Amazons: An Intimate Memoir by the First Woman Ever to Play in the National Hockey League

by Cleo Birdwell

  The kickers and stompers had more or less turned themselves off. Dr. Glass went gliding by, and Shaver, with his short, powerful arms and low center of gravity, sort of unobtrusively seized and detained him. Seeing this shift in the action, I decided to follow along, indicating to Nan and Thad that we’d see them a little later.

  “What about Dr. Posey?” Shaver said. “Is he coming or not? We’d like to start on home.”

  “I’ve been assured he’s on the way,” Dr. Glass said. “Of course I didn’t tell him we were in the South Bronx, or he’d never have left the Plaza. I just gave him a street name and a building number. We’ll have to pin our hopes on the cabdriver.”

  We heard the frenzied wail of police sirens. A woman lifted her leg back behind her and studied the bottom of her shoe. The shadows of three pigeons moved across the floor.

  Dr. Glass looked at me.

  “I’ve got a program for our young friend here,” he said.

  Shaver looked at me.

  “I knew it. He wants to freeze my brain cells.”

  Dr. Glass listened, looking amused.

  “He wants to open my skull and go in there with his damned ice technology of the future.”

  Dr. Glass turned to me.

  “We don’t use ice,” he said. “Who said we use ice? We don’t use ice.”

  “What do you use?” I said.

  “Ray Posey’s your man. He’ll be here before too long. He’s never let me down yet. Of course you never know what kind of driver you’re getting.”

  Shaver looked at me.

  “I knew he’d want to freeze my cells. The last few weeks, he’s been telling me how mild my condition is compared to other people. I knew he was leading up to something horrible.”

  Dr. Glass listened to him.

  “I wish somebody would lock me in a room somewhere and throw away the key. That’s the only way to deal with people like me. I’m a drain on society. An emotional burden.”

  Dr. Glass looked at me.

  “The program I’ve laid out for Shaver doesn’t include cell-freezing.”

  “It doesn’t?” I said.

  “It’s a much simpler program, a much easier program. I think it’s a super way to deal with our young friend’s special situation.”

  He looked at the index card he was palming in his left hand.

  “I want to put him on a sleep program. I want to put him to sleep.”

  “That’s all?” I said. “As simple as that?”

  I wanted to hug both of them.

  “I’ve got a program all laid out. Sleep. Sound sleep. The body sleeps, the brain dozes. It’s our simplest program. It’s designed to avoid even the smallest complication.”

  Shaver was listening carefully. He turned to me.

  “He hasn’t said how long.”

  “How long what?”

  “How long I sleep, dummy.”

  I looked at Dr. Glass.

  “It’s the standard five-month program,” he said.

  He winked at Shaver. A pigeon landed on the snare drum at the back of the bandstand.

  “Is that all-inclusive?” I said. “In other words, he goes into a training program to get ready for the sleep part. Then he sleeps a while. Then there’s a long period of postsleep recuperation and therapy and rehabilitation. Right?”

  They were both looking at me.

  “I think he means I sleep for five months,” Shaver said. “He gives me an injection and I pass out for five months. A hundred and fifty days of my life. Slow, wasting sleep.”

  “It’s our standard five-month program,” he said, a little defensively. “This period of time isn’t arrived at arbitrarily. Five months may seem a long time to disappear from the world, or vice versa, but this is what it takes. We’re not dealing with a when on our young friend’s index finger. He happens to be afflicted with one of the strangest maladies known to science. I think if you take any jumper in this room and tell him that all he has to do is go to sleep for a while, you’d find yourself face to face with a pretty darned happy person.”

  I looked at Shaver.

  “Who pays for this?” he said. “Who pays for five months of hospital care in a private room with a nurse around the clock?”

  I kept looking at Shaver.

  “We don’t need a hospital,” Dr. Glass said.

  We both looked at him.

