Medicine River

by Thomas King

  “About?”

  “Clyde.”

  “Good player.”

  “Good, hell, Will. You’re good.”

  Harlen had a way around words that would rattle a weasel. “Okay,” I said. “Clyde’s better than good.”

  “Will,” Harlen said, leaning over so his chin was about an inch off my desk. “He’s going to help us win a championship.”

  “I hear he was in jail.”

  It was my own fault. I could have let the matter die, admitted that Clyde was a better player than me, agreed that, with Clyde at centre, the championship was a cinch. I could have done all that without mentioning jail. But I didn’t, and Harlen didn’t leave for another two hours. By then, I knew Clyde’s life story, and I had missed lunch.

  Clyde had been a great high-school player. Everyone figured he’d go off and become famous. But on graduation night, he took off with a couple of friends, “borrowed” a car, and drove it to Edmonton, where they wrecked it after a high-speed chase with the cops. The cops caught Clyde; his friends got away. Clyde wouldn’t tell who the other kids were, so the judge gave him a year in jail.

  “It wasn’t his fault, Will. Just out with the wrong people.”

  Seven months after he got out, he was involved in a robbery. Clyde drove out to Cardston with Marvin Weaselback, Jerry Rabbit and River Johnson. Everyone was drunk, and when they stopped to get gas, River took the 30-30 out of his trunk and helped himself to the cash register as well. Clyde was sound asleep in the back seat. They got about twenty miles before the cops caught them. When Clyde woke up, the police were putting cuffs on him.

  “Clyde’s unlucky, you know. Wrong place, wrong time. I knew his mother, Will. Real good woman. You know, I do some counselling down at the jail for the Indian kids. I’ve known Clyde since he was little. He’s a good kid. Bad luck, that’s what it is, Will. Bad luck.”

  Just before Christmas, Clyde tried to stick a portable television under his coat and walk out of Sound Warehouse with it.

  “You should see him play basketball. The inmates play pick-up games on Tuesday nights. Those baskets over there are a little too high, you know, and crooked. And the nets are those chain things. Noisy. The ball is always getting stuck, so you have to stop the game and knock it loose. And the floor is made up of those tile squares. Hard as hell. He was still getting forty points a game. Can you imagine what he’ll do on a good court?”

  It didn’t take long to find out. Our next game was against one of the real powers in the league: Bolton. They always beat us. But by the time we left the Bolton gym that night, whatever doubt anyone on the team had had about Clyde Whiteman’s value was gone. He put in forty-two points, blocked half-a-dozen shots, and we beat the Wheat Kings by ten.

  Harlen couldn’t stop talking and slapping Clyde on the back. “Faked them right out of their shorts. Nothing between us and the league championship.”

  Clyde was more modest. “You guys play good without me, Will. Probably could have beat those guys. I’m just happy you don’t mind me playing with you. You know, me being an ex-con and all.”

  I drove the van home. Harlen and the boys sat in the back and beat on the drum and sang songs. Clyde sat up front with me. “I just want to stay out of trouble, Will. Turn my life around. Already lost too much. Playing with you guys is going to change my luck. I can feel it.”

  Clyde sure changed our luck. We began to win our games. Harlen was insufferable. He sat on the bench with a towel draped around his neck and just grinned. He had never been a great coach, but with Clyde on the floor, whatever pretensions he had just slipped away. He would sit there, grinning, occasionally clapping his hands. Every so often, he’d yell out an encouragement.

  “Atta boy, Clyde.

  “Way to drive.

  “Great rebound.”

  But mostly he sat there quietly and watched, and we were left to substitute for ourselves.

  Clyde would grin back at Harlen, but he didn’t look particularly happy.

  “Maybe you could talk to Harlen, Will. Don’t want you and the boys to think I’m stuck up.”

  “Don’t worry,” Floyd told him. “Harlen’ll calm down. Soon as you make a few mistakes, he’ll start yelling at you like the rest of us.”

