Deirdre Martin

by Deirdre Martin

  Katie nodded. “Listen, do you want some time alone with Tuck? I could get lost for an hour or so, go get some coffee—”

  Mina put her hand on Katie’s arm, shaking her head. “It’s okay. I have to let him come to me. This is fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  They watched as Tuck ran in loops around the trees, in his own world entirely.

  “Remember that feeling?” Mina said wistfully, rubbing her arms.

  “Not really,” Katie replied dryly.

  “Oh, you.” Mina sounded just like their mother. “I’m so glad you came.” She slipped her free hand into Katie’s.

  “Me, too.”

  “Is he doing okay?” Mina asked, eyes still following Tuck. “I mean—really?”

  Katie squeezed her sister’s hand. “He’s doing fine. The school year just started and he really likes his teacher. He’s playing hockey. Mom thinks he spends too much time on the computer, and I’m starting to agree.”

  “How is mom?” Mina purred.

  “Don’t start, Mina, okay? Mom really saved your ass.”

  “Hey, I’m not denying it.” Mina took another drag off her cigarette. “There’s just a ton of stuff coming out in therapy that makes me realize a lot of the way I am has to do with the family.”

  “Like?”

  Mina glanced away. “You know, Dad’s death, that maybe that’s what made me act out. It was a way of dealing with the sadness as well as being a pathetic bid to get Mom’s attention.”

  Katie swallowed. “Makes sense.”

  “Not as effective as cramming a box of Twinkies down my throat but hey, we all have to find what works for us.” Before Katie could protest Mina took a step back, admiring her.

  “You look great, Katie. Really.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you still doing—whatsitcalled—Lard Losers?”

  “Fat Fighters,” Katie corrected. “Yes, I am.”

  “Still running?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wow,” said Mina, impressed. “More power to you. I’d rather listen to Mom sing than exercise.” She threw her cigarette down on the ground, stubbing it out with the heel of her Frye boot.

  “Unfortunately, some of us have to exercise.” Which reminded Katie: Even if she still felt crummy when she and Tuck got back to Didsbury, she was going for a run.

  “Mom, look!”

  Katie and Mina both looked to see Tuck do a series of perfectly executed back flips. Katie applauded while Mina shouted “Way to go, bro!” and lit up another cigarette. They ambled down to where Tuck was still giving his impromptu gymnastics display.

  “Want to sit with us?” Mina asked, gesturing toward a bench.

  Tuck sprang to his feet. “Boring!”

  “I’ll give you boring,” Mina replied, darting after him. Tuck shrieked and began running from her, laughing. Watching them together, Katie was struck by how Mina seemed more like Tuck’s older sibling than his mother, which had always been the case. Perhaps that was part of the problem: Mina didn’t really know how to mother Tuck, having been virtually a child herself when she’d had him.

  “Oh, God.” Mina limped back to where Katie sat, panting. “Maybe I should start to exercise. I thought my lungs were going to burst.”

  Katie looked around. “Where’s Tuck?”

  “He said he was thirsty. I told him if he went back to the house, they would give him something to drink.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “No, some ex-junkie or alkie is going to drag him off into the woods,” Mina drawled. “Christ, you’re worse than Mom.”

  “I’m just expressing concern.”

  “He’ll be fine, Katie, okay?” Mina shook another cigarette out of the pack and lit up. “You worry too much.”

  Katie thought Mina didn’t worry enough, but she kept her mouth shut.

  Mina took a long drag off her cigarette. “So, what’s new with you?”

  “I went on a date with Paul van Dorn last night and narrowly avoided throwing up on him.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Hockey Paul van Dorn?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Mina tapped cigarette ash on to the ground. “I thought he was Mr. NHL superstar.”

  “He was,” said Katie, stealing Mina’s cigarette from her and taking a puff. “He had to retire early. Concussion. He bought Cuffy’s and redid it. Now it’s called the Penalty Box.”

  “Oh, man!” Mina chortled. “What a loser!”

  Katie bristled. “What do you mean?”

