Yeah, Sylvia. You touched my life. You touched my life the same way a tornado touches a trailer park.
The puck coming this way. The blue center behind it. The sound of his skates in the empty arena. Snick snick snick snick.
Funny how things come into your mind at a time like this. It used to happen in baseball. I’d be settling under a pop fly and I’d think of something else in my life with a sudden clarity like it was the first time I’d ever thought of it.
Like my biggest mistake of all. A madman’s apartment in Detroit. Aluminum foil on the walls. My partner and I frozen with fear, watching the gun in his hand.
Snick snick snick snick.
Sylvia. I am in her bed and she is looking down at me. We have just finished making love in the bed she shares every night with her husband. He is my friend, but I don’t care. She owns me.
The skater is fast. He’s the best player on the ice, probably the best player this little Thursday night hockey league will ever see. He looks up at me. A peek over his shoulder. The other players are far behind. Time slows down. It’s something every athlete knows, an unspoken understanding between us. It’s just him and me.
I didn’t pull my gun in time. I waited too long. I am shot and my partner is shot and we are both on the ground. There is so much blood. It all comes back to me. Not as urgently as it once did. I don’t dream about it much anymore. I don’t need the pills to make it through the nights. But it still comes back. I am lying on the floor and my partner is next to me.
I come out of the net to cut off the angle. He shoots. No! It’s a fake. He pulls the puck back. I can feel myself falling backward. He’s going to skate right around me and slip the puck into the open net. Unless I can knock the puck away. My only chance. I jab at it with my stick as I fall.
I hit the puck and my stick goes between his legs. He trips and slides face first into the boards. Then he is up, his gloves thrown to the ice. I take off my gloves, my mask. He throws a punch at me and misses. I grab him by the jersey and we dance the hockey fight dance. You can’t find any leverage to throw a good punch when you’re on skates. You just hold on and try to pull the other guy’s shirt over his head. It’s a funny thing to watch when you’re not one of the guys dancing.
The man’s eyes were wide with bloodlust and whatever the hell chemicals he was flying on. “Take it easy,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“The fuck you’re sorry,” he said. Spit and sweat hitting me in the face. All around us the other players in the same dance, every man picking his own partner according to how much they really felt like fighting. The old referee was skating around us, blowing his whistle. I guess he finally remembered how it works.
“I didn’t mean to trip you,” I said. “Just calm down.”
“Fucking Indians,” he said.
“I’m not an Indian,” I said.
“Yeah, fuck that,” he said. “I know, you’re a Native fucking American.”
I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?” he said. “Did I say something funny?”
“You always get high when you play hockey?” I said.
“The fuck you talking about?”
“You’re higher than the space shuttle,” I said. “If I were still a cop I’d have to arrest you. Skating while impaired.”
He gave me a good push and skated away. The dance was over. “Fucking Indians,” he said.
We finished the game. Vinnie scored once in that period. Another of his teammates scored in the third period to tie the game at 2–2. I made a couple nice saves to keep us tied.
In the last minute of the game, my new friend the blue center had an open shot at me. He wound up and launched a rocket. No slapshots, my ass. I got a glove on it, knocked it just high enough to hit the crossbar with a loud ringing sound that reverberated through the entire arena.
The game ended. There would be no overtime. The next game was ready to start, as soon as they got us out of there and gave the Zamboni a chance to take a quick run over the ice.
He glared at me, breathing hard.
I look back on that moment now, the two of us facing each other on the ice. I wonder what I would have done if I had known what would happen in the next few days. I probably would have hit him in the face with my hockey stick. Or broken off the end and jabbed him in the neck. But of course, I had no way of knowing. At that moment, he was just another hotshot asshole hockey player, and I was the old man who just took away his third goal.
“No hat trick today,” I said to him. “Looks like the Cowboys and Indians have to settle for a tie.”
CHAPTER TWO
The night was cold. It had to be below zero. My wet hair froze to my head the moment I stepped outside. Across the street the Kewadin Casino was shining proudly. It was a big building and it was decorated with giant triangles meant to remind you of Indian teepees. It was almost midnight on a frozen Thursday night but I could see that the parking lot was full.
The Horns Inn was not far away, just over on the east side of Sault Ste. Marie, overlooking the St. Marys River. As soon as you walk in the place, you see deer heads and bear heads and stuffed coyotes, birds, just about any animal you can think of. I usually don’t spend much time there, but Vinnie was buying that night, so what the hell. It was the least I could do, even if it was American beer.
“Here’s to our new goalie,” he said, raising a glass of Pepsi. We had pushed a couple of tables together in the back of the place. His eight teammates were all there, all quietly working on their second beers.
“Stop right there,” I said. “You said this was a one-night gig, remember?”
“Yeah, but you were great, Alex. You gotta keep playing. Do you realize that those guys had a perfect record before tonight? We just tied them!”
If his teammates shared his enthusiasm, they didn’t show it. I looked at each of them, one by one. A couple you’d know were Indians the moment you saw them. The rest were like Vinnie—a lot of mixed blood. Maybe you’d see it in the cheekbones. Or the dark, careful eyes.
