In the Field

by Claire Tacon

  Our coach has switched the formation from 4, 4, 2 to 4, 3, 2, 1. Stephen’s striker. All the boys look like they’re channelling their best William Wallace, raising their fists to cheer when they win the coin toss. The whistle blows and Stephen charges ahead with the ball, weaving his way in between the other players. Max sprints ahead to make the pass but he’s cut off.

  Stephen’s on it. Again, he gets the ball out past the centre line, deep into the end. This time he doesn’t pass to Max, just runs until he’s trapped by another player. He tilts to the left and rolls the ball under his foot. The opponent leans to match him. In a kind of hop, Stephen switches onto his other foot and kicks out from underneath so the ball flies sideways. Max stops it in front of the net and slices it in.

  The boys don’t have time to celebrate. There’s still twenty minutes left in the first half. Not much happens for a while—a few skirmishes but the play stays in the middle of the field. Finally, with five minutes on the clock, our team gets the ball past the midfielders. Our left winger drives it into the net for a two-point lead.

  After the break, the other team gets a goal right out of the gate. Our coach sends in two subs. Richard sucks air through his teeth in disapproval. The new kids aren’t as tired, but they’re less aggressive.

  We just need to hold onto the lead.

  Richard shakes his head when I say it. To make it through, we need at least another goal.

  Max and Stephen make a neat series of zigzag passes through the other team’s defensive line until they’re stopped by the centre-backs. Stephen’s got no choice but to try a long shot. It arcs straight towards the goalie. Richard exhales, anticipating the miss, but it spins in off the keeper’s glove. We win three to one.

  By the time Stephen reaches us, most of the other parents have cleared out for the supper break. His clothes are completely drenched and he’s visibly exhausted, but he wants to stay for the Kentville game at six. Richard’s so proud of his son, he agrees without hesitation.

  “Did you see that first goal?” Stephen asks, still out of breath, but Richard’s distracted by Max walking past with Bernie and Linda.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to skate over the awkwardness. “You dangled it.”

  Stephen raises his eyebrows at my stilted lingo and Richard recovers his attention. He runs his fingers along the round of Stephen’s head, fluffing his hair up out of his headband. “You dangled it.”

  The echo cracks Stephen up.

  Sydney’s the clear winner in the blue division, having dominated all three games. None of the other teams have enough goals to be in contention for the wild card. Kentville’s the favourite in our division, with two banked wins going into tonight’s match with Berwick. The yellow division is anyone’s call. I get a sinking feeling, sure that Stephen’s tournament will end tonight.

  As the evening games start up, Luke and I are dispatched to the other fields to keep an eye on the scores. After each report, Richard and Stephen trade the numbers back and forth like bookies. Even if Kentville loses with fewer than two goals, everything still depends on the yellow game. At last check, the underdogs were winning three to two, which would put them at two wins, ten goals and their opponents at two wins, nine. They’d both advance to the final.

  We sit the games out. Kentville clinches the division and we file down the bleachers, grabbing our belongings and sprinting over to the other game. It’s gone into sudden-death overtime, three – three. The cheers go up before we make it. We stop running, deflated.

  When we see the scoreboard, however, the other team’s won. That’s three wins for them, one a piece for their opponents. Our team is in.

  After the boys have gone to bed, I stand under the showerhead for a long time, watching my body turn pink with heat and scrubbing away the dead skin with an old, bleached cloth. It reminds me of our towels at home, which have the same sickly yellow burns from the peroxide in Stephen’s acne cream. I picture Richard back home in a few days, sorting through the closet, piling my belongings to the side, catching stray hairpins in the corner of the shower stall. I picture the house without me in it.

  We haven’t thought this through, this untangling of our family life. As soon as I get dried off, I tap on Richard’s door, hoping he’s still awake. He’s reading in bed, the same battered sci-fi paperback that I was looking through the other day. He nods, making space for me on the mattress and I sit propped up against the wall, hugging my knees. He still smells of soap from his shower, of the jasmine sandalwood bar he brought from home.

