Read Summer Light: A Novel Online
Authors: Luanne Rice
Summer Light: A Novel (31 page)
“But the thing about colts,” Martin went on, holding her just as tight, leading her around the ice so smoothly she hardly noticed they had passed Mommy again, passed Mrs. Vance, Jimmy, Ellen, and all the others, “is that they learn fast. Once their legs get the feel of the land, they start to run and they can’t stop. Just like walking, Kylie. Move your feet first, and your legs will follow. That’s my girl.”
Swallowing, Kylie concentrated on her legs. Move one, then the other. This leg, that leg. Martin slowed down, and all of a sudden, Kylie realized he wasn’t holding her up. Supporting her, yes, but her legs were moving on their own. Back and forth in short steps.
“Don’t scrub,” he said. “Glide. That’s it—long motions. Look ahead, not at your feet.”
“Perfect,” Mommy said. “Oh, I’m so proud!”
Kylie tried to smile, but she had to concentrate on not falling down. Was Mommy really as happy as she seemed, almost like her old self, smiling and bright?
“I’m skating, Daddy.”
“That’s right. You are.”
“I’m skating!” Kylie said again.
“Ballet on ice.”
Now, for the first time, Kylie heard the music. Had it been playing the whole time? It was beautiful, sweet ballet music. Kylie could almost see the ballerinas dancing, telling stories on their skates. She could see fairytale castles, princes and princesses, evil sorcerers. The characters were dancing all around, but Kylie, Mommy, and Martin were the only people on the ice.
Now Martin let go of her waist, and Kylie gasped with fear. But she just kept skating. He had hold of her hand, and she didn’t fall down. Kylie was the foal who had found its legs, and she almost wanted to run. But instead Martin swung around backward, taking her other hand.
“Look in my eyes, yes?” he said. “That’s it, that’s great. We’re giving your friends a little show, eh?”
“I won’t fall if I keep looking at you?” she asked, not even blinking.
“You won’t fall,” he promised.
“You’re skating backward.”
“You’ll do that someday.”
“I like this,” she said, loving this moment, imagining herself skating backward in her sparkling skirt, in front of the whole Ice Capades.
“Oh, I like it too,” he said.
“Am I doing it right?”
“Better than Michelle Kwan.”
As if they were dancing together, with him skating backward and Kylie holding his hands, skating right along with him, they went around the rink, Martin twirling her in slow circles while the music played, everyone in the entire rink watching the father and daughter as they danced across the ice.
Kylie felt so happy she could almost forget that her parents had ever been apart, that Martin had been gone for so long, that she had cried herself to sleep every night. She could almost forget her dreams, of Natalie begging her to help, of not knowing how.
Then Martin signaled to someone in a rink uniform, and he allowed all the other kids to pour onto the ice. Kylie felt so proud. Mommy joined in, taking her hand. Martin had hold of the other. The children and some parents surrounded them in a pack, just so they could say they’d skated with Martin Cartier, but Kylie knew:
He was theirs alone—hers and her mother’s and Natalie’s. They were a family, and Martin was the father, and they were all back together exactly where they belonged.
Chapter 18
O
NE HOUR BEFORE GAME
1 of the Stanley Cup finals—a virtual rematch against Edmonton—Martin Cartier sat in the locker room having his ankles taped. He knew May and Kylie were already in the stands. Music played, the team was pumped, Martin could feel the presence of Jorgensen right here, in the stadium.
Martin felt electric, as if this was his moment. He and May were back together. He was ready to crush Jorgensen, win the game, the series, and the Stanley Cup, and he was thinking he’d do it all for her when suddenly the window of his vision went completely black.
One minute the lights were blaring, his teammates were walking around, Coach Dafoe was standing there with one foot propped up on the bench, and the next instant everything disappeared into the dark. Martin heard their voices, but he couldn’t see anything.
“Okay now, Martin,” Coach was saying. “We’re gonna feed you the puck. That’s all you need to know. Just be waiting for the puck, and do what you do best. Last year you took us all the way. You can do it again, Martin. On defense, naturally—”
“Don’t worry about defense, Coach,” Ray said now. “Martin and I will take care of business there.”
“Yes,” Martin said, and it was as if the word “yes” flipped a switch in his brain: the lights came back on. His vision cleared, and everyone was still there—Coach, Ray, the trainer, his teammates—doing what they’d been doing before. “Defense will not be a problem.”
