“You okay?” Finnie asked.
“I think so.”
“We’re going to have to teach you how to stop,” Joyce said.
“That’s probably a good idea,” I said, pleased on several levels with the idea of further skating lessons with Joyce.
“Come back after school tomorrow. We’ll see what we can do.”
Over the next few weeks, I spent all my free time at the arena. As I walked home after that first lesson, though, I was overwhelmed by how much I had achieved. I was exhausted, but it was a good kind of tired. It would have been nice if I could have held onto that feeling, but it didn’t last.
That night I had the dream for the first time. I would have the dream fairly regularly over the next 15 years. I didn’t figure out what it meant until it was too late. That night, I dreamt only part of it; the rest would come later.
I was in an arena, not the Portsmouth arena, but a much larger one. I was wearing full hockey equipment and I was skating fast into the opposition zone. I felt something heavy attach itself to the back of my jersey, but I couldn’t see what it was. In my head I heard someone yell and then the puck went into the net and the crowd went insane with frenzied cheering. Everyone rushed over to me like I was a hero and then I heard my father say, clearly above the roar of the crowd, “Bad, bad work, Mr. Starbuck.” I felt an overwhelming sense of dread and then I woke up.
By the time my first practice rolled around, I was a fairly competent skater. Considering that I had been out on the ice for less than a month, I thought I could handle myself with a certain amount of confidence.
Because of our age and level of experience, Finnie and I had been posted to the same team: The Jaguars. We would play against three other teams: The Falcons, The Lions and The Mustangs. All the younger children’s teams were named after animals, even though none of these beasts could be found anywhere near Portsmouth. They were exotic animals and hockey on ice was an exotic notion. Going from the street to a rink was, for us, like going from the minor leagues to the NHL. I had just turned nine and was ready to get on with my life. When Finnie and I talked of Wayne Gretzky and Peter Stastny, we spoke as though we were all of the same calibre. We often speculated about what it would be like to play against them.
“To stop Peter Stastny, you have to watch his hands, not the puck,” Finnie said.
“You have to keep Gretzky from skating into open ice,” I said.
We reminisced about our old street games like a couple of pros remembering their junior careers. We laughed at our low level of skill, the bizarre things we had thought would work and what happened when they hadn’t. Those days before the season started, we were high on the prospect of hitting the ice.
The night before our first practice, I was so giddy I could hardly eat my supper, but I noticed that my mother appeared to be worried about something. I imagined that she was concerned about how I would deal with my upcoming superstardom; I was wrong. After she cleared the dishes, my father told Louise and me to stay at the table. The possibility of some special dessert crossed my mind. When my mother returned from the kitchen empty-handed, however, I began to think that something was up.
“Your mother and I have something to tell you, kids,” my father said solemnly.
I felt the blood drain from my face. They’re getting a divorce, I thought. Several kids at school had parents who were divorced, but I couldn’t imagine such a thing happening to my parents. It just wasn’t possible.
Louise started to cry; apparently she’d thought of the same thing.
“What in God’s name are you crying about, Louise?” my mother asked.
“I don’t want Daddy to move away.”
“What?”
“No one’s going anywhere, Louise. In fact, there’s going to be one more person living here,” my father smiled.
I thought at first that maybe Grandma Woodward was moving in. Louise, to her credit, understood immediately. I’ve never seen someone stop crying so abruptly. “You’re having a baby?” she asked my mother.
“That’s right. You’ll have a new brother or sister.”
“Or maybe both,” Louise said.
“What?” my father said, startled.
“Twins,” she explained. “It could be twins.”
“Holy shit!”
“It’s not twins, Bob,” my mother said.
“Are you sure? We can’t afford twins.”
“I’m sure it’s not twins.”
My father shifted in his seat, visibly relieved. “The thing is, babies cost a lot of money,” he said, looking at me.
“A lot of money,” my mother agreed.
“We’re going to have to cut back.”
“All of us will have to make sacrifices.”
“It won’t be easy.”
Slowly I began to clue in. I realized that I would not be playing hockey and furthermore I would have to volunteer not to, for the good of the family.
Louise got the ball rolling. “I’ve got a ton of stuff in the basement I could sell,” she said.
“Your toys?” I asked her.
“They’re not toys,” she said, “and I’m getting rid of them.”
“Holy shit,” I said.
“Language, Paul,” my father said.
“He gets that from you, Bob.”
“I know. What do you want me to do about it?”
“You could stop swearing in front of the children.”
“It’s nothing they won’t hear eventually.”
“I see no reason to speed things up.”
“Jesus Christ, Mary, all right. I’ll try to watch my mouth.”
“Bob!”
