The Hanging Tree (32 page)

“Thanks.”

“I’m in more of a sharing mood than you, so I’ll let you know: while you were gone, Channel Eight’s reporter stopped by my office. She seemed very interested.”

“Playing hardball, huh, Dingus?”

“Aw, that’s nothing. Go play your game. Then sleep on it. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, say, five or so, I’ll be calling Sheriff Brice.”

“Who?”

“Wayne County sheriff Sam Brice. He might be interested in running some tests on your truck, see if you’ve been hauling large amounts of gasoline.”

“Come on.”

As Dingus turned for his cruiser, he called over his shoulder, “Go out there and smoke ’em tonight.”

“What the fuck, Trap?”

It was Soupy. He was dressed and ready to go, his skates tied, his two sticks freshly taped, his red Chowder Head jersey pulled on, his old taped-together helmet resting next to him where he sat on the bench against the wall, the last man remaining in dressing room 3.

One of Soupy’s countless superstitions prevented him from going out onto the ice until I had sat down next to him. I’d thought he might let that one die when I stopped playing goaltender, but he did not.

“Sorry,” I said. I sat and unzipped my bag.

“Where the fuck were you?”

“Had to make a quick trip downstate.”

“Uh-huh. You heard the news?”

I was pulling gear out of the bag—shin guards, elbow pads, cup, gloves, helmet, pants. All of it stunk of mildew and sweat.

“You mean the coroner?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Heard. Sorry, man.”

“Sorry for what? It wasn’t my fault.”

“I know. I mean—”

“You think she offed herself because of me?”

“No, I do not think that.”

Soupy plopped his helmet on his head and braced his elbows on his knees. I stripped off my shirt and pants and started pulling on my long cottons, still damp from Sunday night. Soupy remained silent, staring at the floor. I heard a whistle shrilling on the ice. The door to the dressing room swung open and a grizzled guy wearing the black-and-white stripes of a referee ducked his head in.

“Tonight, fellas,” he said.

Soupy didn’t even look up.

“You can start without me,” I said. I elbowed Soupy. “Go on.”

“You got a funnel?” the ref said. He meant a goalie.

Soupy turned to him. “Yeah. Be right out.”

The ref glanced over at me for some reason. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t you dare drop that puck yet, Jack.”

The door shut. Soupy looked down at the floor again.

“What’s wrong, Soup?” I said.

He sighed. “Ah, fuck, man.”

“What?”

“We’ve got to talk. But not now. Later maybe.” He reached down and grabbed my right arm. “Over there, man.” I looked across the room and saw a set of goalie equipment stacked on the bench facing me. I had seen it on my way in but paid it no mind. I realized that Soupy wanted me to put it on.

“No,” I said. “Are you crazy? I’m not playing goal.”

“I left you like sixty fucking messages.”

“My cell phone was dead. Where’s E.B.?”

Ernie Block had been our goaltender since I had retired. Soupy loved it that his name was Block. Like most goalies, E.B. had some games where he could stop anyone short of Gretzky on a breakaway and others where he couldn’t keep a beach ball from going between his legs. On the bad nights, he did a lot of yelling at his teammates, which was fine because it gave us fodder to make fun of him with at the bar afterward.

“E.B.’s in jail.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He was playing a pickup game in Gaylord and—brace yourself now—he got to screaming at one of his D. The guy turned around and popped him pretty good. E.B. goes down but then he comes up with his stick and shoves it halfway up the guy’s ass. Turns out the guy is a cop.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. So E.B.’s spending the night. I went up and got his gear.”

I imagined E.B. using his sole phone call to let Soupy know he wouldn’t be playing tonight. He was probably sick about it. Not only was it hard to win without a goalie, the fun of the game was ruined for both teams.

But I didn’t really care.

“Well, I’m not playing goal, man. I haven’t played in a year. I don’t have my goalie skates. I’d get killed out there.”

“Don’t pussy out on us now, Trap. We can beat these assholes. I don’t give a shit if they’ve got Meat.”

“Oh, great. Meat’s out there. And what’s his specialty aside from beating guys senseless? Steamrolling goalies.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I’m not playing.”

Soupy stood, his sticks gripped in his right glove. He popped in a mouthguard and snapped his chin strap.

“Fuck it, then, Trap. Don’t even bother getting suited up.”

“Fuck you. I’m playing. Wing.”

