The Book of Stanley by Todd Babiak

his performance on this road swing, but Kal was not interested in rebuttals. As Dale Loont spoke, Kal sat in his jeans and T-shirt, repeating the lines of Rilke to himself.
    â€œDo we understand each other?” said Dale Loont, at the end of their frank discussion.
    â€œAbsolutely,” said Kal.
    Candace and Layla waited in the lobby of Prospera Place, near the bulletin board. When she spotted Kal, Layla ran to him. His daughter’s hair, as he hugged and kissed her, smelled of orange peel. She wore a black skirt and pink tights with black boots and an authentic-looking white fur jacket.
    A rich girl.
    â€œI’m sorry you didn’t win, Daddy.”
    â€œWe didn’t deserve to win.”
    â€œYou know I figure skate now?”
    Kal took Layla’s hand and they walked to the bulletin board where Candace stood, with that knowing look about her. In their last seven or eight phone conversations, Layla had mentioned the figure skating thing. “I didn’t know that. I think it’s plain terrific and I’m real proud.”
    Since Candace and Layla had moved away, Kal had come to understand that he was slowly becoming another one of his daughter’s relatives, another old man to charm. For nowhe was Daddy, but he knew that Layla referred to Elias Shymanski the same way. In time, Kal would only lose more and more of his daughter, particle by particle, until they became shy and strange around each other. Like all spurned fathers, he occasionally considered sneaking into Layla’s bedroom one night and spiriting her away to Guatemala City. But this was selfish thinking. Kal had nothing and, therefore, nothing to share. He wished, briefly, that he could drop to his knees and tell Layla about the lines of Rilke, and that she would understand and sympathize.
    It hurt Kal to see that Candace was obviously happy, more comfortable, and more hopeful without him. It hurt to remind himself that she was a noble beauty. Her fur jacket was most definitely authentic, as were the designer jeans and high-heeled boots.
    â€œGood game.”
    â€œOh, it was not.”
    â€œDon’t mess with Kelowna.”
    Kal shook his head. “Never again.”
    Together they walked out of the arena and into the parking lot. It was a warm late-spring evening, with the scent of lilac in the breeze. Music played from one of only four trucks that remained on the lot, a pickup with a few men gathered around the open tailgate.
    â€œCan Daddy come over?”
    â€œI already told you, Layla. No.”
    Kal smiled. Elias Shymanski, the Ford-Mercury dealer who had stolen Candace from him two years previous, was under the impression that Kal was an explosively violent and vindictive man, keen to shiv him with an edged weapon. This was not so distant from the truth. A cordial dinner at a newish hotel restaurant was not in their future. “I’d behave myself.”
    Candace turned to Kal and faked a cough. A warning. If he said anything further, she would restrict phone calls and visits to punish him.
    The truck with the open tailgate was seven parking spots from Candace’s Expedition. There was a red cooler on the tailgate, and an aggressive hybrid of rock and rap music thumped and sawed from the cab. The young men spotted Kal’s hoodie, with the Saskatoon Soldiers logo on it, commented loudly, cackled, and walked over with their beers in hand.
    This was rare. Not that grown men would openly harass each other, but that he was alone. Players were encouraged to enter and leave arenas en masse, to prevent broken noses and bad publicity. In high school, or even a day ago, Kal would not have allowed the drunk men to approach un-challenged. It was always best to pummel the leader quickly and savagely to frighten the others. But the way Kal saw it, he had to change, and here was an opportunity.
    â€œThe pride of Saskatchewan,” said the smallest of the three men, who had large ears and a tiny face that