Break Away Page 10

  The skidoo thundered into the sky, losing all contact with the ground. I saw the town ahead of me in the distance start to shrink as though it was about to be swallowed up by the earth, and the black river overflow. I thought I was going to fly far out to sea and land in the ocean. Then the skidoo nosed down and I smacked the ground, hard. The snowmobile stayed on the road, but the suspension couldn’t handle the impact and the two skis splayed out on either side, like duck’s feet.

  I made it home rolling down the shoulder of the 138, the left ski bent completely sideways and dragging on the asphalt, sparks flying. When I got to my driveway, I saw that I was leaking gas. Guess I was lucky I didn’t set myself on fire.

  Chapter Six

  There it was, parked in front of the house : the big red pick-up. My father was home after a week in the bush marking trees for cutting. I’d planned to spend the evening wiping up the gas that had leaked out and cleaning the mud off the skidoo. Crouched down, I stared in discouragement for a long time at the two bent skis and the suspension that seemed to be shot on both sides. How high into the air had I flown ?

  I didn’t have a red cent to spend on repairs. The gas line was leaking… and who knows what else was wrong ?

  Then the garage door swung open. My father was standing in the entrance, plaid shirt half unbuttoned. His untied hair hung down over his shoulders. It was clear he hadn’t washed up since he got home. He’d put on his big felt boots without bothering to tie them and the laces were dragging on the floor. I could tell from his dark face and his shrouded eyes he’d been drinking. Hands in his pockets he shuffled over to the Yamaha.

  I’d gone up to Colombier with Sam, I told him. I’d gotten it for a good price and I couldn’t wait until he got home from the bush because Sam’s uncle Normand wanted to get rid of it right away.

  “Good deal,” he said, nudging one of the mangled skis with his foot.

  I’d cracked up on the Manicouagan trail, I explained.

  He started talking about my hockey future. If I didn’t get serious or if I hurt myself seriously I’d miss the season and could probably kiss my dream of playing in the NHL goodbye. But he kept it short, ending with a sigh when he saw I was only half listening.

  He added that Larry had called him.

  Everything that had happened to me since I hurt my ankle seemed to weigh on him. It hurt him to see me less and less interested in hockey.

  We discussed the racket from the clutch. I got the shivers just talking about it.

  “Take it to Mike and have him check it all out. And tell him to change the suspension. It’s on me. You did real good to grab it, the Yamaha. We’ll need it this winter. But let’s try to take care of it, okay ?” he said, with a knowing wink of his eye.

  “Okay.”

  He ruffled my hair affectionately, then headed for the door. But before he got there, he stopped and stood still for a long moment, as though petrified.

  “How’d it go up at the reservoir ?” I asked.

  “They’re closing the plant. They broadcast it on the evening news. It’s over, working in the bush. I’m out of a job.”

  Then he stepped through the door and disappeared into the darkness. I could hear his heavy footsteps in the cold snow, then he climbed up the front stairs and closed the door. The fluorescent light flickered over my head.

  That night I didn’t sleep a wink. I tossed and turned under my blankets, haunted by Stéphane Pinchault’s tormented face. The next night, at Baie-Comeau, we lost again, 5-1. I was sucking wind the whole game, just couldn’t catch my breath. My legs were on fire. In the third period, Larry, exasperated, left me to stew on the bench. I couldn’t find my rhythm. I didn’t understand why. And in the locker room, later, the whole team was feeling hopeless.

  “So ?” I said, leaning over Mike, who was working lying on his back.

  “No, no, the only thing wrong is the leaky gas line.”

  “Great.”

  I had taken my Yamaha to Mike’s the day after we lost to Forestville. He didn’t have time to look at it right away, he told me ; come back on Sunday. When I got there, I saw that he had rebuilt the suspension good as new and had even applied vinyl tape to make some orange and yellow lightning bolts to cover the scratches. I really wanted it to be in perfect shape, so I asked him to check one more time that it wasn’t still leaking. Which he did, no questions asked. Because obviously I didn’t know anything, and he was the top mechanic around.

