by Dan Dowhal
“Mais, mon ami, why would I want to leave this valley? This is my home now … my refuge.”
“But that’s just it. You don’t need a refuge anymore, now that there’s no more Mack Blackmail.”
Beñat laughs. “Mack Black drove me here, but he did not keep me here. I stayed because I found inner peace and l’illumination. I looked for this my whole life. No, when I say it is a refuge, I mean it is a refuge from the madness of the outside world, from the anger and greed and selfishness, from the evil that people do to each other every day.”
“But don’t you want to travel, to see more of the world?”
“Oh, my good fellow. In this little place I have travelled farther than I ever imagined I could … to worlds you cannot comprehend.” He glances at Shane. “Or perhaps you can comprehend a little … now.”
Shane contemplates the fire. “I thought you would be happy.”
“But, Shane, I am very happy. Just not for the reason you think. I stopped fearing Mack Black many years ago. But his … his badness, it was always there in my mind. It was like smoke, hiding the sun, making it difficult to breathe. Now I can feel peace, knowing his veil has lifted, and the sun is shining again. For this, I thank you.”
Shane nods and finishes his cognac. “Well, I figure I’ll turn in, too. Like the lady said, it’s been a long, crazy day. Tomorrow … well, I start the next leg of my journey.”
“I will make up a room for you to sleep in tonight,” Beñat tells him.
Shane smiles and pulls his blanket tighter. “Thanks, buddy, but no thanks. I don’t know exactly when I’ll see the sky and stars again after tomorrow. So, if it’s no trouble, I think I’d like to sleep outside tonight.”
“As you like, mon ami. If you wake up, throw some more wood on the fire. It will keep you warm.” He rises to go.
“Hey, Beñat?”
“Oui, Shane?”
“Those shaman guys coming tomorrow, how are they getting here? Are they, like, riding wild horses, or do they just materialize out of thin air?”
“You joke. No, they have their own air-conditioned autobus. Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking maybe they could drop me off at an airport, and I’d fly to Chicago instead. Do you figure they’d be willing to do that?”
“I am sure they would be honoured. But what of your motorcycle?”
“Doesn’t belong to me, and I’m not a big fan of sidecars or vintage bikes, anyway. I was thinking of leaving it behind for Abraham. Call it a wedding present. The kids might want to get out from time to time. Once Abraham has a few more driving lessons, that is. Say, to visit Albuquerque … or, as Zaylie called it, Babylon. Unless leaving the valley is, like, against the rules, now that they’re here.”
Beñat sends another monstrous guffaw flying out into the night. “Rules? This is not a hockey game, Shane. Everyone makes their own rules. Hmm. Perhaps I will drive the motorcycle sometimes, too. I formerly had one, a 400cc BMW, while a student in San Sebastián. We shall see. We shall see. I told you that I do not feel a compulsion to leave the valley. But that is not to say it is not possible. Now, I will say gabon … good night.”
“Hey, Beñat, guess what?”
“What?”
“Las Vegas has an NHL team now. Phoenix has had one for ages.”
“Mon dieu! The universe is full of miracles!”
Waiting at the Albuquerque airport for his flight to Chicago, Shane phones his father.
“Dad, I’m going to turn myself in,” he tells the old man. “I’m through with running.”
“That’s good, son. You’re innocent, and we’ll fight this. Mr. Getz says the Players’ Association is with you, too. In fact, they’re going to pay for your lawyer. There’s a lot of people on your side, Shane.”
“Dad, listen, I want to tell you something. You, and all the help you gave me growing up, well, that means so much to me. I’d be nothing without you. I’m sorry I never said thank you often enough. I’m … I’m sorry for everything. I just want you to know I love you.”
The statement is met with silence. It is Oksana’s voice he hears next.
“Oh, hi, Shane. Your dad’s going to need a minute. He’s having a good cry and doesn’t want you to know it. That’s a man for you.” In the background Shane hears his father curse Oksana for her honesty.
“It’s going to take a couple of days for the two of us to get there, Shane, but he wants to be by your side.”
“The two of you?”
“Yeah, I promised the doctor I’d come along and take care of your dad. Oh, hang on.” There is an exchange of voices, and his father comes back on the line.
“Damn that woman. So, okay, I was crying. Who cares? I love you, too, son.”
EPILOGUE
Ten Years Later
On the way to pick up his daughter, Shane stops by the post office to gather the family mail. Among the usual bills and flyers is an envelope postmarked Boise, Idaho, and addressed by hand. Shane studies the letter, his interest piqued, but he does not want to be late picking up little Desirée, especially not on hockey game day. He tucks the envelope into the inside pocket of his parka and returns to where his vehicle is idling, its exhaust wafting ghostlike shapes into the twilight of the frigid January afternoon.
Later, sitting in the stands at the town arena, as his daughter’s team warms up under the watchful eye of their coach, Oksana — also Desirée’s mother and Shane’s wife — Shane, having no interest in the gossip of the other parent spectators, opens the letter. Even after so many years, he still receives occasional mail from supporters and disparagers alike rehashing the accident of a decade ago and the trial thereafter. This letter, however, brings the past flooding back in an altogether different way.
