Interference (19 page)

The man at the glass is staring hard at the California woman on Leah's team. Leah is on the bench with her and she says, “Do you know that guy? He keeps looking at you.”

The California woman swivels her head away from the game and looks across the ice at the man. Time stands still. Leah can feel it actually stop. She can hear the intake of breath from the woman beside her. It's as if there is always a ticking in her head and suddenly it went silent. The woman beside her stiffens.

“You okay?”

“Oh god,” the woman says. She drops down on the bench. “Oh my god.”

Leah doesn't know what to do. Does she go back on the ice or sit with the woman?

“What is it, Dayton? Are you okay?” Trisha/Tasha comes off the ice.

Leah takes her position on the ice. The man behind the glass walks down the hallway, towards the change rooms, and then Leah loses track of him as she concentrates on the game. Dayton stands at the bench, white-faced. Trisha/Tasha stands with her.

Boyfriend trouble, Leah thinks. Good thing Leah doesn't have that.

The game is over. They lost. But they are still boisterous and happy in the change room. Two women open beers. The cans explode all over them. They sip and laugh.

But in the corner near Leah, the California woman, Dayton, sits in her hockey gear and stares at the floor. Trisha/Tasha is beside her. Leah watches them as she undresses. It is as if Dayton can't move a muscle. She sits there, a statue, sweating in her gear, while around her everyone is moving, undressing, talking, laughing. She is completely still. Whoever that man was, Leah knows he's trouble. Will Terry be that? Will Terry be trouble for some woman in the future? Or will he never have a woman? Never have a future.

Leah stands to leave. She lugs her hockey bag behind her, grabs her stick from the corner. And, as she opens the door to go, she hears it. Everyone in the room, every single player on her team, says, “Good game, Leah.” She smiles shyly and heads out into the hallway, her bag scratching up against the walls.

The season is almost over.

They know her name.

As Leah leaves the arena Dayton's handsome and bad boyfriend smiles at her. He opens the door for her. She struggles with her bag to get out, says, “Thanks.” He laughs. He says, “Good game,” in a warm way, his voice low and quiet. And, if it weren't for the reaction she saw from Dayton in the change room just a minute ago, Leah would have told anyone that she would have let this handsome man, this smooth talker, this “he's trouble” man, run his fingers down her cheek and touch her neck. She would have let him kiss her lightly on the lips, move across her jawbone and suck on her earlobe. She would have. He was that handsome. And, after all, strange things do happen every day of the week.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Season Wrapping Up!

Hello Hockey Ladies!

As you are well aware, the season is almost over. It has been a super season despite the robbery, which was never, as you know, solved. All the teams this year played with spirit and fairness. The complaints were down this year by a lot. And goalies — holy crow, goalies! You were amazing. Thank you for calling ahead if you couldn't make your games. Thank you for filling in for each other. Hockey isn't hockey without goalies. Remember those games last year when we had to turn the net around and shoot off the boards? Ridiculous, and definitely not fun.

This is a reminder to hand in your jerseys to your team captain on your last Wednesday night — three weeks from now. We'll wash them for you for next year, no worries about that. Also, our pub night is going to be March 23rd this year. We're doing it after March break for those of you who go away with the kids for the school holiday. Free pizza and beer. How can you resist? I look forward to seeing you all there.

Again, thanks for another great season.

Tina Brady

Parkville Ice Kats

Co-ordinator Extraordinaire

14

Michael isn't sure if he became this way because it was expected of him or if his face makes him this way. If the scar running straight through the middle, from forehead to chin, is the outer representation of his real, true, deep internal self or if it's just a marking on the surface and he is simply this way. His mother tells him it's the way people treat him.

“With a face like that it's expected of you. The world turns on you when you look like this.”

Michael is at the local pool hall after work. A place called Barney's. It's owned by the mayor. The Toyota dealership is also owned by the mayor. As is the Suds'n'Such car wash, where Michael works. Michael doesn't know the mayor personally, but sometimes he feels he does. His mother says the mayor's got his hands in the honey jar. His mother says that's why the mayor's so fat. “Soon he'll own the whole city,” his mother says. “He's swallowing it up.”

When Michael is at work and he gets out from the cars lined up inside the car wash, when he wrings out the cloth he is using to dry the windows, or when he spritzes the dashboard and then hands people their receipt, he knows they will step back. He waits for it. They will cringe. Shiver. Sometimes it's violent. Sometimes imperceptible. He expects it. When people don't react, when they seem to be able to control their emotions, then Michael feels awful. He feels hurt. He can't explain why he feels this way. If anyone other than his mother ever asked him to explain there would be nothing he could say. Michael doesn't like people's reactions, their stares, but he is so used to getting them that when they don't happen it's almost as if he is disappointed.

“Don't be silly,” his mother says. “Buck up. Get some spine. You have one life given to you, Michael. Only one life. Be strong.”

At the pool hall the locals know him. They still react. But they know his face is coming. Or maybe they are too drunk to really care. And it's dark. Michael can sit at the bar in the corner, under the burnt out light bulb and melt into his beer. He can watch without being watched. He can think about it all. About good and evil, about fate and his face and his mother, who is getting old, and his car-washing job and what his life would have been like if he didn't have this face. And the more Michael drinks, the more he ponders. His mother says, “Don't dwell on what you can't change, Michael.” But Michael dwells. He wallows.