  It had been a strange week. We lost to Baie-Comeau, Saguenay and then Rimouski on Friday. Larry, fed up, assigned us exercises to do on our own at home. He told us he was going up to get his shack ready for ice fishing and that while he was spending the weekend doing that he’d be trying to clear his mind. He didn’t want to see us before the next game.

  And Christmas was only two weeks away.

  That Monday morning, on the way down the stairs to get a chair for one of my classes, I bumped into her going the other way, books in her arms. She wouldn’t look at me. I tried not to push it, reasoning that I’d already made enough of a mess of things. When I was just about to turn the corner at the foot of the stairs, I heard her ask in an exasperated voice :

  “What’s this ?”

  I stopped dead. There she stood at the top of the stairs, not moving, books pressed tight against her chest. Through the porthole-shaped window that overlooked the landing the cool winter light made her look even paler than usual. I went back up the stairs slowly, one step at a time.

  There were dark circles around her eyes, which flitted here and there without coming to rest on any one thing. She recoiled a couple of steps, which made me feel horrible. I couldn’t stand to think she was afraid of me. Which was perfectly understandable considering the way I’d been acting for the last couple of weeks. All I had been hoping for was to see that enigmatic smile again, the one that had captivated me the first night I saw her… But now the light in her eyes seemed to have gone out.

  “What do you want ?”

  She said it in one long breath, as though she had just put something down that was too heavy to carry. Nothing, was what I wanted to say. Just to hold your hand.

  Then, off the top of my head, I blurted out, “Would you like to go for a walk down by the shore ?”

  She seemed just as astonished as I was at the thought of it. Her mouth relaxed as a smile crept over her lips.

  “Down to the water… in winter ?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “You… you know I’m going out with Jon ?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  She smiled. Her tiny eyes had gotten back a bit of their shine and she shook her head from side to side.

  “You’re cute,” she said, bent forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  Then, she disappeared.

  Her lips were warm and very soft. They’d barely grazed my cheek. I brought my forearm to my nose hoping she’d liked my smell. Hers was delicious. Not the smell of perfume, but the lingering memory of her long curly hair that had tickled the sides of my face when she’d leaned in close. All of a sudden, the light shining through the window had dimmed and she’d completely enveloped me, her face up against mine.

  There I stood, in the middle of the staircase, one hand on the banister, playing over and over in my head that little kiss that had only lasted a second but that was still occupying all the space around me. Everything else had vanished. Then I leaped down the stairs as though I could fly and headed for the supply room on the run to get the chair.

  “Hope I’m not bothering you,” said a voice, yanking me out of my daydream.

  Michel was talking to me as he wiped his hands on an old greasy rag.

  “Wha’d you say ?”

  “Are you even listening to me ?”

  No, I hadn’t heard him. While he was doing a final check of the Yamaha, I had been off in another galaxy. My thoughts were making my head spin. Mike threw me a worried look.

  “Are you okay, man ?”

 
; “Yeah, not too bad.”

  “Tough going, eh ? The hockey, I mean.”

  “I haven’t been the same since I got hurt. I’m not sure what’s going on.”

  “Don’t let it get to you. You’ll get it going again. All the best go through at least one massive slump during their careers.”

  “A slump”… I nodded.

  While we were rolling out the Yamaha with its orange and yellow lightning bolts and black paint, Mike told me he’d installed ten-inch skis since I wanted to ride up to the cabin and, with all this crazy snow, that’s what you ought to have. He had completely taken the clutch apart and reassembled it. The motor sputtered to life with a cloud of blue smoke, and then began to purr contentedly. I was immensely relieved that I wouldn’t have to hear that scary whistling that made me think of Stéphane Pinchault screaming his head off.

  I was just about to start up the big hill when I noticed that Mike was standing there right beside me, hands in his pockets. He was wearing his light-weight motocross jacket that wasn’t any good for this kind of weather. And of course that damn Maple Leafs cap on his head.