  “If you were loaded and had to retire early, would you

  come back to Didsbury?“ Mina shook her head. ”Man, oh man. If I had his kind of money I’d get the hell out of that one horse town and never look back. He’s pathetic.“

  Katie didn’t know what to say. On a certain level, Mina had just expressed—albeit more cruelly—what she herself had thought. Had Mina just verbalized Katie’s reluctance to get too close to Paul? Was she afraid of getting sucked back into the small town she’d worked so hard to escape? “People are different,” Katie finally said. “They want different things.”

  “I guess,” said Mina, sounding unconvinced. “But if you ask me, he’s a loser.”

  “Wasn’t it great to see your mom?”

  Katie glanced over at Tuck, who was resting his head against the passenger side window of the car. The mood was unusually subdued, bordering on the melancholy. Katie wasn’t surprised: Mina had wept when they left, promising to call every day now that she was allowed to do so. Katie could tell that Tuck didn’t believe her.

  “Tuck?”

  He twisted his body away from hers.

  “Honey, talk to me.”

  “I wish you were my mom,” Tuck said sadly.

  Tears leaked into the corners of Katie’s eyes. “Your mom loves you, Tuck,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice from cracking. “Didn’t she look great? Can you see how hard she’s trying to get better?”

  “She stinks like cigarettes;”

  Katie stifled a laugh. It was true, Mina reeked of tobacco. The whole facility seemed to reek of tobacco. And burnt coffee. “Well, if you want, we can get her some perfume for Christmas. How about that?”

  “I guess.”

  “You know, when your mom was little she was addicted to computer games just the way you are.”

  Tuck turned to look at her. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. We used to play them at our cousin’s house all the time. There was one, Dark Castle, that made the sound of squeaking bats. She loved that one.”

  Tuck laughed with delight. “What else did she play?”

  Katie thought. “Well, there was one called Doom, where you run around and try to kill things that are after you.”

  “Cool.”

  “I think you probably inherited the computer game gene from your mom.”

  “Did she play hockey, too?” Tuck asked eagerly.

  “I’m not sure. She might have. Ask her next time you see her.”

  “I will.” He sank back in his seat, looking pleased. “Aunt Katie?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you think maybe my dad liked computer games, too?”

  “He might have,” Katie said cautiously,

  “Maybe he was a hockey player! Maybe that’s why I like it!”

  “Maybe it is,” Katie agreed. “It’s certainly possible.”

  “Cool,” Tuck whispered to himself, rocking in his seat. “Was my dad named Tuck?”

  “I don’t really know,” Katie fibbed. There was no way she was going to tell him he got his name because of Mina’s adolescent fixation with the Marshall Tucker Band. Good thing I didn’t have a kid when I was in my teens, Katie thought. His name would have been Ring Ding. Katie wondered if he even knew his full name was Tucker. He’d been called Tuck since birth.

  “You know, I meant to ask you something about hockey, Tuck.”


  “What?” He was practically bouncing in his seat. It didn’t take much to make him happy. All you had to do was pay a little attention to him.

  “Would you mind if I sat in on a few of your hockey practices? For my book?”

  “Sure!” Tuck exclaimed. “You can see how great I am!”

  Katie laughed, making a mental note of his masculine self-confidence for her book. “I already know that, sweetie. But it’ll be fun to see you on the ice.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 07

  I knew she’d be here, Paul thought as Katie slipped into the rink with Tuck. She’d been on his mind. He could understand her being embarrassed. But hemming and hawing about seeing him again seemed way out of proportion to what actually happened. It wasn’t like she’d thrown up on him, for God’s sake.

  Juiced on coffee and an early-morning run, he strode into the locker room to meet the boys. They seemed sluggish, not surprising given the early hour. But their faces perked up when he began handing out jerseys. Their excitement over seeing their names printed on a hockey sweater brought him back to his own childhood. He loved the yearly ritual of getting a new sweater. He could still remember slipping on his Blades sweater for the first time, holding his arms aloft in triumph at the press conference that had been called to announce he was going to New York as the league’s number one draft pick. It seemed like yesterday.

