“I’m not a tit. I work road construction every summer. You think this thing is harder than any of those rigs? Plus we’ve been watching Zambonis drive around for our whole lives. Or at least I was watching. You dinks must have been looking at something else.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It’s almost eight in the morning when we finish. The schedule at the rink says the ice doesn’t need to be cleaned again until after the preschool skate in a few hours. Paulie stays behind to cover it, since he’s the only one who can drive the Zamboni, anyway. We leave him snoring in the penalty box, a hockey glove tucked under his head for a pillow. My plan is to go grab a shower and head to the hospital, but I can’t stop myself from driving by Jennifer’s to check my email before she goes to work.
“Back for more? You must love getting destroyed,” Elvis says as he answers the door. For a split second I’m rattled by his directness, but then I realize he’s talking about video games and not anything related to his mother.
“Not sure you can pull that sick thing off two days in a row,” I say with a wink. “Besides, I have a busy day. I appreciate the invite, though.”
Jennifer appears behind her son. “Come on, kid, get your shoes on or you’re going to miss the bus.” She looks at me with an enthusiastic smile. It seems inappropriate, given how thoroughly she rejected me last night. “I thought you might come by this morning,” she says, then she frowns. “Are you stoned right now?”
“No. I mean, I was out, but we…” I stop talking as it dawns on me that I’ve just proved that all her apprehensions about me are completely founded. “It’s been a weird night.”
“I bet. Well, I tried to call you a little while ago. I think you got your email.”
“I did? Is it good news?”
“I didn’t read it,” she protests, then pauses. “Okay, I did read it. A little bit. And yes, I think it’s good news. But I have to get to work. Just lock the door when you leave. You’ll probably want to use my phone, too. Don’t worry about the long-distance.”
The reply from Dan is good news. The best news. He liked the draft—loved it, even—if I’m allowed to read between the lines. They want to run with it and I need to call him right away, which I do from Jennifer’s kitchen phone.
“Oh, hey,” he says on the phone. “Adam from the bar in Vancouver. I remember that, though I gotta say, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. I also gotta say, I’m glad you reached out.”
“Thanks. So you’re interested?”
“Yeah, for sure. It’s a good hook, the father-and-son thing. It’s a personal story. It’s different. The thing near the end about Lars Nilsen is terrific. But we need you to add some stuff. Is there any chance we can get you on a plane to Toronto today?”
“Today? Why today?”
“I want you to talk to Bobby Monaghan, too. Expand the scope of the piece. We made a call and he can do a face-to-face with you this evening, but then the Leafs go on the road for ten days and he’ll be harder to pin down. The thing is, we had something else fall apart for January—another hockey feature—so you came along at exactly the right time, but we need to get this done quickly.”
“Today is going to be tough.”
“I know, it’s fast. Like I said—something else fell apart on us, so we’re a bit desperate. We can arrange the flight from here, get you a hotel and all that. I’ll get another editor working on this with you immediately—there’s some stuff we’ll cut to make room. It’ll be in the magazine right after Christmas. Adding a Monaghan interview will help bring some contrast. You can really get your hands dirty with hockey-fight culture. I think it’ll be great.”
Dan is insistent and while he doesn’t say it out loud, I get the impression my only shot at getting this thing published is to do what he says. It’s a tough call, but I agree. I don’t see any other choice, especially when he tells me I’ll get $5,000 for the story, plus my expenses in Toronto. Once we’ve sorted the details, I call the hospital to check on my father. The nurse tells me he’s asleep, but is otherwise fine.
I leave a note for Jennifer, something thankful, but I hope also apologetic and sweet and maybe a little flirty. But what the hell do I know.
•
Everything I own is once again stuffed into the back of my truck, and for the second time in a decade, I’m slipping out of town. Except this time there’s something I need to do. It’s the only thing I can think of to make myself feel slightly less helpless.
The large wooden door to the church opens easily, a testament to well-greased hinges. I was last here for my mother’s funeral. It’s the same, though empty now, giving it an overwhelming vastness. Stained-glass windows depicting steely and grim-looking Biblical characters I don’t recognize line both sides of the hall.
I stop and stare into the marble bird bath full of holy water. My reflection is distorted in small ripples on the surface, but it’s still pretty clear I look like shit—like someone who’s been drinking too much and sleeping too little. I’m not sure what the etiquette is here. I think I’m supposed to dab some water on my forehead, but I have no idea why. I’m not even sure how I know that. Maybe I saw it in a movie? I lightly touch the pool and rub the wet between my finger and thumb as I walk down the aisle, sliding into a pew on my left about midway down.
At the front of the room, Jesus is strung up on his cross and larger than life. It’s a gruesome scene, painted blood pouring from the spikes in his hands and feet, the thorns on his head, and a six-inch gash along his ribs. His expression isn’t quite right. Instead of looking pained or anguished or even peaceful and serene, Jesus looks uninterested, like he isn’t sure what’s going on and can’t be bothered one way or the other to give a shit about it. He’s bored. That makes sense, I guess. If you’re the son of an omnipotent being and death is a fluid condition, being crucified might just be a tedious way to spend the weekend.