  “Something you wanted to ask me ?” I said.

  “I took her to the vet,” he said with a sad smile. “They don’t give her long to live. My dog, that is.”

  “I’m sorry, Michel.”

  “That’s life… I just wanted to ask if I could bury her on your land up at Lake Matamek ?”

  I held out my hand ; he gave it a firm shake. I hadn’t said anything, but of course the answer was “yes.” He understood. I started up, swinging the snowmobile around in a half circle. The gate to the pier was open and I passed the security guard’s shack ; he didn’t even look up. I pulled up to the fog light at the end of the dock. It was blinking on and off, on and off, like Stéphane’s flashlight.

  Off in the distance, there was a boat sailing up river towards Quebec City or Montreal. I imagined I was a sailor standing on the bridge. The icy wind would be enough to freeze you solid. Soon the ice would begin to form huge mosaics stretching from land out over the water. Then would come tiny icebergs shaped by the tide sticking their heads above water..

  I looked out over the cold black water. On the other side was the Gaspé Peninsula. You can see the Chic-Chocs, looming up like giants, white with snow. They seem to be floating above the water and drifting like ice floes. If I closed my eyes and lowered my head, I could see them sinking, down down into the deep.

  I buzzed into our front yard at top speed, proud of my Yamaha that looked as good as new. The exhaust was still a bit blue, but Michel said he thought we should just mix more oil with the gas. I wasn’t going to argue with “the artist.” When I could afford it, I’d buy me a brand new four stroke… but for now, I’d have to make do with what I had. Waiting, with a big smile on my face, I gunned the motor sending up a big cloud of exhaust. I was hoping to see my father come out on the porch. But then I noticed that the big red pick-up was missing. Parked in its place, next to Sylvie’s Toyota, was a black BMW.

  I tried to remember how long it had been since anybody had come over. My father and my aunt would visit some distant cousins at Christmastime, but that was about it. A couple of Sylvie’s friends would drop by for a drink the odd time, but I was pretty sure none of them were driving around in a BMW. In fact, I was as sure as I could be it was Sylvie’s new “friend.”

  Now I was kicking myself. Why did I make all that racket gunning my skidoo when I pulled up in a cloud of snow. If I’d only known I had a chance to catch them in the act, I would have kept it down. No way they hadn’t heard me. I hadn’t even closed the garage door behind me when I spotted a man in his forties leave the house. He was tall and blond, with a black trench coat and the latest in shoes. He closed the door and walked down the stairs, gripping the banister so he wouldn’t slip.

  He walked through the snow-filled yard lifting his feet high to keep the snow out of his cuffs. He waved at me and flashed a Colgate smile, sort of like a politician on the campaign trail. Then, rolling slowly in front of me in his black BMW he waved once more and ran his hand through his long blond hair, then blasted down the 138 like a bank robber making his getaway.

  I understood what Michel must have felt when he saw Sylvie with this guy. I didn’t know what to think, but I knew it stunk. At the same time I felt very happy. If he had just been a friendly face, that would have made my life a little more difficult. But this, this was going to be too easy. This fish was big, slow and swimming in shallow water. A big old carp, the kind you can catch with your bare hands and kill with the whack of a stick.

  Standing in the living room, I took off my coat and boots. There was a shadow moving around in the kitchen. The fridge door opened, and then the shadow poured itself a glass of pop. I called out in a soft voice.

  “Sylvie, are you there ?”

  “What is it ?” she answered, her voice irritated.

  I heard her putting the bottle back in the fridge and I hurried to block her path to the stairs. I got there just in time and she ploughed into my chest.

  She looked at me, steaming, and I smiled back.

  “Let me by,” she said.

  “Who’s the dude ?”

  “Alex, cut it out. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Come on, just tell me his name.”

  “It’s Gordon, okay ? Now leave me alone.”

  “What ? Gordon !”

  I was so stunned that my fish was named Gordon that she eased right past me and dashed for her room. I couldn’t believe that the guy I had seen outside with the blond hair and the wing-tips was named Gordon. This was going to be so easy. He was already sizzling in the pan. Taking the stairs four at a time, I slid my foot in the door just before she could slam it.

