on. He hadn’t been hung over this badly in years.

  Liz frowned, watching him from the bed. “What’s the rush? The maid is making Gary breakfast. We have more than enough time for another—”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got places to go, people to see.”

  “Like who?”

  “The Didsbury Youth Hockey Board. I find out today who I’m coaching.”

  “Gary’s trying out for hockey,” Liz said brightly. “Maybe you’ll wind up being his coach.” She rolled over on her stomach, inching over to where Paul now sat. “You know,” she said, trailing her perfectly manicured nails along his thigh, “I’d be willing to pay you to give Gary some private tutoring on the ice.”

  “I don’t think so.” He calmly removed her hand as he stood to put his trousers on. “I don’t really have time.”

  “Not even as a favor to his mother, whose brains you were happy to fuck out last night?”

  Paul sighed, sinking back down on the bed. He’d been hoping to get out without having this conversation, but he knew now he was going to have to lay it on the line.

  “Liz, look.” He worked to sound apologetic. “Last night was a mistake, okay? We both had too much to drink—”

  “I didn’t.”

  “And because of the reunion there was a lot of nostalgia in the air, and—”

  “Oh, just fuck off, Paul.” Liz flopped back angrily on the bed.

  “What?”

  “Don’t give me the ‘It was a mistake’ speech! You knew what you were getting into when I offered to drive you home! You wanted it as badly as I did!”

  Was that true? Had he wanted it as badly as she did? He couldn’t remember. Post-reunion, the night was one big, sensual blur.

  “Fine, you’re right,” he admitted to placate her. “But it was just sex. Nothing else.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe it was the beginning of something,” she ventured, the hopefulness in her voice making him feel like a total creep.

  “Liz.” Paul cradled his head in his hands. She wasn’t going to let this go.

  “I have an idea.” She reached out, caressing his bare back with her big toe. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight?”

  “I can’t.” Paul stood up abruptly. “I’m at the bar tonight.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “Liz, I don’t want to have dinner with you, okay?”

  Anger flashed in her flinty green eyes. “Oh, I get it. I’m good enough to screw, but not good enough to share a meal with.”

  “That’s bull and you know it.”

  “Then prove it. Have dinner with me.”

  “Sometime,” he mumbled, hurriedly reaching for his shirt and buttoning it up. Anything to get her off his ass and get the hell out of here. “But not tonight. And not tomorrow night.”

  “Then when?”

  “I don’t know when!” He scooped his jacket up off the floor. “Look, I gotta go.”

  “Fuck and run!” Liz snapped. “Some things never change!”

  “You got that right,” Paul muttered under his breath. He flung open the bedroom door, hurrying down the immense, winding staircase. Twice his feet nearly went out from under him on the polished marble floor of the foyer. He’d forgotten his socks, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to get out of there in one piece without cracking his skull or running into little Gary with the accusatory eyes. He felt sorry for the kid, having Liz as his mother. But right now, only one thing mattered. Flinging open the front door, he was free.

  “Pee—yew! You stink!”

  To drive the point home, Tuck held his nose right there at the breakfast table, until Katie’s mother leveled him with one of her disapproving stares and he slunk down in his seat, poking listlessly at his pancakes. Katie, dripping with sweat after her five-mile run, knew Tuck had only been telling the truth. She was beyond pungent; she was downright ripe.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, still breathing heavily.

  “I don’t know why you have to do that,” her mother said, biting into a piece of toast. “Taxing your body that way. Couldn’t you just take a nice, brisk walk?”

  Katie smiled indulgently. “I could. But running helps clear my head. And it keeps the weight off.”

  Each time she ran, she thought back to when she first resolved to lose the weight. It was in college, right after she left Didsbury for good. She started a fitness program in tandem with joining Fat Fighters, of which she was now a lifetime member. Back then, she could barely stroll around the block without getting winded, never mind running. But gradually, she was able to do more and more. Now, she ran a minimum of five miles a day, five times a week. Running was her relaxation, the rhythmic pounding of her feet against the pavement hypnotic as any mantra. It was her time to think, daydream, muse. This morning’s run had been no exception.

  Flying down the silent, dilapidated streets of her childhood, she went over last night’s reunion. Her mind kept circling back to Paul van Dorn, sifting through their words for nuance and inflection. Had he been flirting with her when he said he wasn’t confused about his masculinity? She wasn’t sure. Anyway, why should she care?

  “Katie, sit down and have some breakfast with us.”

  “In a minute, Mom.”