  “Hospitals are outmoded. I recommend hospitals only when surgery is indicated, and even then only in extreme cases. We don’t need hospitals. We already have the most ideal unit for treatment, care and recovery. The American home. All our sleep programs are designed for the home. Familiar surroundings, minimum expense, a loving family.”

  They were both looking at me.

  “No hospital can match the American home,” Dr. Glass said. “If a patient can’t get well in an American home, maybe he just doesn’t deserve to get well at all.”

  Well, that was the gist of it. Dr. Glass wasn’t sure exactly when he would put the program into effect, but he said he’d give us plenty of warning, so we could make whatever arrangements have to be made when somebody goes to sleep for five months. We mumbled our goodbyes and went looking for Nan and Thad. Shaver saw them standing near the door.

  It was late afternoon and almost dark on the floor of the ballroom. But there were still rays of gorgeous, dusty pink light striking the upper walls, the upper sections of one of the murals—a huge sky full of clouds and birds. In other words, the real sky was pouring delicate, late, winter light onto the painted sky on the wall. It was a small moment in a day crowded with impressions, but the sight was so glowing and full of unexpected poetry that I had to stop in my tracks and just stand looking at that twice-made sky.

  All around the hall, small clusters of jumpers and relatives stood talking. Somebody turned on the lights, and a dingy, streetlike glow fell over the gathering. People stood around rumpled, in long shadows, waiting for Dr. Posey.

  I hurried toward the door. The clapper still hit her hands together, making haunted applause.

  The four of us went out into the street to hail a cab. Instinctively we stayed close together, all of us bunched up and waving our arms at anything that resembled a moving vehicle.

  I counted eleven unpainted cars parked outside the ballroom.

  Finally, with a total of about six of our combined arms waving, we flagged down a checkered cab and piled in for the trip downtown. From his position in one of the jump seats, Thad directed the driver to a Chinese Cuban restaurant in the west nineties.

  While he was doing that, Shaver and I conversed in semicode about Dr. Glass’s program. We didn’t know whether to be elated, depressed, miserable, or what. We agreed that the nature of the treatment was all right. What made us nervous was time. The time factor. The time element. The time span.

  “What was all that stuff about the American home?” Shaver said. “Doesn’t he know I’m Canadian?”

  “He meant North American.”

  “Doesn’t he think other people have decent homes? Does a house have to be in Tennessee before the surroundings are familiar to the people who live there? People all over the world have familiar surroundings in their homes. It’s pretty universal. You walk into your house and you see familiar surroundings.”

  “He knows that. Shaver. He was just trying to emphasize the importance of a certain kind of atmosphere. Dr. Glass knows that.”

  “Doesn’t he think Pakistanis have loving families?”

  “He knows that. There’s no reason to get upset by one dumb little phrase. He meant your home, my home, anyone’s home.”

  “Hey, what are you guys talking about?” Nan said.

  We replied vaguely, and before too long the driver let us out on a street full of growling dogs.

  The restaurant was empty, since it was still so early, and Thad went walking in there as if he expected a terrific welcome from the staff. The odors from the kitchen were pungent a
nd sort of ethnic beyond belief. If an odor like this ever wafted down Bank Street in Badger, they would have called out the National Guard.

  We were seated about ten minutes when an old Chinese man came padding out of the kitchen on slippered feet. Thad wanted to order for all of us, which he did by pointing to items on the menu and shouting at the Chinese man, “One this. One this. Two this. A little this. One this no beans. Four glass water.”

  I got up to go to the bathroom, but Nan reached out and grabbed me by the elbow.

  “You don’t want to go in there,” she said.

  I looked from her to Thad.

  “You really don’t want to go in there,” Thad said. “That’s the one thing about this restaurant. You don’t want to go to the toilet.”

  I sat back down.

  “Should I tell them what I did?” Nan said. “I feel I’ve known you guys forever, so I think I’ll tell them, Thad, or not? Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe that’s presuming on people.”

  “She peed in the sink. She went in there and the toilet was such a disaster that she climbed up on the sink and peed in it.”

  “Should I have told you?” Nan said. “Or no?”