People never ask Michael what happened to his face. They'd be more likely to ask him about the embarrassing tattoo of a cross on the back of his neck that he got when he was really drunk and angry years ago. He's not even religious. Michael can't figure out why they don't ask about his face. They look away, turn from him, but no one ever says, “What happened?” Except kids. Sometimes kids will ask but their mothers will pull them away from him before he can answer. Kids can be the most aware, they can sometimes even be sensitive, but they can also be the cruellest. Staring at him. Pointing. Saying, “Eww.” Michael's seen and heard it all.

After he's had a couple beers Michael really wishes people would ask him to tell them the story of his face. Then he would tell them and he would watch their faces for reactions. He would start, “Once upon a time” and finish with “the end,” even though the story is still continuing. And if they didn't believe him he wouldn't care. At least they would know. Michael's mother says that no one ever wants to hear bad news, but Michael isn't sure that's true. Sometimes people are so interested in the bad news they forget the good. He hears it all the time. People talking about crime, wars, illnesses and disease. They become animated and their eyes light up. People can't get enough of bad news.

When he has finished his beers Michael tends to walk through the residential streets and look in the lit-up windows of people's houses. With the beer inside him he doesn't feel bad about this. It's only the next day, sober, when the guilt washes over him. Because peeping in windows is something people would expect someone with a face like Michael's to do. With a face like that, they'd say, of course. And this is what it comes down to. This is why Michael doesn't know if it's his face that makes him do the things he does, or if he does these things because of who he is inside.

What Michael does: he creeps into backyards and looks into windows. He presses his face close against the windows, leaves his breath behind. He moves things, a rake, a watering can, a snow shovel. He steps on flowers or steals the pucks from a backyard hockey rink. He knocks softly on doors and then escapes before anyone can answer. He punctures soccer balls, volleyballs, basketballs. He takes a spring or two from trampolines. He opens shed doors, leaves them vulnerable. And then he walks home through the quiet nights, his hands in his pockets, his soul a guilty flurry of disgust and grief. His mother tries to wait up for him most nights, but falls asleep in her chair listening to the radio. Michael will throw an afghan on her and climb the stairs to his attic room. Exhausted. Spent. Sorry.

But tonight he is sipping Bud Lite by the end of the bar and the bartender is pretending to clean the counter but instead watching the hockey game on the TV over the mirror. This is probably happening in hundreds of bars all over the world. Bartenders wiping. Hockey on the TV. Drunks lined up, pretending to enjoy their beers when really all they want is to get enough beer in them to feel nothing.

“Creak,” says a voice beside Michael. A little man in a mud brown suit sits down on the creaky stool next to Michael. “I can't help but notice you're alone.”

Michael is looking the opposite direction, but now turns his face slightly towards the man. Shrugs. Sips his beer.

“Tap, tap,” the man says, tapping on the counter. “Bartender. Snap. Snap.” The man snaps his fingers. “One beer please. Sigh.” He sits back, his legs dangling off the high stool. “It all depends on how you get their attention,” the man says. “Snapping your fingers works, but some find it offensive. What do you think?”

“Huh?” Michael says.

“Well, look at you. You're awake.” The man laughs. Loud. A guffaw. “Ha ha,” he says.

Michael turns full on and looks at the man. The man is bothering Michael so, Michael reasons, why not bother the little man. His face, all of it, inches from him. The man backs up a bit, leans off his stool. His eyes wide open, he stares at Michael's face. Then he blinks once, twice, three times and turns back to the beer just put in front of him and says, “My goodness. Fresh, cold beer,” as if he hadn't ordered exactly that and was surprised. He sips the beer, the foam on his upper lip.

Michael turns back to his beer. Holds his finger up to order another. Stares down deep into his almost empty glass.

The little man swings his feet back and forth. He whistles a quiet tune. Unexpectedly, he slaps Michael on the upper arm when someone scores in the hockey game.

“My, what a day,” the man says. “Did you have the same kind of day I did? No, you don't need to answer. You look like you had the kind of day I did. Women. Phew.” He dramatically wipes his hand over his brow. “Women.” He pauses. “I think it might be time to wear the brown linen suit I bought at Value Village two summers ago. This one is hot.”

Michael notices that the suit is two sizes too big, but that doesn't matter. Feeling philosophical after his beers, Michael thinks that not everything is about looks or the ability to impress by clothing or appearance. It is merely about comfort, it has always been about comfort. The man hums.

“Not like my boarding house,” the man says, “where the heat stays off most of the winter and seems to pop back on come summer. Pop. Where my temperature is never right. Never comfortable.”