  “Stephen’s lucky he wasn’t facing the other way,” he says. “A hand-width up and he’d be in the hospital with testicles the size of cantaloupes.”

  “He played really well, didn’t he?”

  He lays the book down on the sleeping bag and stares at the cover, composing himself. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to keep it together?”

  He rubs his forehead, straining to relax. There isn’t a single square inch of our skin touching but I’m hyper-aware of our proximity. It’s a struggle to keep our arms parallel, to not force an intersection. “The kicker is that I keep forgetting. That’s what’s making it so hard. Each time I look at you, I get this real visceral rush, this gut knowing—how much I love you. Then it’s you and Bernie in a fifteen second porn clip. All I can do is fixate on the mechanics. Stupid, irrelevant details like wondering if you spent the whole time biting your lip.”

  “I’m worried that when you leave there won’t be any way back.”

  He surprises me by putting his arm around me and very gently pulling my head into the crook of his neck, resting his chin on my temple. “Sometimes I can’t decide if it would have been better not to know.”

  The room is dark except for a three-foot cone of yellow spilling out from the reading lamp. With the door closed, with no other witnesses, each breath is an apology. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The tears come but I don’t reach up, nervous that any motion will break this closeness.

  After it’s over, the only thing we can talk about is minutiae, the minor incidents that have collected while we’ve been fighting. They’re ripping up the streetcar tracks again. A squirrel was nesting in the crawlspace above the garage. We’ve got a trial subscription to Wired.

  His article’s fifteen hundred words over the limit and he’s finding it a struggle to cut. I assure him that they’ll edit it down, but he shakes his head. They want text that’s ready to drag and drop into layout.

  I talk to him about Clarence’s farm. My current dilemma is which fertilizer configuration to suggest—composting the poultry litter first or sending it solid through the box spreader in the spring. The details are a way to work up to explaining why I won’t be seeking another tenure-track position.

  He sighs and slides his hands behind his head. “Did you think that’s why I was with you?”

  We’ve sunk horizontal into the bed, looking up at the ceiling like we’re preparing for twin CT scans.

  “Can’t we start again?” I ask.

  “What happened isn’t going to change in a few days.” Richard’s face softens, his bottom lip falling away from the top, showing its full colour gradient of dusk to blush. “These plans—the farm, fixing the house—you’re getting into something that’s going to take months, at best. If I asked you to drive home with us on Monday, would you?”

  “When we were in Toronto, I left my mother alone for a very long time.”

  Richard throws up his hands in frustration.

  “What if I flew home every few weekends to be with you and the boys? Just until this is all over.”

  “What’s happening between us, what’s happening with our family—this is a crisis. It’s not something that can be fixed with every other weekend.” He catches himself raising his voice and swallows hard before continuing. “Every other weekend is what happens after a divorce.”

  The cell rings first thing in the morning as I’m hunting down Luke’s headphones.

  “Good news.
”

  Marc. I’d been meaning to phone to thank him for coming over.

  “I’ve gotten word from the department that I can make you a formal offer—an adjunct position for the winter term. Earth Science 415, special topics in agroecology.”

  January? I don’t want to still be here by January.

  The figure’s only enough to cover utilities and a big-ticket appliance or two. It’s much less than what I’d have made teaching Prescott’s courses. Still, if Richard and I can’t reconcile, I’m going to need money. I get a vision of myself asking Linda if she can pull some strings for me at the Superstore, imagine working as a cashier in the bakery while Ray commiserates about going through the divorce.

  I only give a conditional acceptance, but Marc reacts like he’s signing a star quarterback for the playoffs. “We’ll have you over to celebrate—Richard and the boys’ll be around for another week or so?”

  “Stephen’s got the soccer tournament today and then they’re heading back tomorrow.” I try to keep my voice calm and steady, not wanting to go into the separation. “School will be starting. I’m staying on to look after my mother.”