  “I’ve peed in sinks,” Shaver said. “I peed in a sink in Oklahoma City once.”

  “I peed in a sink in Del Rio, Texas,” Thad said. “When I was real little, I peed in a sink in Wilmington, Delaware.”

  “I’ve peed in sinks all over the Banff area in Alberta,” Shaver said. “I worked there one summer. I peed in a sink at the Banff Springs Hotel. I peed in a sink at the Voyager Inn. One night I crossed over into British Columbia and peed in a sink there.”

  “I’ve peed in Mexican sinks,” Thad said. “You pretty much have to.”

  “Mexico you don’t even count,” Nan said.

  “I peed in a sink in Yellowknife,” Shaver said. “That’s the northernmost point I’ve ever peed in a sink in.”

  Our food came.

  “Shaver’s so real,” Nan said. “That’s the thing about group. Nobody’s real. Dr. Glass doesn’t even try to resolve basic conflicts. Nobody’s even supportive. It’s all, ‘Look at me, I’m a beautiful person underneath all these multiple tics.’”

  “Unreal,” Thad said.

  “Thad and I at least are supportive.”

  “We’re the only two jumpers having a relationship.”

  Nan began blowing into her glass of water. Then she sipped it, slowly and cautiously. She blew some more and took another sip.

  The others went on eating.

  Nan took the paper napkin off her lap and stuck it in one nostril. She left it there, hanging from her nose. In order to eat, she had to guide the fork around the hanging napkin.

  Shaver went on eating.

  Thad blew on his water. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and put it around the glass. He picked up the glass with both hands, the way people hold steaming mugs of cocoa at ski resorts in movies made for TV. Then he slowly, carefully sipped the ice water.

  The Chinese waiter, the Cuban cook, and a small Chinese girl came out of the kitchen and stood watching.

  Nan guided her food around the hanging napkin.

  I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A roach. A crinkly brown roach. Another roach. The day of the roach. It moved slowly across the floor. It circled my chair. I kept one eye on my food, the other on the roach. It was a typical brown, probing, long-bodied, horrendously ugly, moist-looking, disgust-provoking, crinkly New York cucaracha.

  I considered the options, weighed the consequences, and decided to let it live.

  In the taxi heading home, I grabbed my gloomy man and pulled him toward me and kissed him passionately on the mouth.

  He looked at me a little sidelong, hopeful of an explanation.

  “I am a jumper,” I told him.

  7

  All i wanted to do was play hockey.

  It was the day before the team left for Philadelphia, and then Boston, and then Buffalo, and on into the schizy, dark heart of America. I was sitting around wondering how I’d manage things once Dr. Glass put Shaver to sleep.

  He’d need to be fed and cleaned. Someone would have to shave him every so often. I wondered how I’d gotten myself into this. Then I thought. What a selfish thing to wonder about. Then I thought, But everyone expects so much of me. Athlete, friend, celebrity, lover, woman. Do they really think I can play nurse, too?

  As if privy to my reflections. Shaver came padding in, wearing just his boxer shorts, and said, “Maybe I ought to go back to Red Deer. That might be the best thing for all concerned.”

  “Why are all the best places named for animals?” I said. “Red Deer, Badger—name some more.”

  “Whitehorse,” he said. “Maybe I ought to go to Whitehorse. It’s in the Yukon. When they get tired of taking care of me, they can put me out in the snow. They can expose me to the weather. That’s how you solve problems like mine up in the Yukon.”

  He went into the bedroom. I knew he wasn’t serious about going to Red Deer. He wanted me to say, “Don’t be silly. Don’t be crazy and dumb. You’ll be fine right here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t go talking about Red Deer. Your place is right here.”

  But I hadn’t said it, had I?

  I heard him jumping up and down. Then he clapped his hands. The phone rang. I hurried to get it, almost desperate for some kind of distraction.

  It was Glenway Packer. He said he had news about Battle Creek. He wanted us to meet for a fast, tidy, efficient business dinner.