Michael isn't sure if he's interested in this man's day or his clothes or the temperature or if he's had too many beers, or if he's just interested in the fact that someone, after seeing his face straight-on, is talking to him — that he isn't a dark shadow in the bar again tonight — but he feels a slight warmth moving through his body. Annoyed, yes he is. But also a bit touched. He gave the little man his face — dead on — and still the man continues to sit close, knock into him even, laugh, talk. As if Michael's face is nothing special. Just what Michael wants it to be. So Michael clears his throat and asks. He can't help himself. Later on he'll wish he had said nothing, but now, with three beers in him and this strange man, Michael feels sociable: “What about women?”

“Ah,” the man says. “The fairer species. Women. The word moves around my head, almost soothes the sounds of this bar. In my boarding house I have a hot plate, a microwave, a printer and a laptop. I have worked hard for these things. I lock my room when I leave so no one else will come in and steal what I have worked so hard for. I sell the things I make. It's hard work. It's dangerous work. Once a kid bit me. But it's worth it. Women.”

Michael snorts. All women have ever been to him is distant. Not fair. Not mysterious.

“The loveliness of some does outweigh the hurtfulness of others.”

“Are you a poet or something?” Michael asks.

“Well, nice of you to notice. But no, not a poet. Not quite. Not really. More of a . . . hmmmm, a, shall we say, hmmmm, a salesman.” The little man waves his arms in the air as if he's catching an insect out of the sky. “I used to do art. When I was still growing taller and hadn't stopped so short, har har,” he laughs. “Back then my mother and father and brother, they liked my work. They saw my work as worthy of fridge magnets. They saw my work as art.” He pauses. “And then they tried to change me.” He taps loudly on the counter with his right index finger. Stabs the counter.

“You okay, there?” The bartender is paying attention to this little man now. His strange movements when everyone else in the bar is still and sullen. “How are you doing?”

“Nice of you to ask,” the man says. “Just fine. Just fine.” He whispers to Michael, “Manny says that I'm acting strange. I heard Manny say it the other day, to the new guy down the hall in the boarding house. He said, ‘That fucking guy in
2b
, he's fucking weird.' And that meant me. I'm in
2b
.”

The bartender raises his eyebrows and looks at Michael. Then looks away, just as fast, as if he'd forgotten what he would be looking at.

“So you're having trouble selling things to women?” Michael asks. Four beers now. He's emboldened. He's feeling like talking. He doesn't feel this way often. Sometimes the guys at work ask him things. He talks to his mother when he's home. But that's about it. Michael clears his throat.

“It's that particular street,” the man says. “There's something about it. Edgewood.”

Michael leans back. Edgewood. Back in the fall Michael helped some guy rake leaves on Edgewood. He doesn't know what got into him. He was walking past the house and there were so many leaves and the guy looked tired. There were girls out front, beautiful young girls. Michael was feeling good. He was feeling helpful. He wanted to be near this guy and the girls. They reminded him of easier times. When he would help his father do chores. Before the accident. Besides, earlier that week he had been in this guy's backyard and he was still feeling guilty about it. He had moved the girl's basketball across the yard. He had piled up some sticks that had fallen off a tree and put them in a formation that resembled the beginnings of a campfire. He had picked up dog shit with two sticks and placed it atop the fire. Michael was feeling bad about it so he offered his help and the guy took him up on it.

“And there's no wood,” the man says. “There can't be an edge of a wood if there's no wood.”

Becky. That was her name. The guy's daughter. The guy called out to her once or twice, and Michael picked up her name and carried it with him.

“Anyhow,” the man says, wiping the condensation of his beer off the counter with his sleeve, “the street just screams for what I'm selling. All those women, those little girls. They could really use what I am selling.”

“What's that?” Michael asks, but the little man continues on as if he didn't hear. The bartender places two more beers in front of them.

“So I walk up and down all those front walks today. Yesterday. The day before that. I went once before Christmas but that didn't go well. Clomp, clomp, clomp. Back and forth. Sometimes they answer the door. Knock knock. Ding dong. Sometimes they don't. I try to shake their hands. ‘Shake shake,' I say. But most of them will not shake my hand. As if I'm a dog. As if I'm asking to shake a paw. Ha ha. I wear out my good suit walking to and fro. I wear out my good shoes. I'm stiff and sore. It rains on my head. Splish splash. And no one takes me up on anything. No one wants to hear about what I'm trying to sell. In fact, they get mad at me and slam the door in my face.”

“Most people work during the day,” Michael says. “I'm surprised anyone is home.”

“Oh they are. The women. Some of them. They are there, holed up inside their houses. You think this is a fair and equal world? You think feminism changed things? These women are still inside their houses, waiting for their husbands to bring home the money. Ha ha.” The man stretches, his arms in the air, his mouth open. He yawns. “I've had it with this job. I've had it. Just worn to the bone, I am. Worn right out. Exhausted.”

Michael doesn't know what to say to this. His eyes are blurry from too much beer. He can't see straight. He focuses on the TV and occasionally gets a glimpse of a hockey player skating down the ice. Women, he thinks. Hockey on TV. Women. Girls. Home. All the time. This makes sense to him, but also doesn't make sense. When he walks that street during the week it feels deserted, empty. The kids are in school, the women and men at work. Only the dogs are there, behind the curtains, getting into the bathroom garbage, sleeping on the sofas, resting their chins on the windowsills and looking out.