They were all drinking. Most if not all would get drunk that night. More than one would get to a state well past drunk. I knew it bothered Vinnie. “I feel guilty sometimes,” he once told me, “living off the reservation. A lot of my tribe, they think I abandoned them. When I was growing up, I could go down the street and walk in any house I wanted to. Just walk right in. Open the refrigerator, make a sandwich. Go turn the TV on. Everybody was my family.”
He never really told me why he left the reservation. Maybe he wanted to buy his own house instead of living on land owned by the tribe. Or all that family togetherness he was talking about, maybe it was just too much.
He lives in Paradise, right down the road from me. He’s my closest neighbor, maybe my closest friend next to Jackie. He deals blackjack at the Bay Mills Casino when he isn’t doing his Red Sky hunting guide thing. “You know the difference between an Indian blackjack dealer and a white blackjack dealer?” he once asked me. “This is going to sound like a stereotype, but it’s true. The white blackjack dealer never gambles. Those guys in Vegas? They see a thousand people playing blackjack all night long, maybe fifty of them walk away big winners, right? You think those dealers are gonna cash their paychecks and play blackjack with it? I’ve got a couple of cousins who lose every dime, every week, guaranteed. They cash their check, maybe they buy some food and beer, then they go right to the casino and lose the rest of it. Every fucking week, Alex. And nothing I do or say is gonna change it.”
Vinnie sat at the table, staring at a moose head on the wall. Nobody said anything. Just a quiet frozen winter night at the Horns Inn.
Until the blue team showed up.
They busted into the place with a lot of noise and a gust of arctic air that rattled the glasses on our table. “Goddamn,” one of them said, “will ya look at this place?”
They pushed a few tables together at the other end of the room. There were nine men and nine women. Mos
t of them had leather bomber jackets on. Even with the fur collars, they couldn’t be warm enough.
My new buddy the center went up to the bar, told the man to start the pitchers coming. He had one of those hockey haircuts, cut close on the sides and long in the back.
“So who the hell is that guy?” I finally said.
“Who, the center?”
“Yeah, Mr. Personality.”
“That’s Lonnie Bruckman. Some piece of work, eh?”
“He always play high?”
Vinnie laughed. “You noticed, huh?”
“Hard not to.”
“Guy can skate, though, can’t he? I think he played for one of the farm teams somewhere. Most of those guys on his team are ringers. Old teammates from Canada. He brings in a new guy every week.”
Bruckman took a couple pitchers back to the tables. When he came back for more, he spotted us. Our lucky night.
“Hey, it’s the Indians!” he said. As he came and stood over us, I got a good look at him without the hockey gear on. Whatever he was on, he had just taken another dip, probably in the car on the way over here. Coke or speed, maybe both. “Nice game, boys,” he said. “Can I bring a couple of pitchers over?”
Nobody said anything.
He looked at Vinnie’s glass. “What ya got there, LeBlanc? Rum and Coke? Lemme buy you one.”
“It’s Pepsi,” Vinnie said.
“You’re kidding me,” Bruckman said. “An Indian that doesn’t drink?” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in weeks.
“We’re all set here,” Vinnie said. “Thanks just the same.”
“Hey, old man,” he said to me, “that was a nice save you made on me. You took away my hat trick, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
“I’ll get you next time.”
“Won’t be a next time,” I said. “I was just filling in tonight.”
“You gotta play again,” he said. “You’re good. Believe me, I know. I played in the Juniors in Oshawa. I played on the same line as Eric Lindros before he went up. I would’a gone up myself if I wasn’t an American.”
There it is, I thought. There’s always an excuse. All the guys I played ball with, and most of them never went to the major leagues, of course. Maybe one in a hundred guys who starts out in the rookie leagues ever makes it. The other ninety-nine, they all have a story. Coach never gave me a chance. Hurt my knee. Didn’t get enough at-bats. It’s never just “I wasn’t quite good enough.”
This American thing, though, that was a new one, because of course you’re only going to hear that one from a hockey player. I should have let it go. Just nodded at the guy, smiled, let him stand there making a jackass of himself, laughed at him later. But I couldn’t help it.
“That’s a shame,” I said. “They should really let Americans play in the NHL. It’s just not fair. Ain’t that right, Vinnie?”
“It’s gotta be a conspiracy,” Vinnie said.
“How many Americans are there?” I said. “I bet we could count them on one hand. Let’s see … John LeClair, Brian Leetch, Chris Chelios …”
“Doug Weight,” Vinnie said. “Mike Modano, Tony Amonte.”
“Keith Tkachuk,” I said. “Pat LaFontaine, Adam Deadmarsh.”
“Jeremy Roenick, Gary Suter.”
“Shawn McEachern, Joel Otto.”
“Bryan Berard, is he American?”
“I believe so.”
“Derian Hatcher, Kevin Hatcher. Are they brothers?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But they’re both American.”
“Mike Richter in goal,” Vinnie said.
“And John Vanbiesbrouck.”
“All right already,” Bruckman said. “You guys are real comedians. I didn’t know Indians could be so funny.”