  “Come by whenever you need company. Do you play three-handed euchre?” he asks, genial as ever. “Margie’s keen on three-handed euchre.”

  Luke’s the only one who tries to talk on the drive over.

  “Do you get a medal if you win?”

  “It’s not the Olympics.”

  Luke sticks his tongue out at his brother then asks me the same question.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a trophy?”

  “Is the other team good?”

  Stephen shrugs.

  Richard makes eye contact with Luke in the rear-view. We haven’t spoken all morning except through the kids. “No one’s as good as your brother.”

  “Max is good too.”

  “Yes,” Richard says. “Max’s good too.”

  We’re up first against Yarmouth, at the same time as the other semifinal. Then it’s the consolation match at two and the final at four. There’s still a fair crowd of parents and supporters out in the stands but it’s going to be harder to avoid Bernie. We run into Linda right away—she’s laying out a line of jackets and folded towels on the bleachers. She catches me looking at them. “I don’t know about you, but my butt just about fell off yesterday. You want one?”

  “That’s okay,” I stammer. “We’ll probably sit farther up.”

  Richard stays ten feet back with the boys.

  “Thanks, though.”

  Linda doesn’t make a big deal about it, just goes back to setting up. Lisa, however, wants Luke to sit with her. Luke’s already drifted over to his friend and the two of them take turns catapulting off the first bleacher.

  “Just leave him,” Linda says. “It’s no trouble.”

  Richard climbs to the top row. Without Luke between us, there’s no need to keep up the pretence, so we fall silent, the excitement of yesterday gone.

  Today’s game is more formal—the ref’s older and is dressed in traditional black shirt and shorts, knee-high socks topped with bold black and white bands. The friction between Richard and me eases slightly as the teams line up in single file and someone calls out the boys’ names over the PA system. I can’t help beaming when “Stephen Bascom, Number 22” crackles out of the speakers.

  The other team’s centre-forward is a very tall, shaggy haired kid who bowls right past Max. He dribbles ten feet ahead then passes to another player who’s less cocksure but a faster runner. This team’s better oiled than our boys, the players more aware of their teammates’ positions.

  Stephen manages to pry the ball away from an advancing player, but a little wiry kid lunges in from the side, slicing his leg in so closely that it catches Stephen off guard, and he has to hop to keep his balance. That’s all it takes for the kid to tap the ball off to his teammate.

  “Is that allowed?” I ask.

  “He made contact with the ball, not Stephen.”

  “But it was a trip.”

  Richard shakes his head. “Only if he’d aimed for Stephen’s legs. Haven’t you seen enough FIFA games to know?”

  “I’ve always been with the cousins in the kitchen.” Of the four World Cup viewing parties that Terrence has hosted since Richard and I have been together, I’ve always managed to avoid watching the game by helping to cook the dumplings, curries and other food that we feast on afterwards.

  “Bumping’s okay but you can’t cause bodily injury. That’s why they gave Zidane the red card.” He sees the blank look on my face. “You remember the head-butt, don’t you? From the final?”

  “We were out here already.”

  “Didn’t you see it on the news? What about the foot stop in’98?”

  “In ’98 your auntie was teaching me to make currant rolls.”

  The second half isn’t much different from the first. Yarmouth has an easy time keeping the ball in our end. Time after time, our goalie has to throw himself on the ball and punt it out. It looks like it should crush the air out of him, the way he slams his body down. It’s only by corralling all our players into defence that the regular game time elapses without any goals scored.

  Richard’s as nervous as the boys as it goes into the second five-minute overtime. He unclasps his watch and lays it on his knee, counting down the time and mouthing plays. He taps on the watch face as the whistle blows. “Penalty kicks.”

  While the coach is deciding which five to put in, our keeper doesn’t stop moving, alternating between deep knee stretches and slow motion jumping jacks. If his face didn’t look so grim, I’d think he was leading the crowd in a cheer. Give me an A. It’s not fair to either goalie that the game comes down to them.