  But if anything, Harlen got worse. He began comparing us to Clyde.

  “Watch Clyde, Floyd. He knows how to make that move.

  “You got to box out better, Elwood, like Clyde.

  “Maybe you should work out with some weights, Will. Lose a few pounds. Get those legs in shape so you can get more rebounds, like Clyde does.”

  We all had pretty tough skins, and we had all been through Harlen’s coach’s talks before. But they were affecting Clyde. His game began to fall off. We were still winning, but Clyde wasn’t running as hard, and he wasn’t getting as many points. Then we played the Nanton Antelopes, a team in sixth place, and lost. You’d think that someone had shot Harlen’s mother. Clyde took most of the blast.

  “Christ sakes, Clyde. You looked like you were asleep out there.

  “You ran like Will. You been drinking again? You on drugs again?

  “You play like that in the play-offs, and we’ll be out in the first round.”

  I finished showering and got dressed. Harlen was out in the van with the rest of the boys. Clyde was sitting on the bench by himself.

  “Come on, don’t worry,” I said. “Harlen gets like that whenever we lose. It’s just noise.”

  Clyde looked at me and smiled. “Just don’t want to disappoint anyone, Will. Want to do it right this time.”

  We played Cardston on Thursday. I got to the gym late. Floyd caught me as I came into the locker room. “Come on, Will. Get dressed. Game starts in another two minutes.”

  “No rush,” I said, looking at Floyd. “Harlen never starts me.”

  Floyd sighed. “Clyde’s in jail.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Got drunk and took a swing at a cop.”

  “Hell.”

  “Got thirty days.”

  “For hitting a cop. Damn, he was lucky.”

  “He missed the cop. Hit a parking meter. Hurt his hand pretty bad.”

  “Harlen know?”

  Harlen knew. He was sitting on the bench, bent over looking at the floor. I sat down next to him. Neither of us said a thing.

  “Don’t worry, Harlen,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying to throw some humour on the situation. “I’ve been watching Clyde play and there’s nothing to it. You watch. I’ll score forty points tonight.” Which should have been enough to get Harlen laughing, because we had already played half the season, and I didn’t have thirty points yet.

  I didn’t really expect Harlen to laugh, and he didn’t. But he did look up. And he sighed. “Why do you think he does it, Will?”

  “Does what?”

  “Gets himself in trouble like that?”

  “Just bad luck, like you said.”

  “Nothing to do with luck, Will.”

  The game started, and I left Harlen sitting on the bench with his thoughts. I played hard that night. So hard, I fouled out, which I never do. And I scored fourteen points, which I never do, and we won. But Harlen was inconsolable.

  “Hey, Harlen,” said Floyd, as we were dressing. “You see Will hit that hook? Fourteen points, too. Not bad for an old man.”

  Harlen didn’t even join us for coffee after the game.

  “Harlen’ll get over it,” said Floyd, pouring three creams into his coffee. “He takes things personally sometimes.”

  “Clyde a relative?”

  “Nope.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Remember when you and Elwood got thrown in jail in Browning just before that big tournament?”

  “That was Elwood’s fault.”

  “You were both drunk.”

  “That was Elwood’s fault.”

  “Okay, but Harlen didn’t get upset about that. Not like this.”

  Floyd put another cr
eam and two sugars in his coffee. “He was angry, alright. Told us we let him down and that sort of stuff. You know Harlen.”

  “But not like now. Why’s he so upset with Clyde?”

  Clyde was out in thirty days, and we were still in first place. Clyde wasn’t even rusty. The first night he was back, he put in forty-three points, and Harlen was happy again.

  Harlen caught me after the game. “Play-offs are coming up, Will. Maybe you could have a talk with Clyde. He respects you, Will. Maybe help keep him out of trouble. You know, like a father.”

  “Don’t know him very well,” I said.

  “Bet your father had some great stories about staying out of trouble, the kind that made you laugh, but then when you looked underneath them, you could see they were serious, and you knew he was trying to help.”