  Stalling for time, she poured herself a glass of cold water, drinking it down slowl
y to avoid cramps. The breakfast table was laden with toast, sausage, pancakes, eggs—all the foods she loved, all the foods that would make her fat again if she didn’t watch it. She didn’t want to appear ungracious, but she was going to have to have a chat with her mother about the way she cooked. One year of living in this house again and she’d have to go to a tent maker for her clothing. She had to be vigilant.

  She poured herself some coffee and helped herself to some scrambled eggs and a piece of dry toast before sliding into the seat beside Tuck, who held his nose again, shifting his chair slightly away from her. As expected, her mother reacted as if she’d just announced the commencement of a hunger strike.

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re having?”

  “I just finished a run, Mom. If I eat too much right now, I’ll throw up.”

  Her mother shook her head before turning to Tuck, tapping her fork on his plate like a gavel-wielding judge. “Eat up, mister. Contrary to what your aunt thinks, a good breakfast is very important.”

  Tuck didn’t look like he needed much convincing. In fact, he was shoveling food into his mouth so fast Katie was afraid he’d choke.

  “Nana, look.” He pushed the open newspaper he’d been glancing at over to Katie’s mother, pointing at something on the bottom of the page. “That’s what I was telling you about.”

  Her mother’s eyes flicked to the paper before she pushed it back. “We’ve already discussed this.”

  Tuck’s face fell. “But—”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I just can’t afford it.” She rose to wash dishes.

  “What is it?” Katie asked Tuck under her breath.

  Tuck furtively slid the paper to Katie. At the bottom of the left-hand page was a boxed announcement about tryout times for Didsbury’s Youth Hockey League.

  “You play hockey?” Katie whispered, surprised.

  Tuck nodded fervently.

  “Hmm.” Katie skimmed the announcement for the source of her mother’s distress, and found it right there on the bottom line in bold: The dues for the year were two hundred fifty dollars. She leaned toward Tuck conspiratorially. “Go blow up some medieval fortress on your computer and I’ll talk to Nana about this.”

  “Really?”

  Katie nodded. “Finish your breakfast first, though.”

  Tuck wolfed down the rest of his food. “Nana, I’m done! Can I go play on the computer?”

  “Yes, but only for an hour.” Katie’s mom turned around to make firm eye contact with her grandson. “Okay?”

  “Yes, Nana, love you bye.” Grinning, Tuck flew up the stairs to his room.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you two were hatching up,” her mother said. “Just because the tap’s running, doesn’t mean I’m deaf.”

  “Mom, I can cover the fee if Tuck really wants to play hockey.”

  “There’s more than the fee involved, Katie. There’s equipment.”

  “I’ll cover that, too.”

  “Made of money now, are we?”

  Katie was silent. She knew her mother: The only time she ever resorted to sarcasm was when she felt defensive. It had happened a lot right after her father died and money was especially tight. Her mother must have thought that by offering to cover Tuck’s hockey fees, Katie was inferring she wasn’t providing well for him.

  Removing her hands from the soapy water, her mother wiped them on her apron with a sigh. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just”—her voice cracked a little—“hard.”

  “What is?” Katie put down her coffee cup. “Talk to me, Mom.”

  Tears filled her mother’s eyes. “I love having Tuck, I really do. But sometimes I don’t have the energy.”

  “But I do.” Katie wiped the tear coursing down her mother’s cheek with her thumb.

  “You have your book to write.”

  “I can do both. I told you that was one of the reasons I moved back. To help out with Tuck.”

  “I know, but . . .” her mother glanced uncomfortably out the window. “The hockey is a lot of money. A lot.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe Tuck needs to learn that we can’t always get what we want.”

  Katie laughed bitterly. “I’m sure Tuck already knows that, believe me.”

  Her mother’s eyes found hers. “What if Mina never gets better?” she whispered.

  “Mina’s going to be fine, Mom.” Katie folded her into an embrace. “It’s a process. One of the things that’s going to help her through is us having faith in her. Right?”

  Her mother nodded, sniffling against her chest. “I’m sorry. I’m being silly.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Katie? Tuck’s right. You stink to high heaven.” They broke apart, laughing.

  “So, you’ll let me cover Tuck’s hockey fees?” Katie pressed.

  “Yes,” her mother conceded reluctantly. “I just worry, because it’s mostly the rich kids in town who play youth hockey. They’re the only ones who can afford it. What if Tuck feels out of place?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Katie said. “He’ll have new equipment like everyone else.”

  “And when the other boys ask what country club his parents belong to? Where he lives?”