  She let out an angry yell. I had definitely pushed a button. That felt good.

  “Gordon !” I repeated.

  “Yes, Gordon. It’s a name like anybody else’s. No worse than, say… Mike.”

  Now, that was something that I seriously disagreed with. I pushed open the door and entered the room, lecturing her and shaking my index finger at her.

  “No, no, no,” I said. “Mike, that’s a cool name. Michel, Mike, that’s perfectly acceptable, okay ? Golden Gordon… No. Sorry. That just doesn’t cut it.”

  “Chr… You’re an idiot.”

  Frustrated, she yanked the sheets off her bed and shook them at me before gathering them in her arms. I caught a disagreeable whiff. Lowering my arm I looked at my aunt, eyes wide-open.

  “Sylvie ! Your sheets stink. They smell like… yuck ! They smell of Golden Gordon !”

  I fell to the floor pretending I was choking, both hands around my throat, mouth wide open, eyes rolled upwards. She stepped over me and fled with her sheets, but not before giving me a kick in the stomach. I followed her, thumping down the upstairs hallway like I’d just inhaled poison gas. She locked herself in the bathroom, flushed the toilet, started up the washing machine and turned on her hair dryer, singing at the top of her voice to drown out whatever I was going to say.

  I went downstairs to make some peanut butter on toast, feeling quite satisfied with my performance. It had been pretty convincing, I think.

  The holidays were coming ; you could feel it everywhere in town. There was more traffic. People were on their way to Sept-Îles or Baie-Comeau. Convoys formed up and people drove together to Quebec City, staying in a motel for the weekend and spending the whole day shopping in the big malls. You know, some people are really crazy about shopping, but there’s others that live to party, I mean, really party. Seeing some guys crossing town honking and yelling, you’d think that they were already in New Year’s party mode.

  Thursday, it was standing room only in the arena. It had only been Tuesday that we’d actually beaten Rimouski. And Larry, who had been away working on his fishing cabin, came back in a great mood and had seen in that triumph — modest though it was, against the team that occupied the league basement, just below us — the sign of a ra
lly. I’d scored a goal and made two assists. But the real hero was my centre, Félix, who’d skated like a wild man. I don’t know if I was so hot as it seemed. It seemed to me that things were going better in spite of my presence, that I was operating on autopilot, but not much more than that. We’d have won and I’d have gotten my three points even if I’d been fast asleep.

  Up high in the bleachers there was a bunch of guys wearing garlands around their necks, Santa Claus reindeer hats and Rudolf red noses. They were laughing and screaming their heads off. No one believed all they had in their soft drink bottles was Sprite. They were smashed out of their minds and they hadn’t come to see their hockey team go down to defeat.

  The first period went pretty well. My second shift, I took a beautiful pass from Samuel. In full flight, I let the puck roll between a Sept-Îles defenceman’s legs and cut around him. The goalie came out to challenge me. I lowered my left shoulder, telegraphing my intention to cut to centre ice. He went for it. I went straight to the net and lifted the puck on my backhand.

  The crowd applauded that goal for a long time. But they suddenly went dead silent, except for the bunch of drunken rowdies high up in the rafters who began squirting everybody with beer. The crowd heaved. People were yelling. And the security guard, poor Mr. Bégin, had his hands full. The referee stopped the game and both teams looked up towards the stands to watch the show.

  The rest of the period we spent stuck in our own zone. Sept-Îles forechecked us relentlessly. Twice I was on the receiving end of wicked hits.

  And the drunks, up high, screamed with pleasure every time I went down.

  “Come on, McKenzie. Get up !”

  During intermission, while Larry was diagramming his plan for the second period, I was in the first-aid room. I needed stitches on my upper lip, which had been jammed against my face-mask and split open when they’d driven me into the boards. I was creamed once again after that. The other team took a roughing penalty, but that didn’t stop my ears from ringing.