  “Never knew my father.”

  “I’ve done all I can do, Will. Maybe tell him how much the team needs him. You know, like a father.”

  * * *

  —

  MY MOTHER NEVER TALKED much about my father, and James and me knew it wasn’t a good idea to ask. But every so often, she would get in a story-telling mood. Most of the stories were about when we were little.

  “When you were a baby,” she would say to James, “you always wanted to be tossed in the air. You’d lie in that basket and kick your feet and wave your arms until someone came along and picked you up.”

  James always liked hearing the stories.

  “I was scared that you’d get dropped, but you just laughed and laughed. Used to really scare me to see you flying through the air like that. It scared Will, too. Will would stand there ready in case someone dropped you.”

  I didn’t remember any of that, but I liked the idea of trying to save James.

  “And Will, you liked to drive. Any time someone would come by with a car, you’d beg to sit behind the wheel. You could hardly see over the dash, but that didn’t bother you none. Off we’d go down the road with you sitting on someone’s lap, holding onto that wheel like you were in the races.”

  I knew the someone in the stories was my father.

  * * *

  —

  NORMALLY, CLYDE RODE HOME with Harlen, but as Harlen was stuffing all the uniforms into the bag, he said, “Clyde, I got to stop at a friend’s house. How about catching a ride with Will?”

  Clyde lived way over on the north side. It was late, and we were both tired.

  “Good game,” I said. “You got a great jump shot.”

  Clyde sat there and looked out the window.

  “You okay?”

  In the flash of the streetlights, I could see Clyde’s face. “You think Harlen’s still mad at me?”

  “No. That’s just Harlen. He always yells at us. He likes to yell.”

  “I screwed up again.”

  “No, you did great. Forty-three points. Wish I could shoot like that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Hell, Clyde, there isn’t a man on the team hasn’t been in jail.”

  Clyde looked at me. “You ever been arrested, Will?”

  “Floyd’s been arrested,” I said. “So has Elwood and Frankie. Just like you. Too much to drink, you know.”

  “You ever been in jail?”

  I was stuck. “No, but I screw up all the time. You’ve seen me play. Hell, the team could get as much offence out of a beaver.”

  Clyde turned back to the window. “Just can’t seem to change things, no matter how hard I try. Keep disappointing everybody.”

  “You’re doing fine. Hey, we’re going to win that championship.”

  I dropped Clyde off at his apartment. He took his bag out of the back of the car and leaned on the door. He was smiling.

  “Will, you tell Harlen I’m going to try, just like he said. I’m going to try hard.” And he turned and walked away.

  As I pulled into my driveway, I saw the front of Harlen’s car parked just around the corner of the block. I put on some water for tea and threw some clothes in the washer. The doorbell rang, just as the kettle began to whistle.

  “Saw your light on as I was driving by, Will. You weren’t in bed?”

  “I was just making tea.”

  “You got any coffee?”

  Harlen wandered around a bit. He asked how Louise and South Wing were doing.

  “They’re doing fine, Harlen.”

  He asked after my brother James, who had left San Francisco and taken off for Australia for no other reason than that he had read an article on Aborigines in a copy of National Geographic.

  “James was headed for Australia, last I heard.”

  And he asked about the business, how it was doing.

  “Business is fine, too.”

  Harlen stirred his tea for a while, nodded his head a couple of times and looked around the kitchen, as though he had lost something that he expected to find any minute.

  “You gave Clyde a ride home, didn’t you?”

  “Just like you asked me.”

  “You get a chance to talk with him?”

  “Just like you asked me.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s doing fine, Harlen.”

  Okay, I was being mean-spirited. I knew what Harlen wanted to know. Sometimes when he went around in circles, I’d wait and see how long it took him to ask the questions he wanted to ask. But it was late, and I didn’t have the patience for a two- or three-hour circle.