“We don’t need you on the wing. We got plenty of benders who can cough up the puck.” He pushed the door open. “We need you in between the pipes. Don’t bother coming over to the bar later either. We don’t serve pussies in Enright’s.”

Later, I thought. He had me. And he knew it.

“Wait,” I said.

Soupy let the door close. I looked over at the goalie stuff. I looked at Soupy. “What is it you need to talk to me about?”

“Nothing, man.”

“Don’t fuck with me.”

He grinned, the bastard. “Any more than I already am?”

“Goddammit. You will talk to me.”

“Later. Yeah.”

I got up and went over to E.B.’s goalie stuff. I picked up one of the leg pads. A hairy wad of cotton padding was spilling out through a tear along the stitched-on Cooper patch.

“Jesus,” I said. “Did he get these for his sixth birthday?”

“It ain’t about that, Trap,” Soupy said. “It’s about you.” He started out the door, then stopped and turned back to me. “And hey—better keep your head up, pal. Meat looks extra pissed-off tonight.”

I dressed in the silent room surrounded by emptied hockey bags and blue jeans hung on hooks. I stood and snatched up my goalie stick—E.B.’s goalie stick—and clumped out to the rink. Nothing felt right.

E.B.’s pants were too baggy. His cup was too tight. His shoulder and arm pads smelled like spoiled gravy. Worst of all, his goalie skates, with the protective hard-shell plastic along the sides, were at least two sizes too small. I couldn’t get into them. So I had to use my own regular skates, which had none of that extra padding. One hard shot off an instep and I’d be in the hospital.

The rink opened before me, two circles of guys skating counterclockwise at either end of the ice, flipping pucks from stick to stick, snapping them into the mesh at the backs of the nets. I pulled the mask down over my face. It was too tight; I jiggled it until my cheeks weren’t pinching my eyelids. I skated across the ice to the front of my net and began to slide sideways back and forth between the goalposts to scuff up the ice in my crease and pile snow at each post to bog down passes coming from the corners. Soupy and Wilf and Zilchy and Danny Lefebvre and my other teammates whacked me on my leg pads with their sticks as they glided past.
Good game, Trap. Fuck ’em, Gus.
I felt the old butterflies flutter.

I slapped the blade of my stick off one goalpost, swung it back off the other, did it again and again, counting to eleven, the ritual complete. The two referees skated to center ice. I took a quick look around the rink. Down at the other end, there was Jason Esper, a tree trunk on skates, his long crossover strides propelling him around the back of his net and up the boards. Past him through the glass I saw the crisscrossed police tape that obscured the Zamboni shed. In the bleachers, a dozen people in parkas and lap blankets sat in clumps of twos and threes, cradling foam cups of coffee.

My eyes fell on a woman sitting alone at the top of the stands behind the other team’s bench. She was talking into a cell phone, her head tucked into the collar of her navy pea jacket. It was the first time in more than a day that I had seen Darlene out of her deputy’s uniform. And the first time I had seen her at one of my hockey games in I couldn’t remember how long. I wanted her to look my way, but she kept talking into her phone.

One of the refs blew a short blast on his whistle. The Chowder Heads of Enright’s Pub and the Mighty Minnows of Jordan Bait and Tackle broke their huddles at their respective benches. I banged my gloves together in front of me and got into my ready squat, my shoulders square, my stick hard against the ice, my catching glove out to my left and open. What the hell is Darlene doing here? I thought. Why is she sitting way down there? All
but one of the other skaters hunched over their sticks in face-off position. Jason Esper remained upright. He was still glaring at me when the ref dropped the puck.

Clem Linke of the Minnows won the face-off. He chipped the puck back to his twin brother Jake, who deked around Wilf and flipped the puck end over end into our zone, halfway between my left post and the corner. My heart thumped as I slid out of my crease and caught the puck on my stick blade. Soupy was coming fast with Jason on his heels.

“Leave it,” Soupy yelled.

I yanked my blade back, leaving the puck for Soupy, and started to pedal sideways and backward into my crease. But my skates were too sharp; wingers use sharper blades than goalies, who are constantly moving side to side. My right blade jammed. I lunged forward to keep myself from toppling over backward but overcompensated and fell forward.