  “Okay, listen up.”

  Twenty pairs of restless eyes found his. “These first few practices I want us to concentrate on having fun.” How small they looked, huddling around the wooden benches in their gear, clutching their miniature sticks as if their lives depended on it. “Who watches hockey on TV?”

  Everyone raised his hand.

  “Who knows all the rules?”

  Roughly half the team raised their hands.

  “Right.” Paul covered his disappointment with an encouraging smile. “I’ll start by explaining the basics to you out on the ice. Then we’ll warm up, and I’ll have you play a game that’ll help all of you develop your skating.” He made eye contact with each and every one of the boys, a technique he’d learned from his Blades coach, Ty Gallagher. “If there’s one saying I want you to remember this season, it’s this: There’s no I in the word team. Got it?” The boys nodded, and Paul clapped his hands together loudly. “All right, Panthers, let’s hit the ice!”

  Fastening the chin strap of his helmet he led the kids out to the ice. His eyes quickly searched to see where Katie was sitting. She was a few rows up from the players’ bench, laptop balanced on her knees. Paul gave a small nod of acknowledgment, which she returned.

  He slowly began circling the rink, urging the boys to follow suit. He noticed immediately that Tuck Fisher was a good, strong skater. So was Liz’s kid, Gary. Eventually he halted, sizing up each boy as he skated past.

  “Okay!” Paul blew the whistle around his neck. “We’re going to play a game called one foot face-off. Darren Becker and Chuck Wilbraham, I want each of you in goal. The rest of you, I’m going to send you out in two groups of three. When I blow the whistle, I want the first group to play, pushing off only on your left foot as you skate. When I blow the whistle again, I want the next six boys on the ice, but I want them to push off only with their right foot. Any team who skates past their opponents while puck handling gets two points; you’ll get one point for each goal scored. We’ll keep alternating teams and legs until I say we’re done.”

  He picked six boys at random, sending them out on the ice facing one another three on three. “All right let’s go!”

  He stepped back and watched. Right away there was trouble. A number of boys forgot they could only use their left leg to push off, while others seemed to think pushing off left meant dragging their right legs behind them like pint-size Quasimodos.

  “Stop!” Paul blew the whistle, and the boys halted. “Watch me, okay?” He demonstrated the left leg technique for them, doing the same on the right. “Any clearer?” The boys nodded. “Resume play!”

  His eyes strayed to check out Katie, tapping away on her laptop. What the hell could she be writing?

  Most of practice was taken up with the one foot face-off drill. Twice he had to stop because Tuck was checking. When the team was done practicing, Paul barked, “You guys did great!” He led them in a cool-down skate before sending them to the locker room to get changed for their school day.

  He watched from the ice as Katie folded up her laptop. She seemed to be waiting for him. Doffing his helmet, he skated over and went to sit down beside her. “Have book bag, will travel,” he joked as he shifted her canvas tote to the floor. “What were you writing?”

  “Notes.” She lifted her eyes to his. “May I say something about your coaching?”

  “It’s my first day on the job and you know nothing about hockey,” Paul replied, “but sure, be my guest.”

  “You tell the boys ‘Great job!”, but your expression says otherwise. You looked pained to be here.“

  “I was pained,” Paul tried to joke. “They don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Katie reminded him. “To teach them. Maybe you could try hiding what you’re thinking?”

  “Anything else, Madame Sociologist?”

  Katie cracked a small smile. “That’s all for now, Coach van Dorn.”

  “Your nephew’s got some anger issues,” Paul noted, running a hand through his sweaty hair.

  “I know.” Katie looked distressed. “I guess it’s not surprising.”

  “No.” What was surprising was how awkward this exchange felt. “Feeling any better?”

  “Much.” Katie’s face contorted with embarrassment. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” Paul patted the back of his neck with a towel. “I would like a rain check, though.”