  On Yarmouth’s team, it’s the shaggy-headed kid up first. He makes the goal look effortless. Our keeper shakes his hair free and repositions his headband, then claps a few times, preparing for the next attempt.

  Max is up first for our team. He shoots on a wide angle towards the upper right of the goal post. From where we’re sitting it looks good, but Yarmouth’s keeper deflects it with his glove. The next three shots are misses—two for them, one for us. We just need one goal to stay in the game.

  Our next player sinks it right to the back of the net and we all cheer. One all. As the fourth Yarmouth player steps up, Stephen waits his turn at the side, rolling a ball under his left cleat.

  Richard stares straight ahead, hands clenched. Stephen takes his time jogging into position. He leans to the right, preparing to side-foot it, then quickly shifts to his left and slams the ball in the opposite direction. The keeper lunges, misses. Yarmouth fails to catch us on their last attempt.

  Everyone on our side of the bleachers cheers. All around us, parents are hugging and turning to the people next to them. Richard and I stay planted in our separate celebration.

  We meet Stephen a few feet away from where Max is standing with Linda and Bernie. Richard grabs Stephen close and pats his back, but then releases him to me. “You were amazing,” I say, holding him tight. “You were amazing.” Stephen’s embarrassed by the praise, but he grins totally unselfconscious, the sweat pouring down his hairline.

  Richard walks straight over to shake Max’s hand. “You did great out there.”

  Max hasn’t seen Richard since the fight and isn’t sure how to act. “I missed that shot.”

  “No, you nailed the rest of the game. I saw you yesterday too. Great job.”

  They’re heading over to New Minas for lunch and Max wants to know if Stephen can come with them. Once Luke hears this, he wants to go as well.

  “You can all come,” Linda says.

  Richard accepts before I can decline. “It will be good for the boys,” he whispers, but I can hear the grind in his voice.

  We’re seated in the back of the restaurant, at the only table where we can squeeze my mother’s wheelchair in comfortably. We’ve picked her up to join us for the final game and she’s happy to have this visit with Lind
a. I take one of the table ends and Richard sits to my right so he doesn’t have to stare at Bernie, who’s across from me. The kids are a buffer in between.

  There’s an easy business at first, deciding what we want to order—how many pizzas, what toppings, do we need any salads. When the waitress comes, we list off a vast quantity of food.

  “How do you want me to divide up the bill?” she asks, glancing back and forth between me and Bernie, unsure which kids belong to whom. She’s probably still in high school, her ponytail secured by one of those elastics with bits of fake hair poking out.

  As soon as she leaves, Bernie leans towards Max. “What do you think of her?”

  Max breaks out in bright red splotches.

  “He likes her,” Luke says, smiling at Bernie for approval. “She’s going to be Max’s girlfriend.”

  Lisa finds this equally funny and starts to join in, the two of them repeating it until Stephen kicks Luke under the table. Bernie raises his eyebrows up and down and pokes Max. I cringe at the pantomime. Just sitting through the meal is going to be hard enough for Richard, he doesn’t need to watch Bernie hamming it up.

  I raise my voice to interrupt them. “Max, how far did you guys get in the tournament last year?”

  “We only got to play the first day.”

  “Who won?”

  “Dartmouth. They always win.”

  “Are you going to play soccer next year, Lisa?”

  She nods. “I want to do gymnastics too.”

  “As long as you don’t want to play hockey,” Linda says. “That’s the one bankrupts you.”

  The conversation soon breaks down the middle of the table, with Richard and the kids on one side and Bernie, Linda and my mother on the other. It’s hard not to eavesdrop as my mother asks question after question about the wedding. Lisa is going to be their flower girl; Jason is best man; and Gail’s maid of honour. Red flowers if it’s a winter wedding, pink if it’s summer. Reception at either the King’s Arms or Clarence and Irene’s. Linda’s got a gentle touch with my mother, just like my father did. She knows when to needle her to keep talking.