  “I think he’ll be okay, Harlen. He thinks a lot of you and your opinions, you know. Afraid he’s going to disappoint you. Maybe you should take it easy with him. The rest of the boys understand when you yell at them, but I don’t think Clyde does.”

  “I don’t yell at the boys, Will.”

  “You yell some.”

  “When was the last time you can remember me yelling at someone on the team?”

  I was sorry I started this. “Last game, Harlen. You yelled at Clyde.”

  “That wasn’t yelling.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sometimes I just talk loud, you know, encouragement.”

  “Okay.”

  “Some people have a hard time staying out of trouble, you know. Clyde’s like that. He needs a lot of encouragement. You tell him how much we need him for the championship?”

  “I told him.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said he was going to try hard. Didn’t want to disappoint us.”

  “You know, Will, Clyde could have been my son. Freda and me almost got married.”

  “What happened?”

  “She married Gary Whiteman.”

  Sometimes you needed a map of Harlen’s mind to keep up with him.

  “That’s it?”

  “You know me, Will. I don’t mess around with married women.”

  I threw Harlen out around two. Maybe he felt responsible for Clyde because of all the talking they had done when Clyde was in jail, or maybe he just wanted to win the championship. Clyde’s father had died of cancer, and Freda never got remarried. Maybe Harlen decided to fill in for Gary.

  * * *

  —

  SOMETIMES THE STORIES were about when she was younger, before she had us. “One time,” she told us, “we all went over to Waterton Lake. It was a weekend, and we had nothing else to do. George Harley had his father’s truck, and he and Wilma Whiteman rode up front, and I had to sit in the back with one of Harley’s friends, a white guy named Howard Webster.

  “He was a goofy guy. George had met him at the rodeo in Edmonton. He wanted to see some Indians, that’s how goofy he was, so George brought him along.”

  Every time my mother would say “Howard Webster,” she’d look at the floor or look away and then, after a second, she’d keep going. “So we got to the lake and that Howard wanted to go swimming. George told him that the water was cold, but that Howard was real goofy, and he took off his boots and his shirt, and before we could say anything, he ran and dove into the water.”

  Henr
y Goodrider told James and me that he had been to Waterton with his uncle and that the water there was so cold that it would freeze things like apples and bananas and that if you dipped a peach in the water and then dropped it on the rocks, it would shatter like a piece of glass.

  “So Goofy Howard jumps in the lake and goes all the way under, and we don’t see him for a couple of minutes, and just when we think he’s killed himself, he comes out of the water like he’s seen a half-dozen grizzlies. And he runs up and down the shore shouting that it’s cold and where’s the blanket, and then he starts chasing Wilma and me, trying to catch one of us so we can warm him up.

  “Wilma and me are laughing too hard to get away and that goofy guy gets us wet, too. So George has to grab the tarp from the truck and the four of us lie down in the sun until we’re warm again.”

  Each time my mother told her stories, they got larger and better. Sometimes, it was Howard. Sometimes, it was Martin. Sometimes, it was Eldon. But she never used my father’s name.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN THE CHAMPIONSHIP came around, we were in first place, so we didn’t play the first game. We won the second game. Clyde had thirty-five points. “Good game,” Harlen told us. “Only three more to go.”

  The next one was a breeze. Clyde scored fifty-five points. I scored eight. Harlen was elated.

  “Great game, Clyde. Going to be easy. I can see you guys all dressed up in those championship jackets.”

  We played Bolton in the semifinals. It was tough. They led most of the way, but Floyd came on strong and scored fifteen points. Clyde only scored twenty-four points.

  “Not to worry,” said Harlen. “Tough team, those guys. Tough to work around a double team all the time, Clyde. You did real well.”

  “Floyd did real well, too,” I said.

  “You bet,” said Harlen. “Floyd did real well, too.”

  Clyde sat on the bench with his head down.

  “You tired?” I said.

  “Yeah, a little tired.”

  “You want a ride home?”

  “No, I’m going to walk. Need to get out.”

  “Long way.”