“You’re a married man now,” Coach Dafoe went on. “The news shook me up last year, I have to admit. I thought, we lost because Martin was distracted. But what do I know? Who am I to say what’s good, what’s bad?”
“You can say it’s good,” Martin told him.
“Well, you’ve had a powerhouse year.”
“So you can say it’s good,” Martin repeated. He was shaken by the blackness that had just descended on him. But it was easier to forget it, because his vision had cleared.
“It’s good,” Coach Dafoe said. “We’re in the finals, aren’t we?”
“Glad to have you notice,” Martin said.
“Where’s she been lately? These last games? I haven’t seen her.”
“She’s here tonight,” Ray said sharply. “Right on the ice with Genny and the kids.”
Martin closed his eyes. He thought back to his first year in Boston. Not long after Natalie’s death, his play had fallen far below his own and the team’s expectations. Batteries can’t make the lights work if the connections are corroded, and Martin was burned out, just going through the motions. Meeting May had changed all that—even during their time apart, she had totally driven his play.
“We’re going to win,” Coach said, shaking his hand.
“Give me Jorgensen,” Martin roared. “That’s all I ask.”
“On a silver platter.” Pete Bourque laughed.
Martin dropped his head. He’d suddenly had double vision. It was slight, as if each object within his line of sight had a shadow. A coach-shaped shadow, a Ray-shaped shadow. Martin shook his head, and the shadows disappeared. Everything looked normal.
“You okay?” Ray asked.
“Fine,” Martin said, wishing Ray would say something about the lights flickering, anything to keep the thing that was happening in his brain and eyes at bay, but he could tell by Ray’s demeanor that the locker room lights had stayed steady.
“What’s wrong?” Ray asked, narrowing his eyes. Martin gazed at him. Ray was swarthy for a Canadian. His skin was dark, his hair darker. His eyebrows were thick and menacing, and when he concentrated on something, he always looked as if he was planning where to stick the knife. Yet whenever Martin looked at his face, he saw the boy he’d grown up skating with.
“You ever consider shaving your eyebrows?” Martin asked. “You’re pretty scary looking.”
“Works to my advantage on the ice.”
“No one’s looking at your face out there, my friend.”
“No, they’re too busy trying to outguess my fantastic stick work. I have to work double hard to make you look good.”
“Save yourself the bother.” Martin grinned, clapping Ray on the shoulder. “That I can do myself.”
“Well, we’ll see,” Ray told him. “I have May to answer to now.”
“She gave me this for you.” Martin handed Ray a small leather pouch of rose petals. Martin watched Ray tuck it into his waistband, and Martin did the same with his own pouch. Other players passed by, and without speaking, Martin handed out the talismans May had made for every Bruin playing that night. He must have shaken his head again, because Ray leaned closer.
“Got a headache?”
“No,” Martin said. “Just a pain in the butt. Now leave me alone, and let’s win the Stanley Cup.
D’accord?
”
“
D’accord
,” Ray said, as they punched each other in the shoulder.
“What’s that?” Coach Dafoe asked, passing by and seeing the small leather bag in Ray’s hand.
“It’s a good luck charm,” Ray told him.
“One of your wife’s?” Coach glared at Martin.
“Yeah.” Martin flexed his biceps. Dressed for the game, every muscle in his body showed, and if Dafoe was going to challenge him, Martin would rise to the occasion.
“Rose petals,” Coach said derisively. “That’s what the papers say. Rose petals from her wedding farm. Is that what’s in there? You’ve got a little leather bag full of rose petals?”
“May made them,” Martin said.
“She made them for the team,” Ray added. “Solidarity, Coach.”
“Where’s mine?” Coach Dafoe demanded.
Martin’s head was pounding, but he grinned. Reaching into his duffel bag, he pulled out another talisman. “Didn’t think you’d want one.”
“Solidarity,” Coach said sternly, tucking the pouch into his breast pocket as he walked away.
With massive excitement and trepidation, the Boston Bruins entered the Stanley Cup finals against the Edmonton Oilers ready to take back last year’s seventh-game loss. May and Genny sat with the children in their box, concentrating on every move as if they were coaches instead of wives.
After a scoreless first period in the first game, May could hardly sit still. Having weathered the terrible time apart, she felt more connected to Martin than ever. She could feel Martin’s frustration, every time Jorgensen blocked one of his shots.
