Picks and Sticks

by Michèle Muzzi

  Mike grabbed Irina’s hand, but she pulled it away. Everyone grew silent again, absorbing the implications of the news. Jane could only hear the pinging of the heaters, the jangling of keys in the Russian’s pocket, and Irina’s erratic breathing.

  “Dah, forgiven!” Irina scoffed, becoming brave before the Soviet representative. “He will be sentenced to die!” Father and daughter began to argue once more in Russian as the official attempted to interject. Jane again implored them to speak in English.

  “Well,” Irina continued, now whispering, “at least we know she is alive.”

  Ivan cleared his throat and explained, “Is Vsevolod Bobrov who make this happen. He is good friend to us — Ekaterina and me … He … he have influence … Seva is powerful, Irina. He will … take care of me.”

  “How is he powerful, Papa?” Irina burst out. “He lost Summit Series to Canadians! At home, people must hate him!” Irina broke down and began sobbing outright. Ivan and Comrade Yakovlev were quiet before the distressed girl. “Why did we defect, Papa?” she managed. “If you go back, our defection mean nothing. Soviet government, KGB, will show no mercy. I will never see you again.”

  “It’s true,” Mike agreed. “You can’t go.”

  Ivan stood and, facing Irina, said, “I cannot live without her. I know this now.”

  “And so, you’ll take the risk,” Jane realized.

  “And leave me here. Forever,” Irina challenged.

  Ivan turned away and wiped his face with his hand. When he turned back to his daughter, his look was of a man tortured beyond endurance. “Please, Irina,” he whispered. “Perhaps … someday … I can return. We can return. Mama and I.” He looked at the official for confirmation, but Comrade Yakovlev was stonefaced.

  “You see?” Irina said, forlorn. “To this, he cannot even nod.”

  Mike said, “Ivan, you have built a life here. If you can just be a little more patient, wait for the Canadian government to do something …” But as he said it, Jane knew this possibility was exhausted. She tugged at her brother’s shirt, stopping him.

  “What is our freedom, Irina, if Mama cannot have hers?” Ivan asked.

  Irina nodded, stood as well, and said, “All right, then. If you go back, I go back, too.”

  “No!” Ivan barked. Mike, too, almost shouted “NO!” and Jane breathed out, whispering, “No, no, no, no, no …”

  Jane and Mike gathered her equipment and the pile of hat-­trick hats that had not been picked up by fans, and left a resolute Ivan and his inconsolable daughter in the dressing room. As they came out, three little figure skaters, still in their practice dresses, asked Jane for her autograph. She obliged them and they ran off happily. “We’re gonna start our own team, Jane!” the girl in red called back to her. It should have made her ecstatic, but she was too miserable. They were going to lose their coach — her friend and mentor. He’d go. Jane was certain he’d go. Irina would not be able to convince him to stay or to take her. The Stepanovs were going to split their family in two for the second time. Jane knew what it felt like to have only part of a family. But now, Irina would be like an orphan. How could anyone decide between a daughter, a wife, and the freedom to live as he chose?

  Jane walked out to the ice and Mike went to find their mother. George was up on the Zamboni, circling. Circling and circling. Usually she found the preparation of the ice soothing; watching the smooth surface appear was her one truly peaceful moment of the day, but suddenly, Al was beside her, rifling peanuts down his gullet, and he and George were hollering at each other over the din of the machine.

  “What, Dad?”

  “Again! Go around again!”

  “Why?” George said, slowing the noisy Zamboni in front of them. “It’s clean.”

  “We gotta clear the air in here!”

  George glared at his father, but started to do as he was told.

  “You are a miserable, nasty, prejudiced man,” Jane spat, turning on him, unable to control herself. “You are so lucky to have the son you have.”

  “Wha’s that?”

  “You heard me,” Jane hurled. “You should get down on your knees and kiss that ice for all George has done for you. You’re lucky he even stays with you.”

  “You watch yer mouth,” Al spewed.

  “You are going to give us ice time. The people of this town will make it happen. And if you have a hard time with that, I’ll just call Bobby and he’ll straighten you out.”

  Al choked on a peanut. “Bunch of commies!” he rasped. “Damn Matagovs and Stepanovs and their like! Might as well just paint this town RED!!”

  Jane threw him a disgusted look and ran onto the ice toward the still-­moving Zamboni.

  “Move over, George,” she yelled up to him. George stopped for her.

  “What?”

  “Either move over, or drive this thing off yourself. The ice is clean.”

  George drove the Zamboni to its exit as Al threw a bunch of peanuts onto the ice surface, shouting obscenities at his own son.