“We forgot Brett Hull!” Vinnie said.
Bruckman grabbed Vinnie’s shoulder. “I said all right already.” His smile was gone.
“Get your hand off me,” Vinnie said.
“You’re making fun of me and I don’t fucking appreciate it,” he said. “Last guy who made fun of me lost most of his teeth.”
The whole place got quiet. His teammates were all looking at us, as well as the men at the bar. There were maybe a dozen of them. They had all been watching the Red Wings game on the television. The bartender had a shot glass in one hand, a towel in the other. He didn’t look happy.
“Bruckman,” I said. I looked him in the eyes. “Walk away.”
He held my eyes for a long moment. He was sizing me up, calculating his chances. I could only hope the chemicals racing around in his brain didn’t make him decide something stupid, because I sure as hell didn’t want to have to fight him without skates and pads on.
“You were lucky,” he finally said. “I should have had the hat trick. You never even saw that puck.”
“Whatever you say, Bruckman. Just walk away.”
“Look at you guys,” he said. “You Indians are so pathetic. I don’t know why they ever let you have those casinos.”
The bartender showed up with a baseball bat. “You guys gonna knock this shit off or am I going to call the police?”
“Don’t bother,” Bruckman said. “We’re leaving. Too many drunken Indians in this place.”
He gave me one last look before he went back to his table. I didn’t feel like telling him I was really a white man just like him.
When they had all put their leather jackets back on, knocked over a few chairs, muttered a few more obscenities, and then left without paying for their beer, the place got quiet again. Vinnie just sat there looking at the door. His friends all sat there looking at the table or at the floor. I tried to think of something to say to break the spell, but nothing came to me.
“You know what bothers me the most?” Vinnie finally said.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Those women that were with them? One of them, I know her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I grew up with her,” he said. “On the reservation.”
It was a little after one in the morning when I left. Vinnie thanked me for playing with his team. Most of the team thanked me. A couple of them were already too far into their beer glasses.
I went up to the bar, apologized to the man for whatever part I almost had in fighting on the premises.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “If I don’t have to read about it in the paper tomorrow, then it never happened.”
I threw a couple bills on the bar. There were two men sleeping on their bar stools, their heads buried in their arms. The only difference was the man on the left was snoring and the man on the right wasn’t. I didn’t think either of them was an Indian. Just two white men who come into the place every single night, I would bet, and drink themselves unconscious. Somebody once told me that 3 percent of the people who live in Michigan live in the Upper Peninsula, and that they drink 28 percent of the alcohol. That’s not just the Indians drinking all that. And yet I didn’t hear anybody telling me what a disgrace it was, those white men, they’re all just drunken degenerates.
“Hey,” the bartender said, “aren’t you that private investigator? The one that was working for Uttley?”
“I was,” I said.
“Where’d he go, anyway? I never see him anymore.”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. It was the truth.
“He had a tab going here,” the man said. “He never paid it.”
“How much is it?” I said. I pulled my wallet back out.
He held his hands up. “It’s between him and me,” he said. “I’m not gonna let you pay it. If you ever see him, though, you tell him he owes me.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him.” The thought of it made me smile a little. Just a little.
When I stepped outside, the cold wind off the lake slapped me across the face. I closed my eyes and held my gloves against my face. When the wind died down, I took a deep breath. Th
e air had a smell and a weight to it that held the threat of more snow.
I looked out across the St. Marys River. It had been frozen solid for almost a month. The locks were shut down for the winter. The next freighter wouldn’t pass through them until March at the earliest. From the other shore the lights of Canada beckoned to me. I could walk right across the river if I wanted to. No customs, no toll. I wouldn’t be the first to do it. There were stories of men who left their wives and families behind them and walked across the ice to a new life in another country.
I started the truck, got the heater going full blast. It took a good ten minutes to take the edge off the cold. The clear plastic that was covering my passenger side window didn’t help matters any. I made a mental note to call the auto glass place again the next day to see if the new window was in yet. They told me two to three weeks when they ordered it for me. That was almost three months ago.
I drove across town in the dim light of street lights and barroom windows. I had the plow hanging on the front of the truck, a good eight hundred pounds of cinderblock in the back for traction. The roads were clear of snow that night, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. It never did. Not until spring.
When I got onto the highway, it took a long while to get the truck up to fifty-five miles per hour. I could feel the engine struggling against the weight. I-75 to M-28, west through the Hiawatha National Forest to 123. I had driven it so many times I didn’t even have to think about it. I had the road to myself, pine trees loaded with snow on either side. The wind whistling through the plastic. When I finally get this window fixed, I thought, the sudden quiet is going to drive me out of my mind.
There’s one main road in Paradise, with one side road that takes you west to the Tahquamenon Falls State Park. The intersection has a blinking red light. When they change that to a regular stop light, that’s when we’ll know we’ve hit the big time. For now it’s just a gas station, three bars including the Glasgow Inn, four gift shops and a dozen little motels for the tourists in the summer, hunters in the fall and snowmobilers in the winter. Plus a lot of cabins scattered throughout the woods.
Winter of the Wolf Moon Page 2