  Katie squirmed. “Paul—”

  “What’s the problem, Katie?” He couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice as it reverberated through the cold, empty rink. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything!”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Katie hesitated.

  “I’m asking you to have dinner with me, not marry me.” He couldn’t tell if it was the wrong thing to say as Katie stared down at her feet, face turning red. “What?” Paul prodded.

  “It depends,” she murmured.

  “On?”

  “Where we go.”

  He couldn’t believe she was issuing conditions. Normally he’d say “To hell with you, lady,” but Katie was dif-ferent. “What’s your pleasure?” he coaxed. “French? Italian? Chinese?”

  Katie didn’t look particularly enthused by any of them. Then it dawned on him: It’s not the cuisine she’s hung up on. It’s the calories.

  “How ‘bout this: I’ll make us a healthy, low-fat dinner at my place.” Katie looked skeptical and he got defensive. “Some men do know how to cook, you know. I happen to be one of them.” He was lying through his teeth, but so what? How hard could it be to chuck a piece of meat in the oven and boil some vegetables?

  “What’s your specialty?” Katie asked.

  “That’s for me to know and for you to find out. If you think it’s too fattening, we can go running for hours afterward to burn it all off.”

  Katie raised an eyebrow. “Are you mocking me?”

  “Totally. So let’s say seven, my place, Friday night?” He rose. “Deal?”

  “Deal?” Katie scoffed. “Is that how you usually finalize plans for a date?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, I usually do this.” He glanced around quickly to make sure the rink was empty, then kissed her swiftly on the mouth. When he pulled back, she was smiling. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” Katie murmured.

  “You won’t be disappointed,” he promised.

  “Leave it to Anthony to give directions no one can read,” Paul muttered to himself, squinting as he tried to decipher the chicken scra
tch before him. Paul’s confidence about cooking for Katie had faded as the week wore on. By Wednesday morning, he was in a blind panic. Unsure of what to do, he called his former teammate and friend

  Michael Dante, half owner in a Brooklyn restaurant called Dante’s. Michael tried talking Paul off the ledge, assuring him that if he could read, he could cook. But Paul was dubious, so Michael put him on the phone with his brother, Anthony, Dante’s head chef. After picking Anthony’s brains for half an hour about putting together a meal that was impressive and tasty yet not too high in calories, Anthony had finally roared, “Idiota! I’ll prepare the damn dinner myself and FedEx it up to you. All you’ll have to do is pop things in the oven and sprinkle a little cheese here and there. Think you can handle that, birdbrain?”

  Paul was pretty sure he could; that is, until the food actually arrived and he had to decipher Anthony’s instructions for each dish. The almond cookies were self-explanatory. He’d figured out the marinated carrot sticks pretty fast; ditto the sea bass baked with artichokes. It was the green beans he was having a hard time with. He called the restaurant.

  “Dante’s. May I help you?” answered a woman with a very pleasant voice. Anthony’s wife, maybe?

  “Yes, hi, I need to speak to Anthony. It’s an emergency.”

  “Who should I say is calling, please?”

  “Paul van Dorn.”

  “Hold on.”

  A few seconds later, Anthony picked up. “Let me guess: the almond cookies are too simple for your sophisticated palate.”

  “No, everything’s great. It’s just these beans…”

  “What about them?” Anthony asked suspiciously. “They were picked fresh, I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  “What am I supposed to DO with them? I can’t read your handwriting.” He grabbed the foil lid, squinting hard. “The bigger the skull—”

  “Butter the skillet! Butter the skillet!”

  “Butter the skillet,” Paul repeated thoughtfully. “Ah.”

  “Those concussions leave you retarded or what?”

  “It’s your handwriting that’s the problem, not my brain!”

  Anthony heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Butter the skillet, put the heat up to medium, and dump in the beans when the butter starts to foam. When the beans are nice and coated, add the grated cheese—which I packed in there for you because God only knows what kind of immangiabile cheese you have up there in the sticks and I only buy from Tony Culotto, the best—toss it all together, throw in a little salt if it needs it, and serve it immediately. Capisce?”