  “One person at a time, okay, Jane? We’ll teach them one at a time. Some may just be a bit harder than others.”

  “But now the team won’t even have a coach. And you’ll have to keep doing this job.”

  “What do you mean? The deal is Ivan gets his job back.”

  Jane broke down and told him Ivan’s news.

  “That’s a huge loss,” George said, mulling it over. “But, if anything, it will force us to make the team happen on our own.”

  “True,” Jane said as the Zamboni stopped in its holding place and George turned off the key. “And I think we can count on my mother to help.”

  George gave her a huge smile. “That’s gotta feel good,” he said. He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her.

  “It’s the best thing of all.”

  She would find her mother and Mike and together they would figure out a way to help Irina. Jane could count on her mother for that, too.

  When they exited the arena, Jane was hounded by more little girls desperate for autographs. It took her several minutes to notice that the snow had stopped falling.

  12

  Endings and Beginnings

  THE MORNING was cloudless, the high blue sky dropping temperatures far below zero. The storm had cleared. Overnight, the pond had frozen six inches thick. Jane had been there all morning with her team, George, Mike, and Deb, scraping the ice surface clean of snow. They had shovelled over the jagged crack down the pond’s centre, the ice surface not quite even on either side of the split. Nature had sewn the pond back together with a cold flick of her fingers — but they would have to be careful. Her stitches might trip them up.

  The group sat to put on their skates, satisfied with their clearing job, and despite the blinding sun glinting off the snowmobiles, the ice, and the insanely tall snowbanks, Jane made out Ivan and Irina approaching from the road. One by one, the participants finished lacing up and stroked to the end of the pond where Jane had first met the Russians.

  “I bring Irina to you, Mrs. Matagov,” Ivan said without a word of hello. “Here she is.”

  “Yes,” Deb said.

  “You will take care of her, dah?” Ivan’s eyes were hooded. He was having a hard time looking at the team he had helped to create.

  A Russian spirit seemed to enter Deb. “She will be like a second daughter to me,” she said fervently. Ivan nodded his thanks.

  Mike moved to be close to Irina. “Ivan,” he said. “Mr. Stepanov … I cannot think of her as a sister, but I … I will watch out for her. I will … marry her.”

  “No, you will not,” Ivan chuckled despite the solemnity of the moment. “You will go to Oshawa Generals as planned. Bobby is ready to take you down there now. Also, I think is best you not be in same house as my daughter.” He and Deb laughed heartily.

  “To
be serious, Mrs. Matagov,” Ivan continued. “I … I could not leave Irina if I did not know she would be so welcome in your home. Is only way I can leave.” He turned away to control his emotion.

  “Ivan?” Jane said, glancing at Tina and Susan.

  “Dah?”

  “We … we got you a gift.” She handed him a small token wrapped in tinfoil. As he unwrapped it, he revealed Jane’s Kelowna Packers puck.

  He looked up sharply. His eyes were red. “I … I cannot accept this,” he said hoarsely. “This is not right. I will not take it.”

  “It’s okay, Ivan,” Jane said, smiling. “I’ll get it back from you in Moscow.”

  “You will get it back …?”

  “Sure,” Jane said, pressing on, determined to fill him with positivity despite her absolute certainty that she would never see him again. “When you come to watch me figure skate there, with your wife, you will bring it to me, for luck. You see, it is magic that way,” she continued, curling his fingers around the puck and covering them in her palms. “It grants wishes. This puck went to Moscow before, with my father. His team won; it came back. Now, it returns to Moscow to give you luck with … what you need. Then, when you see me figure skate, you will give it to me, so the luck comes back to me. Got it?”

  “You have it all figured out, yes, Jane?”

  “Well, yes and no,” she said, her tenuous smile bittersweet. “But just like all through this magical winter — this magical winter created by you — I’ll just keep dreaming.”

  About the Author

  RAINA KIRN

  MICHÈLE MUZZI is a writer, actor, director, and teacher.

  Her short film, Tuba Girl, which she wrote and directed, received awards and invitations to film festivals in Canada and worldwide. Her varied acting career includes performances in film (Hurt Penguins, Swann), television (Small Gifts, Taking the Falls), radio drama (CBC), and classical and contemporary stage (the Stratford Festival and numerous theatres across the country). She teaches drama and English at Sir Wilfrid Laurier Collegiate Institute in Scarborough, Ontario.

  Ms. Muzzi was born and raised in Parry Sound, Ontario. She lives in Toronto with her husband and their two children. Picks and Sticks is her first novel.