There’s a slot in the back of the pew in front of me stuffed with books and small packages of courtesy tissues. I take out one of the prayer books and flip through it. Like with the holy water, I don’t know how this works.
Glory be to the father and son.
Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.
Some lines jump out at me, but I’m not sure I can piece Christian aphorisms into something that suits my immediate needs. I’ve never believed in prayer. I’ve never even tried it, at least not beyond wishing for minor miracles during sporting events. It seems silly, asking favours of an invisible being, even if you believe in him. Especially if you believe in him. Wouldn’t he have more important things to do? The logistics of praying make no sense. God works on a cosmic scale, and even if he did care about the minutiae of our lives, it seems kind of petty of him to make us ask for help. But people have been praying to all sorts of gods for a long time. There must be something to it.
So here I am and I need a favour. A couple favours, really.
Okay, God. If you’re listening, I’d like you to make sure my dad’s okay. I know he doesn’t do much with himself these days and I’m not even sure how I feel about him, but I know I’m not ready for him to die. I can’t promise we’ll use any additional time you give us well, but just the same, I’d like him to pull through and stick around. Now, if you think that one is a little selfish, you’re really going to hate this next request. I need to catch a break. So give me a sign. Something—anything—that points me in the right direction. I’m not even fussy about which direction it is. I can promise that I’ll work harder. I’ll be less lazy, or, at least, I’ll really try to be. But if you could just help me figure out where it is I’m supposed to be and what I’m supposed to be doing, even just a little, I’d really appreciate it.
And, if I can have one more thing, I’d really like it if you could say hi to my mom for me. And let her know not to worry about me. And
tell her I’m sorry if I ever disappointed her. But don’t tell her about the lack-of-direction thing. I guess that’s it.
Um, amen.
It seems rude to just stand and leave, so I sit and watch the Jesus statue. Staring at it is like staring at my mother during her wake, with my eyes playing tricks so I see slight movements that aren’t there: a breath, a finger twitch, a deliberate look in his eyes. I am so completely mesmerized that my heart leaps into my throat when I suddenly hear a voice behind me.
“Would be a helluva lot easier if he spoke back now and then, wouldn’t it?” J.J. Johnstone is standing in the aisle to my right. He motions to where I’m sitting. “May I?”
I shimmy down the row a couple feet out of sheer surprise and he rests his girth next to me, his sizable ass hanging over the edge of the narrow bench.
“I hate these seats,” he says. “Normally I just stand at the back.”
I’m too stunned to say anything. I stare at J.J. while he bows his head, eyes closed and hands folded in front of him. His lips are moving slightly as he faintly mumbles something I can’t make out. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes and crosses himself.
Shit, I think I prayed wrong.
“I almost went into the priesthood when I was young. My parents encouraged it, but it never felt comfortable enough. A bit like these damn seats. I thought being in the church would make me a better person. Turned out I’m an asshole and was always gonna be an asshole. I don’t think it’s the same as being a bad person, but felt hypocritical to stick with it.”
I remain silent.
“I called the hospital this morning,” he says, still looking forward. “They let me know your dad’s doing okay.”
“He’s alive,” I say, my words dripping with hostility.
“I had a heart attack, oh, I guess it was about six years ago now. It’s not a pleasant thing.”
J.J. turns his head so he’s looking at me, and I see his right eye is swollen almost shut.
“He did that?” I ask.
“He did. Always had a heckuva punch. Still does, it seems.”
“Why do you hate him so much? This could have killed him. You could have killed him.”
“Hey, kid, I’m here same as you, hoping someone’s listening and can put this right. And it was him who hit me.”
“I’m sure you had it coming.”
“Well, maybe I did,” he says. “I won’t deny I have a habit of poking the bear.”
“But why?”
“There was a time I was jealous of your dad’s talent and career. But that jealousy dried up a long time ago. The truth is, Terry and I never liked each other. We used to fight on the playground back in grade school, though he always got the better of me. Guess we just never outgrew it.”
“You’re saying my dad is in the hospital because the two of you couldn’t be bothered to grow up.”
“No. It’s just sometimes it’s easier to accept the way things are than to try and change them. For what it’s worth, I’ve said a lot of nasty things to Terry over the years without him raising a fist to me, but last night when I made a crack about you, he didn’t hesitate.”
Great. My father had a heart attack defending my honour. As if my feelings aren’t complicated enough right now.
“Just stay away from him from now on,” I say, putting on my best approximation of a tough-guy voice.
“I will. I think all of us could use some peace.”
I can’t imagine what peace might look like for my father. J.J. stands and shuffles out into the aisle.
“Say, are you sticking around town for a while?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“And you’re probably a pretty good reporter, working for Sports Illustrated and all?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
J.J. nods warily. “Well, if you are going to be around, give me a call. I can get you a little work down at the Record office.”
“And then I’ll owe you like Dave and God knows who else owes you?”
“You seem to have some opinions about what I do with my money.”
“I think you give guys like Dave money because it makes you feel powerful. It’s a scumbag thing to do.”