This was a familiar routine. I don’t think my mother actually cared whether Louise and I swore a blue streak and I know that my father didn’t; the only person he wouldn’t swear in front of was Finnie. On some level he still considered Finnie his boss’ son. My mother made a fuss about us cursing because she thought that, as a mother, she ought to. Deep down, though, I don’t think she really cared, because no matter how much we swore, as long as she didn’t find our subject matter offensive, we faced no real repercussions.
“I’m proud of you, Wheeze,” my father said.
Louise scrunched up her face. She was too old to be called Wheeze.
“You’re a good girl. Your father and I appreciate what you’re doing. Every little bit helps.”
All eyes turned to me. I knew what they wanted, but I really, really didn’t want to do it. It just wasn’t fair. I had so much riding on this. “I’ll get a paper route,” I said.
“Oh no you won’t,” my father said.
It was a long-standing debate. My father had had a paper route when he was my age and had been “screwed royally” by both the newspaper company and his customers. He steadfastly refused to let me have anything to do with newspaper delivery.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, Bob,” my mother said.
“No way in hell. No son of mine is going to slave for those bastards.”
“Please, Dad?”
“Sorry, Paul. I just won’t allow it.”
This left me with one option only. I swear, to this day I can still remember how it felt: like I was being kicked in the back with a big spiky boot. “I guess I could quit hockey,” I said, wondering how I could quit something I hadn’t even started.
“It really does cost a lot of money, dear,” my mother said.
“Even with the discount Mr. Walsh gave us?”
“Yes,” my father said. “It’s mainly the league fees.”
“Maybe you can play next year.”
“If we can afford it.” My father patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. I know how much you wanted to play.”
As I adjusted to the finality of the situation, I felt a little better. It was only a game, after all. Later that night, realizing that I wouldn’t be attending my first practice the next morning, I began to wonder how I was going to tell Finnie. He seemed to have mor
e riding on the upcoming season than I did. If it hadn’t been for him, I probably wouldn’t have cared so much in the first place. Of course, he would wonder why I wasn’t at practice and he would almost certainly rush straight over to my house when it was finished.
I had trouble getting to sleep that night; consequently, I slept in the next morning. It was a Saturday, so my mother didn’t rouse me until 11 a.m.
Finnie poked his head out from behind her. “You slept in? How could you sleep in? We had a practice today!”
“I know.”
My mother silently left the room. She was, if anything, a very tactful woman.
“Well, why weren’t you there?”
“I can’t play.”
“What? Why not?”
“My mother’s pregnant. We don’t have the money.”
“Oh.” Finnie stood there thinking. Not having money wasn’t a problem he typically encountered.
“My parents said that maybe I can play next year.”
“Next year?”
“Yes.”
“But not this year?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No, not at all.”
“What about your equipment?”
“I guess I’ll have to return it.”
Finnie was silent for a moment; he was thinking very hard. “Don’t worry about anything. I think I have an idea.” He turned around and left.
A few minutes later, my mother came in. “Why was Finnie wearing goalie pads?” she asked me.
“He was?” I was so used to seeing him in them that I didn’t even notice anymore. Finnie lived in his pads; I suppose it was sort of weird, but I didn’t think so at the time.
“Yes, he was. Didn’t you see him?”
“He always wears them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He says it’ll toughen him up.”
“Jesus,” she said.
“Language, Mom.”
“Don’t be cheeky, Paul.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
Later that week, I went to the sporting goods store to return my equipment, minus the skates, which could not be returned because I had used them. I was relieved to see that Mr. Walsh wasn’t there. I placed my gear on the front counter. Kevin, the dopey sales clerk, was standing there, staring off into space.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”
“I have to return this stuff.”
“Right. Just let me…” He stopped speaking and looked at me with a new-found interest. “Wait, aren’t you the Woodward boy?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, wondering why he knew who I was.
“I was told to give you a full refund,” Kevin said, digging into the register and handing me a wad of cash.
“Thank you,” I said and walked toward the door.
“Wait,” Kevin called. “I don’t want this stuff.” He gestured toward my equipment.
“Why not?”
“It’s defective. I’ve been told to ask you to dispose of it.” He handed me the gear.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I took the bag and left the store, heading for Finnie’s house. I knew that Finnie had been behind this and that he had probably enlisted the help of his father. I also knew that if my father found out about it I would be in a whole mess of trouble. “Woodwards,” he had often said, “do not accept charity. They work for what they get.”
When I got to Finnie’s house, I went to the front door and rang the bell. Clarice, the housekeeper, answered and led me through the house to Finnie’s room. She knocked on his door.
“Come in.”
Clarice turned and walked away.
I had only been in Finnie’s house once before and then only in the kitchen. This house was the biggest and most ornate I had ever seen, even on TV. Finnie’s room, though, was the exception to the rest of the house. There was an antique brass bed, a desk, a chest of drawers and a poster of Peter Stastny on the wall. Finnie’s goalie pads were neatly stacked in the corner. Other than that, the room was bare.