“Fuck!” Soupy yelled as he tripped over my left leg and went flying, the puck dribbling away. Jason stopped hard. Shards of ice sprayed the left side of my face. I saw Jason’s stick blade collect the puck and flip it to his backhand. I got up on one leg and flailed with my catching glove. Way too late. The puck bounced through my crease and onto the stick of Jake Linke, who smacked it into the back of the net. The refs’ whistles shrieked. “Fuck yeah,” Jason yelled. He spun to skate backward as he whipped past Soupy sprawled behind the net. “Easiest hundred I’ll ever make,” he shouted.

“Fuck off, Meat,” Soupy yelled back.

I got to my feet. “You bet him?” I said.

“Fuck him,” Soupy said. He got to one knee and looked through the eyeholes of my mask. “I bet on you, Trap. Get your fucking game together.”

“What?” I said. “I didn’t want to play fucking net.”

“Do your job,” Soupy said, skating away.

Five minutes later, Frank D’Alessio slapped a sloppy pass out of the air, crossed into our zone, and let fly at me with a wobbly slap shot, shoulder high, not unlike the one Taylor Haskell had struggled with the night before. I saw it all the way but the wobbles fooled me a little. I mishandled it with my catching glove and fumbled it back out in front of the net.

Slinky Jake Linke slid his stick between Soupy’s backpedaling legs and whacked the bouncing puck to my left, where Jason was waiting. Stevie Reneau had his stick hooked on the cuff of one of Jason’s gloves but Jason brushed it off and with one hand snapped a shot over my shoulder as I flopped to stop it. The puck whanged off the left post and trickled into my crease. “Shit,” Jason yelled. “Post.” I dove to my left to smother the puck but it squirted back out to Jason, who fired again, catching me so hard on the wide part of my stick that I dropped the thing.

Now I was lying on my back in the crease with no idea where the puck was. I felt my stick beneath my left leg pad and reached under to grab it but it was upside down so I had it by the fat blade instead of the knob, almost useless. Then Stevie fell backward across my legs, pinning me to the ice. I craned my neck to the left and saw the puck lying loose about six feet away, Soupy diving for it, and Jake Linke’s stick about to flip it over me and into the net. I couldn’t move my lower body, so I just shoved the thin upper shaft of my stick into the air and hoped for the best. The puck hit the two-inch-wide shaft just above the Sher-Wood label and dropped onto my chest. I covered it with both gloves as the referees blew the play dead.

“You lucky fuck.” It was Jason. Out of the corner of my left eye I saw him bearing down on me with his stick leveled across his chest. I twisted my body around and tucked my head. Jason came to a hard stop an inch from my head and jabbed the side of my mask with his stick. Soupy came crashing over me into Jason, spitting, “Get the fuck out of here,” while Wilf slammed into Jason from behind. I looked up to see Jason grab Wilf by the front of his jersey and toss him aside like a rag doll. Other players came flying and tumbling into the scrum, piling up on top of me, cursing, grunting, threatening to beat the living shit out of one another, forgetting for the moment that in fact most of them would be laughing and drinking together later at Enright’s.

The refs pulled us apart. I stood up and flipped the puck to one of them. Jason stood behind one of the refs, regarding me.

“You got shit in your ears?” he said.

“Did you like that save, Meat?”

“You didn’t fucking hear me yesterday, did you?” He looked down at my feet. “Ah,” he said. “Nice skates. Might want to test those out.”

“Do what you’ve got to do.”

*   *   *

He didn’t get his chance until the second period.

By then we were down 3–1. I’d let in another softie—a Clem Linke wrist shot that fooled me under my stick-hand glove—and the Minnows got another on a nifty tic-tac-toe passing play that I didn’t have a prayer of stopping. We were having trouble getting much offense going. If we stayed within two, though, we had a decent shot at coming back. I had to keep us in the game.

Now Jason caught a pass just inside our blue line, driving toward me. My defenseman on that side took the middle, giving Jason a long angle from the wing to my left. I pushed out a foot from my crease and crouched lower, forgetting my vulnerable feet, expecting a puck at my neck. Jason had room to shoot from outside the face-off circle but took another loping stride down the boards, hoping to turn me, the rusty goalie, sideways.

He wound up high. The puck exploded off his stick blade barely an inch off the ice. Before I could turn my pad the puck smacked the inside of my right skate just behind the toe. I felt something crack inside my foot as my knee buckled and I collapsed to the ice, screaming, “Goddammit” for the pain while searching for the puck. I felt it bounce once against my left hamstring and I squeezed my legs together, hoping to trap it there before it dribbled into the net. Jason’s knee caught me hard in the side of the head as he crashed the crease. I toppled over.