  I had a million things to do—packing for the trip, talking to Dr. Glass, talking to Shaver, sending a get-well card to the Ranger announcer Merle Halverson, who was reportedly on the brink, the very edge, hovering, and all the things you have to do when you’re going to be away from home for two-plus weeks.

  “Okay,” I told Glenway. “What time and where?”

  We met in a small, charming, intimate, boxlike kind of place—very woody, very French, very upper Madison Avenue. Glenway was attentive and showed his usual beautiful manners. The little bit of Southern drawl he normally had was a shade more pronounced, I thought, and pleasant and charming to hear.

  “They want you,” he said. “It seems everyone does these days.” He raised his wineglass. “Hurrah, hurrah. To Cleo and Kelloid. A long, joyful, prosperous union.”

  “But what am I going to do about Ralphies?”

  “You’ve forgotten that by now.”

  “They were in New York magazine.”

  “You’ve realized you were tapping the wrong deposits of stupidity. It is all over. We’ll have no more tedious and boring objections.” He raised his wineglass. “Ralphies: to the memory of.”

  “I sincerely hope it turns out to be that easy.”

  “Cleo, acts of conscience are moments we reserve for war, love, business, and other disasters.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Eat your buttered asparagus tips.”

  “Any word from Floss?”

  “A big, round zero,” he said. “Love your overalls.”

  “French suede.”

  “Love them.”

  Aside from his shaved head, which was spectacle enough for one person. Glen way Packer had the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen on a human. In fact they were husky-dog eyes—clear and extra pale, full of northern light, full of sky. I’m not being corny-romantic and it wasn’t the wine, but I’ve taken a lot of long, searching looks at men’s eyes, and Glenway’s, for a human’s, were probably the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

  My old dog Bowzer back home had terrific, deep, mournful dark eyes for the mere puddle of hair and paws that he was Husky dogs and birds of prey probably top the animal kingdom, cats being overrated, with very little substance beneath the famous gleam, and snakes being uncomfortable to look at for very long, and Glenway’s eyes I would put close to the huskies with their lake-blue morning light.

  “Cleo—money. You have
n’t once inquired.”

  “You mean the Kelloid deal. Okay, what kind of money are we talking?”

  “It depends on how you want to be paid. A lot of athletes, film stars, and so on are insisting they be paid in Japanese yen or Swiss francs. The deutsche mark is also popular. Archie Brewster likes rupees, for his own whimsical reasons. If you want Yankee dollars, well and good, but as your agent pro tem, I advise against it.”

  “Where is Archie these days?”

  “Caracas, I believe.”

  “Is he alone, do you know? Aside from Venezuelans.”

  “I don’t know Archie well. We don’t keep in close touch.”

  “Do you think he’s happy?”

  “He calls me Green Bay Packer.”

  “Of course, who knows what happy is? What is happy? Who’s happy today?”

  “Have you two met?”

  “Once,” I said.

  “People aren’t happy when they don’t like themselves. That’s the current thinking.”

  “Archie liked himself. But I don’t think he was happy. What’s happy?”

  “Eat your carrots Vichy.”

  “Why do you shave your head, Glenway?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s the wine.”

  “Lord, what a question. Why don’t you ask me about the commercials you’re going to do for Kelloid? They plan to saturate the market. Why don’t you ask about front money, or deferred payments, or how I’ve coordinated location work with the Ranger schedule so that you don’t miss a single practice and never have to travel more than a hundred miles.”

  “That’s nice, Glenway. I mean it.”

  “Well, it’s good to have one’s work commended. It’s frankly refreshing in a nasty business like ours.”

  “If you could do something else, what would you do?”

  “Good Lord, what would I do? Well, Mother has a place down in Georgia. A leafy, low-key, eight-hundred-acre neoplantation, I guess you’d call it. I think I’d like to go back to Shalizar and just read—spend years and years just reading.”

  He laughed—a pleasant, charming, light, clear, metallic sound.