Dear Mr. Bronkovsky:
I hope you remember me. You stayed briefly with us at our ranch in New Mexico ten years ago. If you don’t remember me, maybe you remember the rattlesnakes? I recently came across one of those “Where Are They Now?” articles in Hockey World magazine, and it was a real surprise and delight to read the interview they had with you.
Shane’s brow knits as he remembers the article in question. He had tried to avoid the interview, but the journalist came uninvited all the way to Peel Crossing and pestered half of the town until Shane finally relented. Oksana thought the resulting story was a balanced piece that portrayed Shane in a favourable light. Shane has to concede that at least it wasn’t a hatchet job. He returns his attention to the letter.
I know I was only a boy at the time, but after you left the ranch I was shocked to discover how totally clueless I had been about who you were and the trouble you were involved in at the time. What I remember most about you was that you were a real friend to me. You helped me with my wrist shot and taught me electrical wiring. You’ll be pleased to know both of those skills have been useful in my life.
But it wasn’t just that article that made me want to write to you. A couple of days later, while I was driving home for Christmas, a motorcycle pulled up just outside of Albuquerque, and the driver waved for me to pull over. It was a cool old Indian model with a sidecar, and wasn’t I surprised to discover it was Beñat, that shepherd fellow we used to visit up in the hills to trade for snakes and rats, riding it. After the two of us said hello and such, he said to make sure I sent you his regards when I wrote you. He said to tell you the valley had been blessed with a whole bunch of new sheep and two babies. That sure threw me for a loop, because I was just beginning to think I might write you.
The kicker was when I mentioned you to Doc Sanchez while visiting on Boxing Day, and he let me in on the secret. He told me it was you who came up with the idea for the youth programs they offer at the Palomas arena, and that you paid for my cousin Grace and me. That’s when I knew I had to write to say thank you, and to tell you how you changed our lives.
You see, Shane, I am a college senior now, attending Boise State University on a hockey scholarship. I’m an average player at this level —
I know there’s no chance of cracking the professional ranks, and that’s okay. The scholarship paid for my education in electrical engineering, and I have a good future ahead of me. I plan to return home to New Mexico and set up a business providing low-cost solar energy for the folks there. I’m hoping my hockey career isn’t over, though. I’m engaged to a really nice gal from Puerto Palomas, and after we’re married I plan to get dual Mexican-American citizenship — I hope to eventually play for Los Lobos de Chihuahua. That’s assuming I can make the team. They’ve got a pretty good bunch of players.
Let me tell you about Grace. You may remember how crazy she was about horses. When Aléjandro Arguijo and his son were murdered by the Juárez cartel, Dr. Sanchez became owner of the hockey club. He also arranged to buy some of Señor Arguijo’s horses and incorporate them into a Los Lobos youth athletics program. Well, Grace took to riding like a duck to water, and guess what? Now she’s one of the youngest professional rodeo riders in America. Her specialty is barrel racing, but she’s pretty good at roping, too. She’s not earning much money yet, but she really loves it, and her career’s just getting started. At first Aunt Tammy was dead set against her girl going off rodeoing and being away from home so much, but Grace has a way of getting what she wants. Now Aunt Tammy’s proud as punch, and there’s pictures of Grace in action hung up all over the sitting room.
Shane looks down at the ice where his own little girl is going through the pregame drills. He imagines her ten years in the future and wonders whether she will achieve her oft-stated goal of playing women’s hockey professionally. He has neither fuelled nor discouraged Desirée’s dream, believing that it is up to her to find her own path, but it’s not surprising that hockey is in her DNA. As if she senses him watching her, Desirée looks up and gives him a little wave. From the bench, Oksana tracks the gesture and turns to blow Shane a kiss before returning her attention to her charges.
Shane resumes reading.
Speaking of Aunt Tammy, you wouldn’t believe what she’s done with the ranch. The rattlesnakes are long gone, and now the place is a state-funded shelter for abused women. She fought long and hard to make that happen and has pretty much made it her whole life. There’s a new irrigation system, and the stable’s been expanded and turned into a two-storey bunkhouse. The gals all work together growing avocadoes and tomatoes for market. There’s chickens and a few steers, too, but mostly — as Aunt Tammy is fond of saying — they raise hope and self-esteem.
To boot, Aunt Tammy is a country singer now, too! She and Maybelline (you remember her from the ranch) have an act together and sometimes play around Southern New Mexico. Aunt Tammy writes all their music and plays guitar, while Maybelline writes the words and sings. They’ve even put out their own CD, with all the money going to the shelter.