J.J. considers my accusation. “I don’t pretend my shit don’t stink sometimes, kid. I won’t deny I take some pleasure in helping people out, but I do it with the best of intentions. Your friend hasn’t done so well getting his life on track, so if I can lend him a bit of a hand, what’s the harm? Sometimes people need help, and I’ve never been one to give a hug when a few shekels will do.”
“And then you lord it over them.”
“I do no such thing,” he says calmly, unfazed by my insinuations.
“I don’t believe you. You aren’t the altruistic type.”
“You don’t know me or why I do the things I do. And whether or not you believe something has no bearing on whether or not it’s true.” He waits for a reply, but I can’t think of anything clever enough to say. “All the same, if you change your mind about some work, give me a call.”
•
I fall asleep before the plane takes off and dream about my mother. She’s younger than I ever knew her and pregnant, sitting at my father’s kitchen table on Duke Street. She’s laughing and reassuring me he’ll be home soon. It’s never made clear where he is or why we’re in his house, but I accept it in that way you do with nonsense dreams. And it all makes me so happy. We are a family in a way I’ve never known. It’s warm and comforting and I’m excited for my father to come home, but he never does, and I wake up when the drink cart bangs my elbow on its way by. I doze on and off for the rest of the flight, but my mother doesn’t come back.
When I land in Toronto, I find a shuttle to the hotel Dan has booked for me and, after checking in and getting to my room, call the number they gave me for Bobby Monaghan. There’s no answer. I try again fifteen minutes later, with the same result. On the third try, I leave a message with the hotel’s number and start to panic a little.
It’s just after nine when the phone in my room rings. I yell “Hello!” into it desperately.
“Whoa. Gear down, turbo,” says a deep voice on the other end.
“Sorry. Who is this?”
“This is Bobby Monaghan. Who is this?”
“This is Adam Macallister.”
“Jesus, guy, I know. I called you. I’m just screwing with you.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t sure you were going to call.”
“Yeah, I got hung up with something. Anyway, if you want to do this now, just come meet me down at Augie’s,” he says.
“Yeah, sure. What’s his address?”
“It’s a bar, champ. Just grab a cab, they’ll know where it is.”
“Alright, I’ll head out right now.”
“Watch you don’t pull a hammy.”
•
Robert Monaghan was born and raised in London, Ontario. He spent high school playing prep-school hockey in Pennsylvania, where he enjoyed a lot of success and was generally regarded as a showboat, though his talent was undeniable. In 1987, Winnipeg drafted him in the fourth round. Bobby might have made it in the league on skill alone, not as a star, but at least as a productive third-line guy. But he was big, scrappy, liked using his stick, and was willing to drop the gloves with anyone who asked. He spent a full season in the AHL before being called up to the Jets for their last two games of the season in 1989. He managed a goal, two fights, and fifty-five penalty minutes in those two games, and broke camp with the team the following season.
He stayed in Winnipeg until 1995, when he signed as a free agent with the Maple Leafs and became the unofficial face of the franchise. His point production was decent, though never amazing, but he was a marquee attraction because of his swagger and propensity for staged fights. When someone wanted to step up and face him, Bobby would toss his gloves over his shoulders
, slowly undo his helmet, and spin it upside down on the ice like a top. He and contemporary tough guy Kelly Martin engaged in a half-dozen scraps over four seasons that were more anticipated and cherished by fans than most playoff games. He even played in one all-star game, though he was a controversial addition.
Despite playing hard and fighting often, Bobby was blessed with good health, losing more time to suspension than injury. It was in 2002 that people realized he would probably break the penalty record if he could keep playing into his mid-thirties. At the start of the 2006 season, it seemed inevitable—at his usual pace, he’d pass Terry Punchout’s 3,994 minutes by Christmas.
•
The cab driver does know where Augie’s is. After showing my ID and paying a fifteen-dollar cover I walk in and scan the tables for Bobby. I am so intently trying to find him, it takes me a few seconds to notice the small stage with the naked woman on it. I’ve been to strip clubs before, but not many. Seeing a woman on a stage gyrating for the guys sitting in perverts’ row, while they toss loonies at her, only embarrasses me. I don’t mean I’m embarrassed for her or them, but I’m embarrassed by having to see it. I’m kind of a prude. This is a low-rent strip club. It’s a dive, dirty and dark, smelling of flat beer and cheap cleaning products. I am sure the cab driver brought me to the wrong place, but when I turn to leave I see Bobby Monaghan, NHL star, sitting in a corner near the exit.
As I approach the table, he says, “You’re the guy?”
“Yeah. Adam,” I reply, sticking out my hand. He takes it but is looking past me to the girl onstage.
“I was worried you wanted an autograph for a second. Happens more than I like. Who the fuck thinks I want to sign autographs at the peelers?” he asks, shifting his focus to me, still holding my hand. His palms are clammy and his right eye twitches a little.
“I don’t know. Hockey fans, I guess.”
“Assholes. I’m happy to sign autographs—nobody signs more fucking autographs than I do—but fuck off sometimes, right?”
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