know. Congratulations to you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I put my hand to my mouth, tried to cover a smile.
‘Naw, you should be proud, Isabel. This is a big deal, you know? Norse’d be proud as shizz, I’ll tell ya that. Yep.’ He bobbed his head and took his feet off the chair. Eyes darting nervously around the room, he made a jokey Vanna White gesture at the chair. ‘Take a load off for a sec, eh? We should celebrate or something.’ He cleared his throat, embarrassed.
I hesitated. The prospect of returning to my Rez room at night after practice, after team workouts, had begun to cause small pebbles of dread to roll around in my stomach. Gavin had been playing Rammstein the night before, their German shouts jerking guttural anger through the wall. The night before that had been the Goo Goo Dolls. It was less the music itself, more the unpredictability of Gavin’s taste, that unsettled me, a musical identity crisis enveloping me every night. And there was a Pizza Hut just down the street from our building, so there was always someone eating pizza. There was never no one eating pizza. The ghosts of pizzas past, present and future roamed the hallways. They got in under my door. The unshakable cologne of melted cheese in the fibres of my clothes.
I walked into Ed’s office, sat in the chair across from him. He examined my face with the same surprised look he had when we first met.
‘You want a pop?’ he said, going over to the fridge. He leaned over it, a fist on the fanny pack belt on his hip. ‘I got Coke here. I got Sprite. Grape Crush. Beer.’ He turned, eyebrows raised, and put a finger to his lip. ‘Not that I drink and drive the beast ever.’ A nervous laugh.
‘I’ll have a Grape Crush,’ I said.
‘Excellent choice.’ Ed opened the can for me and handed it over. Then he picked up an empty Coke can sitting beside the fridge and poured a Molson Canadian into it.
‘To celebrate,’ he said and we touched cans. The Grape Crush on my tongue tasted of swimming lessons at Clementine Beach when I was a kid, of Buck counting out quarters at the canteen. Ed settled down into his chair like he was getting ready for a class to start. He took a sip, cleared his throat.
‘So, Norse and me billeted together at the Ferrys,’ he began. ‘Old couple, real nice. Didn’t know what they were getting themselves into, I guess. Didn’t know Junior hockey players were all shizz disturbers as a rule, you know. Just a nice little couple wanting to do their part for the team. First night there, Norse and me didn’t get home till five in the morning. Old Mrs. Ferry waiting up for us in this heartbreaking nightgown all worried. Norse didn’t even make it inside. We get to the door, it’s like his knees just buckle. Had a little nap on the front step. That’s what he called it – having a little nap. I sent her a card a few years ago, feeling all bad thinking about the way we acted, the two of us, and them just trying to be nice. But it came back to me. Guess they’re probably gone by now too.
‘Anyway, you live with a guy, you share the same room, you play hockey together, you get to know him pretty well. We were like Siamese frickin’ twins,’ Ed snorted.
As though I was interviewing him. He didn’t stop until he’d covered the first month of his relationship with Kristjan. The two of them dating sisters. Rookie Night and Kristjan so drunk he passed out in his underwear and a scuba mask in a bathtub at somebody’s friend’s brother’s party.
As far as I can tell, a hockey player dies young in a small town and his death grants him a different sort of fame. Even people who hadnever spoken a word to Kristjan seemed to feel they knew him intimately. To know him was to know the grief that had covered the town like a rough, wool blanket. They felt compelled to tell me about him, as though I were some walking, talking memorial wearing a sandwich board that said,
Please deposit testimony here.
Ed’s
‘Thanks,’ I said. I put my hand to my mouth, tried to cover a smile.
‘Naw, you should be proud, Isabel. This is a big deal, you know? Norse’d be proud as shizz, I’ll tell ya that. Yep.’ He bobbed his head and took his feet off the chair. Eyes darting nervously around the room, he made a jokey Vanna White gesture at the chair. ‘Take a load off for a sec, eh? We should celebrate or something.’ He cleared his throat, embarrassed.
I hesitated. The prospect of returning to my Rez room at night after practice, after team workouts, had begun to cause small pebbles of dread to roll around in my stomach. Gavin had been playing Rammstein the night before, their German shouts jerking guttural anger through the wall. The night before that had been the Goo Goo Dolls. It was less the music itself, more the unpredictability of Gavin’s taste, that unsettled me, a musical identity crisis enveloping me every night. And there was a Pizza Hut just down the street from our building, so there was always someone eating pizza. There was never no one eating pizza. The ghosts of pizzas past, present and future roamed the hallways. They got in under my door. The unshakable cologne of melted cheese in the fibres of my clothes.
I walked into Ed’s office, sat in the chair across from him. He examined my face with the same surprised look he had when we first met.
‘You want a pop?’ he said, going over to the fridge. He leaned over it, a fist on the fanny pack belt on his hip. ‘I got Coke here. I got Sprite. Grape Crush. Beer.’ He turned, eyebrows raised, and put a finger to his lip. ‘Not that I drink and drive the beast ever.’ A nervous laugh.
‘I’ll have a Grape Crush,’ I said.
‘Excellent choice.’ Ed opened the can for me and handed it over. Then he picked up an empty Coke can sitting beside the fridge and poured a Molson Canadian into it.
‘To celebrate,’ he said and we touched cans. The Grape Crush on my tongue tasted of swimming lessons at Clementine Beach when I was a kid, of Buck counting out quarters at the canteen. Ed settled down into his chair like he was getting ready for a class to start. He took a sip, cleared his throat.
‘So, Norse and me billeted together at the Ferrys,’ he began. ‘Old couple, real nice. Didn’t know what they were getting themselves into, I guess. Didn’t know Junior hockey players were all shizz disturbers as a rule, you know. Just a nice little couple wanting to do their part for the team. First night there, Norse and me didn’t get home till five in the morning. Old Mrs. Ferry waiting up for us in this heartbreaking nightgown all worried. Norse didn’t even make it inside. We get to the door, it’s like his knees just buckle. Had a little nap on the front step. That’s what he called it – having a little nap. I sent her a card a few years ago, feeling all bad thinking about the way we acted, the two of us, and them just trying to be nice. But it came back to me. Guess they’re probably gone by now too.
‘Anyway, you live with a guy, you share the same room, you play hockey together, you get to know him pretty well. We were like Siamese frickin’ twins,’ Ed snorted.
As though I was interviewing him. He didn’t stop until he’d covered the first month of his relationship with Kristjan. The two of them dating sisters. Rookie Night and Kristjan so drunk he passed out in his underwear and a scuba mask in a bathtub at somebody’s friend’s brother’s party.
As far as I can tell, a hockey player dies young in a small town and his death grants him a different sort of fame. Even people who hadnever spoken a word to Kristjan seemed to feel they knew him intimately. To know him was to know the grief that had covered the town like a rough, wool blanket. They felt compelled to tell me about him, as though I were some walking, talking memorial wearing a sandwich board that said,
Please deposit testimony here.
Ed’s
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