“The old rivalry’s alive and well.” Genny watched Jorgensen make an obscene gesture as Martin missed another shot.
“They hate each other,” May said. “Look at their eyes!” It was terrifying to see Martin attack the goal, his eyes electric and gleaming as he menaced his enemy.
“I’ll say,” Genny agreed, cheering as Martin skated by.
“Score, baby, score!” May yelled.
The crowd screamed for a goal, and Martin obliged with a blistering shot, but Jorgensen blocked it with a bulletlike dive. The fans booed, and Martin swore.
“Does Martin seem okay to you?” May asked.
“He’s nervous,” Genny told her. “So’s Ray. It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve been here. They’ll say they’re fine, ready to play, but they get butterflies every time.”
“I wonder if he’s getting the flu.” May watched her husband wipe the sweat off his face with the back of his glove.
“He’s got Game One nerves,” Genny said. “That’s all.”
May nodded, trying to settle down. Martin got the puck again, and as he shot for the goal, the officials called him offside. The puck slammed into Jorgensen’s right cheek, and he fell to the ice, blood pouring down his cheek. Jorgensen leaped up, flying across the ice at Martin. They rolled in a ball on the ice, fists flying and skates flashing.
May jumped up, wanting to run to Martin. The men were fighting right in front of her box, and she could hear the grunts and punches, see Martin’s face twisted in rage, feel the energy pouring off him. Finally the refs pulled them apart, and Martin was as bloody as Jorgensen: he had a gash over his left eye, a new chip in his front tooth, and a split lower lip and chin.
“Oh, Martin,” May cried.
Genny put her arms around May, trying to comfort her. Together they watched the two men being led off the ice. They would spend time in the penalty boxes, see their team doctors. The fans were on their feet, booing and throwing peanuts and popcorn, calling “an eye for an eye.”
“What do they mean?”
“Four years ago, Jorgensen nearly put Martin’s eye out,” Genny reminded her. “They’re saying his shot was justified.”
“Martin wouldn’t do it on purpose,” May said, remembering that Serge had told her the same story.
“No, of course he wouldn’t. And besides, Jorgensen’s all right—see? This was just a fight that needed to happen,” Genny said soothingly. “Now Martin’s got it out of his system, and he can play hockey.”
May clenched her fists. She felt the violence in her own body, as if she had taken blows herself. Martin sat in the penalty box, his head down in frustration, as the doctor tried to pry his chin up. May stared at him, but he wouldn’t look at her.
The Oilers scored twice while Martin was out, and they won Game 1 by a score of 2–0.
The Oilers took Games 2 and 3, and then it was on to Edmonton. Martin refused to discuss the fight with Jorgensen, a point which proved moot, since there were many more fights with Jorgensen—and others—to follow. It was as if the violence belonged to him, that he didn’t want to drag May into it.
Before the start of Game 4, May found Martin lying on the hotel bed with a pillow over his eyes. She sat beside him and took his hand. She was trying to remember her promise to be patient, but that was proving to be a challenge.
“Leave me alone, May,” he said, pulling his hand away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Kylie called. She said good luck.”
Martin grunted.
May stared down at him. Only his chin and neck were visible beneath the pillow. She gazed at the stitches in his lip and chin, the bruise on the side of his neck. His body was as tense as a board, but when she’d tried to touch him last night, he had flinched away. He seemed to have a constant headache; she had watched him gobble aspirin like candy, and sometime around midnight he had made himself an ice pack for his eyes.
“Martin?”
He didn’t reply right away. But then he snatched the pillow from his head, sitting bolt upright. “I’m not sure you should be here.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s too hard on you. You don’t like to see me fighting, you’re afraid I’m getting hurt, you know I want to rip Jorgensen’s face off.”
“Strange, but true,” May said.
“That’s hockey, May. It’s why I didn’t want you along last year. The finals are different from regular season. Very different.”
“You think I can’t handle it?” she asked. “Well, guess what? I can.”
“Doesn’t seem it,” he grumbled.
“It’s just that I’m worried about the way you keep squinting. Do you have a headache?”
“What’s with everyone asking me if I have a headache?” he exploded. “You, Ray, Coach. Lay off me, May.”
She thought of her meeting with Serge, how he had worried about problems with Martin’s head, asked her whether he favored his right side. Last week’s postcard had inquired what had happened to the backhand shot Martin used to fool rival goalies.