  Katie swallowed. “He’ll handle it, Mom. Kids are remarkably resilient.” Personal experience had taught her that much.

  “All right.” Her mother grabbed a dishrag and began drying a plate. “If he makes the team, and you’re willing to cover the costs, then hockey it is for Tuck. But if he gets hurt—”

  “Then I’ll cover his medical bills, too,” Katie teased. Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around her mother once more and gave her a big, sloppy kiss. “Everything’s going to be fine. Stop worrying.”

  Paul might have fled Liz Flaherty’s without his socks, but at least he’d left with enough time to shoot back to his own place for a shower and change of clothes. He was surprised he felt anxious about his meeting with the president and vice president of the Youth Hockey League Board of Directors.

  He knew both men. Doug Burton, the president, had been Paul’s coach when he was on the Bantam team. VP Charles “Chick” Perry’s son Chandler had played hockey with Paul until tenth grade, when a knee injury sidelined him for good. Chick also golfed regularly with Paul’s dad.

  Paul’s decision to coach once he returned to Didsbury had been a no-brainer. Without hockey in his life, he would die. Hockey was who he was. It had shaped everything about him. He’d contemplated coaching on the minor league level, but was afraid it would be too painful to coach men his own age, men who could skate freely without the same kind of fears that Paul lived with. Besides, he wanted to give something back to the community that had championed him his whole life.

  He strode through the doors of the Didsbury Country Club, trying to remember the last time he’d been here. It had to be when he’d been drafted by the Blades. His dad had taken him here for scotch and cigars to celebrate. There was lots of back-patting and talk about being a star, the best, the cream of the crop. He remembered his father dragging him from table to table, telling total strangers all his son had achieved. And now . . .

  Squaring his shoulders, Paul smiled at the stooped mâitre’d, Kenneth, who’d been here as long as Paul could remember.

  “Mr. van Dorn.” Kenneth extended a veiny hand for Paul to shake. “It’s been too long. How may I help you?”

  “I’m here to meet Doug Burton and Chick Perry for lunch.”

  “Both men have already arrived. I’ll show you to the table.”

  Paul dutifully followed Kenneth through the dining room. Though there appeared to be some businessmen present, the large, sunny room was filled mainly with well-heeled women of different ages in various stages of eating disorders. He scoured the room for his own mother, surprised to find her absent. Whenever someone in the family couldn’t locate her, the joke had always been “Check the DCC.” Didsbury Country Club, tennis, and various social committees: That was his mother’s life.


  Kenneth led him outside to the covered patio overlooking the rolling green hills of a Robert Trent Jones-designed golf course. Paul had never “gotten” golf, despite his father’s occasional encouragement. Where was the rush? The danger? The blood? He knew lots of hockey players played golf to relax, but he wasn’t one of them.

  “Paul.” Doug Burton rose with a warm smile for the boy he’d once called “Baby Gretzky.” Paul would have recognized him anywhere: same granite features pocked with small scars, same scary brush cut, though it was now gray. “Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too, Coach Burton.”

  “Please, call me Doug.”

  Paul paused, waiting for Chick Perry to struggle out of his chair. A hugely overweight man with a florid face and unruly eyebrows, he nonetheless still managed to project an air of quiet superiority, not surprising considering how much money he was worth. Clasping Paul’s forearm, he shook it so hard Paul wondered if he was hoping some change might drop out of his sleeve. “Paul.” Shake shake shake. “So wonderful”—hacking cough, wheeze, shake—“to see you.”

  “You, too, Mr. Perry,” Paul replied carefully, worried for the older man’s health. The exertion it had taken him to get out of the chair had been so substantial Paul was afraid the reverse action of sitting back down might be the catalyst for a coronary.

  “Please.” He hurled himself back down into his chair, gasping. “None of this ‘Mr. Perry’ crap. From now on it’s Chick.”

  “Chick,” Paul repeated, taking his seat. “How is Chandler?”

  “He’s a big-shot lawyer in Chicago now, with a little boy and a wife with an ass so big you could land the space shuttle on it.”

  Paul stifled a snort. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

  “Tell him I say hello,” said Paul politely.

  “I will, I will.” Chick reached for his water glass, chugging down the contents.

  “Drink?” Coach Burton offered.

  Paul briefly considered the offer, applying the “hair of the dog” theory to his hangover. One or two beers might make him feel more human. Then again, suppose it didn’t work? He was still feeling like he’d been dragged behind a chariot, and there was no way he wanted to risk feeling even worse. “Water’s fine for me,” he said, helping himself to a glass from the large, sweating pitcher in the middle of the table.