Finnie, sitting at the desk organizing a pile of hockey cards, was surprised to see me.
“Paul! What are you doing here?”
“I went to return my equipment today.”
“Oh?”
“Kevin gave me my money back and told me I could keep the stuff.”
“Kevin’s a nice guy.”
“I know you did this, Finnie.”
“Well, you’re welcome.”
“My father’s going to kill me.”
“Why? He gets his money back.”
“He won’t take it.”
“So you still won’t be able to play hockey?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Finnie was silent. “I’m sorry, Paul.”
“It’s okay. You were trying to help.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t let my father find out I still have this stuff.”
“I could look after it for you.”
This was an appealing idea. Even though I was mad at Finnie, I was also very grateful. I knew why he had done it and I sure wanted to keep that equipment. “What would your father say?” I asked him.
“He’ll never know. He’s probably already forgotten about the whole thing.”
“Maybe I could use the stuff next year.”
“Sure.”
So it was decided. I gave my father back the money he had spent and kept my gear at Finnie’s, with no one the wiser. Not that anyone around our house would have noticed. My parents were totally preoccupied with the prospect of a baby. Excited as my father was though, he was determined not to fall behind on his National Geographic reading. He read for at least an hour and a half each morning out on the back deck, even though it was the middle of October and it wouldn’t be long before there was snow on the ground.
“Did you know,” he would say, “that dolphins use sonar to locate their food?”
“No, Bob, I didn’t,” my mother would say, not really listening.
“How about that! Who would have guessed?”
The most marked change occurred in Louise. Without her kingdom to rule, she was like a deposed queen. She spent her days sitting sullenly in front of the television and, when one of my parents finally made her go outside, she would sit even more sullenly on the front stairs and watch the other children zip around the neighbourhood. She didn’t indicate that she wanted to join them. I suspect that she did, but was unsure how to go about it. It wasn’t just that she was unusually shy, although she was by no means outgoing. She was also a fairly attractive girl, as far as I could tell, but I’ll admit that it’s difficult to gauge that sort of thing with respect to your sister. She was tall, not quite lanky and had a face that made you want to trust her right away, but she had a way of hiding it behind a shroud of sandy-coloured hair.
Her main problem was that she just didn’t have much she wanted to say. As a rule, if Louise didn’t think something was terribly important, she didn’t see the point in saying anything at all. For her, small talk was non-existent. Because small talk is a necessary step in forming friendships, even among children, Louise was, as a consequence of her verbal minimalism, at a distinct disadvantage.
The fact that there was something wrong with Louise certainly didn’t escape my parents’ attention. I suspect that, as concerned as they were, they just didn’t have the time to figure out exactly what it was. Gaining access to her thoughts was slightly harder than interpreting the information contained on a computer disk without benefit of a computer.
My mother probably would have told Louise to be positive, to find a way to make things better. My father probably would have given her a rock. It’s also possible that my parents actively chose to ignore the problem. Louise was, after all, an 11-year-old girl and they are well known for acting strangely.
&nbs
p; To me, girls made no sense. They were mysterious creatures and Louise wasn’t any different. I was worried about her, though, and I tried not to irritate or disturb her when she was by herself. She had always been very protective about the time she spent in the basement and I assumed that meant she enjoyed being alone. I knew that most people, from time to time, needed a little time to themselves and I figured that Louise just needed more than others.
Finnie made me see that I was wrong. Whenever he came over to our house, which was fairly often, he would make a point of talking to Louise. I had never noticed how much she actually had to say when talking to Finnie. Whenever they were together, she came out of her shell, which for Louise was no small feat. Finnie had this effect on almost everyone. Without even trying, he could make people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.
When I finally asked him what he thought was wrong with Louise, he looked at me like I was an alien, a very stupid alien.
“What?” I asked.
“You don’t know?”
“No, no one does. Not even my dad.”
“But it’s so obvious, Paul. She’s lonely.”
Finnie was right. It was obvious, and she was lonely.
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know. She’ll snap out of it, sooner or later.”
Reassured that I was in no way abdicating my brotherly responsibilities, I let the situation work itself out. Louise’s ability to cope with things in her own way was far greater than my own.
Finnie invited me to his first hockey game. I didn’t really want to go for fear that I would see what I was missing. The game was on a Saturday afternoon and there was a surprising number of people in attendance. I was about to sit down by myself when I saw Mr. Walsh waving me over to where he was sitting with Patrick, Gerry and Kirby.
“Hello there, Paul,” Mr. Walsh said, smiling.
“Hello, Mr. Walsh,” I answered.
“I was sorry to hear you wouldn’t be playing hockey this season.”
I could tell he was sincere. “Maybe I’ll be able to play next year,” I said.
“That’s the right attitude. Things will work themselves out.”
Finnie Walsh Page 5