And as for Yolanda, well, she’s Mrs. Sanchez now. She and the doc courted for a couple of years and then got hitched and bought a spread just outside of Columbus. These days she’s real busy on both sides of the border, not to mention being mama of twin baby girls. She and Aunt Tammy are still tight. Yolanda comes by regularly to help out with the shelter’s paperwork and whatnot. She was the one that used to drive me and Grace across the border to use the arena and the riding stable a few times a week, until I was old enough to get my licence. Otherwise, I don’t think Aunt Tammy would have let us go, even though it was all paid for.
Anyway, I guess I’ll wrap up now. Like I said, I mainly just wanted to say thank you and let you know that you made a difference in my life. You were only at the ranch for a bit, but I’ll never forget you and the things you taught me, or how well you treated me when I was going through some rough times.
Both Yolanda and Doc Sanchez say hi, and so does Grace. The magazine article says you went home to Canada after the charges against you in Chicago were dismissed, and that you found peace and a sense of purpose coaching kids. I’m really happy for you. But if you’re ever in this neck of the woods again, be sure to look us up.
Yours truly,
Vernon “Viper” Draper
Buried recollections of Shane’s time in New Mexico come gushing out. It is like a flash flood in a canyon, a relentless torrent in which pieces of memory and regret bob to the surface and spin like flotsam caught in the supercharged current. Should he feel guilty for having forgotten these people so thoroughly, for having been so oblivious to their triumphs and tragedies? No, he finally tells himself. It’s not that he suppressed the past … but the future took hold of him with an unyielding grasp, and in the process hypnotized him with its gleaming promise.
By the time Shane left Chicago, he was already in love with Oksana, although his father’s failing health was the reason he cited for returning home to the Yukon. Reconciling with his father and helping to care for him during his last days, dealing with the legal and emotional aftermath of his death, convincing Oksana to marry him, the birth of their child, the building of their new home — each of these things has been an all-consuming chapter in the story of the past decade. In many ways Shane feels like his life only truly became his own after he was finished with pro hockey. The time spent in New Mexico was like a punctuation mark separating the two segments of his story.
The arena buzzer sounds to signal the start of the game, and Shane refolds the letter and tucks it away. For the next hour he devotes his attention to cheering his daughter on, although he is equally vocal in support of every girl down on the ice. Oksana, too, plays cheerleader, taking care not to show favouritism or obsess about winning. It is one of the many ways she and Shane have proven to be well matched.
By the time the game finishes at five o’clock, it is pitch black outside. Peel Crossing is in the midst of a prolonged cold snap, with temperatures hovering near minus forty, so even though the walk to where their truck idles in the arena parking lot is short, Shane makes sure Desirée is properly bundled up, despite her protests.
To compensate for her displeasure, he hoists her onto his shoulders and lets her pretend she is riding a horse. This little game, a treat for the child, he now remembers originated with little Gracie back at Rancho Crótalo. They reach the truck, and the family piles in, purring at the warmth and coziness of the cab. Oksana takes the driver’s seat, an unspoken concession to Shane’s history of concussions. Although the doctors have pronounced him fit to drive — and, out of necessity, considering the hectic family schedule, he does so regularly — both parents prefer Oksana to take the wheel whenever possible.
Desirée bubbles merrily about the fun she had at hockey and about her budding friendships with new teammates as they head for the outskirts of town and the road that will take them up the side of the mountain to the log house Shane and Oksana built with their own hands. Shane stares contentedly out the window, conjuring phantoms from the darkness outside. While the letter from Vern has stirred memories and thoughts of alternate possibilities, it has not disturbed the inner peace that characterizes his life here in Peel Crossing. In the old moments of despair and confusion that once haunted his life, Shane would never have dared ascribe such a joyous outcome to his own life.
The road takes them past the pioneer cemetery, where only old-timers — those who have spent the better part of their lives in the Yukon — are allowed to be buried. His father is there now. If the priests are to be believed, he, too, is at rest. Out of reflex, upon spotting the headstones, Shane murmurs aloud, “Bury your horses,” realizing that this habit, too, was born during his odyssey down south.
“What’s that you said, Papa?” Desirée asks, interrupting her monologue.
Shane smiles and wraps his daughter in a hug. “Nothing, baby. It’s just a game Daddy once played.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My sincerest thanks to the Canada Council for the Arts and the Writers’ Trust of Canada, who provided financial support for the writing of this book. My profoundest gratitude to Patrick Boyer, for championing it, and to Elsa Franklin, who started everything. Also, a tip of the hat to the hardworking e
ditorial team at Dundurn Press, especially freelancer Catharine Chen for her editing. Thank you to my first readers, Gabriela Sgaga, Laura DiCesare, Peter Jagla, Jim Miller, and Brian Bell. A special thank you to Santiana Guiresse for helping me with my Basque words and facts. Thanks also to the Columbus Train Depot Museum, Columbus Village Library, and Pancho Villa State Park for supplying local knowledge, past and present, and to the Chiricahua Desert Museum in Rodeo, New Mexico, for their rattlesnake tutelage. And, finally, a bow to the members of the Dawson City Writers’ Circle and the Imperial Literary Society for their feedback and camaraderie while this book was writ.