takes off and skates circles along the boards, undeterred by the drifts, plowing through them. For such a stiff child she is graceful on ice, gliding steadily and rhythmically, turning with her left foot leading. Over, over, clack-clack-clack, three steps per turn, always the same. If she changes direction, she stumbles. Shelly can skate only one way, counter-clockwise, against the stream, but tonight there are only two other skaters so no one cares.
Kathy bought new hockey skates with her first paycheque from the store, boysâ Bauers made right here in Varnum. Theyâre a bit stiff still, but even so they feel like home. She moves to centre ice and skates backwards, imitates Bobby Orrâs swishing hip movement, the technique he uses to block skaters, ramming them to stop a play, flinging them into the boards. Around the curve, foot behind foot, knees deeply bent, gliding back up the ice again. Her favourite sound, the slish of steel on ice.
Kathy used to try to get in on the shinny games guys played in the late evenings on school rinks. Fluid fast hockey, passes, a nod to a new player to let him know his team. Sheâd arrive early, warm up, wait for play to begin. But it was as if she were invisible. Few pucks were passed her way, play always shifting away from where she was on the ice to the other end or the other side of the rink. It wasnât aggressive, although she could have handled that; she was ready for action, for the odd check. Sheâd practised skating into the boards late at night, bouncing away while still stickhandling the puck. But no one checked her, no one told her to get off the ice. She could skate up and down, follow the play, once in a while tip a missed puck toward a nearby player, but for the most part, nothing. They sidelined her. She stopped going.
Sheâd never stop skating though. Nights when she was alone on the ice, sheâd take a bag of pucks and stickhandle them, shoot them into the boards, skate to meet them, back into the boards, playing herself. Pick up a new puck, the nearest puck, when she missed one. Skate until she was sweating, steaming, adrenalin coursing, the thrill of it deep inside her body. Night, cold, stars, pretty moon â she didnât notice. There was only the thwack of her stick on a puck, the responding rumble from the boards.
Practising like Bobby, practising his flick of the wrist, almost invisible it was so casual. Backing away from an oncoming player, taking the puck to the side, up along the boards. Skating into another player, a deke to centre. Putting the puck in the net and starting over until her thighs ached.
Shelly bumps into Kathy. She grabs her jacket at the back and Kathy pulls her along, gently, slowly, a favourite game. Kathy turns and wraps her arms around her sister and they twirl together, the dervish twirl Connie taught Kathy when she was a little girl. Shellyâs legs swing out and bob through the air and she screams her piercing almost-happiness into the night.
Kathy screams too, canât help it. It feels so good to be skating. She holds Shelly tight and twirls until she can hardly stand up, then she slows, lowers herself, Shelly still in her arms, until Shellyâs skates touch the ice. They plunk down together, Shelly sitting quietly between Kathyâs legs. When their dizziness passes, they slip cold feet into colder boots and clump home, almost touching but not quite.
Kathyâs car is a 1966 Valiant, slant six 225, four-door, monkey-shit brown automatic with just over 90,000 miles on it. A simple car renowned for reliability. A gas jockey anywhere could fix it with a bobby pin and some chewing gum. All the parts are straightforward, cheap and easy to get. Nothing fancy, but always ready to go. Thatâs what Al told Kathy. Ever since Charlie died, Al has done his best to be the man around the house, for the most part outside it, shovelling snow, fixing broken eavestroughs, selling Kathy a car,
Kathy bought new hockey skates with her first paycheque from the store, boysâ Bauers made right here in Varnum. Theyâre a bit stiff still, but even so they feel like home. She moves to centre ice and skates backwards, imitates Bobby Orrâs swishing hip movement, the technique he uses to block skaters, ramming them to stop a play, flinging them into the boards. Around the curve, foot behind foot, knees deeply bent, gliding back up the ice again. Her favourite sound, the slish of steel on ice.
Kathy used to try to get in on the shinny games guys played in the late evenings on school rinks. Fluid fast hockey, passes, a nod to a new player to let him know his team. Sheâd arrive early, warm up, wait for play to begin. But it was as if she were invisible. Few pucks were passed her way, play always shifting away from where she was on the ice to the other end or the other side of the rink. It wasnât aggressive, although she could have handled that; she was ready for action, for the odd check. Sheâd practised skating into the boards late at night, bouncing away while still stickhandling the puck. But no one checked her, no one told her to get off the ice. She could skate up and down, follow the play, once in a while tip a missed puck toward a nearby player, but for the most part, nothing. They sidelined her. She stopped going.
Sheâd never stop skating though. Nights when she was alone on the ice, sheâd take a bag of pucks and stickhandle them, shoot them into the boards, skate to meet them, back into the boards, playing herself. Pick up a new puck, the nearest puck, when she missed one. Skate until she was sweating, steaming, adrenalin coursing, the thrill of it deep inside her body. Night, cold, stars, pretty moon â she didnât notice. There was only the thwack of her stick on a puck, the responding rumble from the boards.
Practising like Bobby, practising his flick of the wrist, almost invisible it was so casual. Backing away from an oncoming player, taking the puck to the side, up along the boards. Skating into another player, a deke to centre. Putting the puck in the net and starting over until her thighs ached.
Shelly bumps into Kathy. She grabs her jacket at the back and Kathy pulls her along, gently, slowly, a favourite game. Kathy turns and wraps her arms around her sister and they twirl together, the dervish twirl Connie taught Kathy when she was a little girl. Shellyâs legs swing out and bob through the air and she screams her piercing almost-happiness into the night.
Kathy screams too, canât help it. It feels so good to be skating. She holds Shelly tight and twirls until she can hardly stand up, then she slows, lowers herself, Shelly still in her arms, until Shellyâs skates touch the ice. They plunk down together, Shelly sitting quietly between Kathyâs legs. When their dizziness passes, they slip cold feet into colder boots and clump home, almost touching but not quite.
Kathyâs car is a 1966 Valiant, slant six 225, four-door, monkey-shit brown automatic with just over 90,000 miles on it. A simple car renowned for reliability. A gas jockey anywhere could fix it with a bobby pin and some chewing gum. All the parts are straightforward, cheap and easy to get. Nothing fancy, but always ready to go. Thatâs what Al told Kathy. Ever since Charlie died, Al has done his best to be the man around the house, for the most part outside it, shovelling snow, fixing broken eavestroughs, selling Kathy a car,
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