The Penalty Box (27 page)

“No,”
Tuck replied contemptuously.

“Speaking of Snake's chopper,” Katie interjected, “how are you planning to get all Tuck's stuff over to the new place?”

Mina draped an arm over Katie's shoulder. “This is where you come in.”

“I'll bet.”

“I figured we could use your car, sis,” said Mina.
You should have asked,
Katie thought angrily, but held her tongue. She wanted everything to go smoothly for Tuck's sake. If that meant biting back her anger and loading up her car with his stuff, she would do it.

“Where do you live, son?” Katie's mother politely inquired of Snake. Katie loved the fact her mother was calling Snake “son.” Snake was forty if he was a day.

“You know those apartments down by Tully's Basin?” Snake replied. Katie's mother nodded uneasily. “That's where I hang my hat, ma'am.”

Katie's mother smiled brightly, a smile Katie knew was designed to cover rising panic. Everyone in Didsbury knew about the apartments by Tully's Basin; they were notorious for crime, drug busts, and general mayhem. “Oh, how nice,” her mother twittered. “And what did you say you do for a living?”

“I'm a first grade teacher at St. Mary's Catholic School.”

“Well, I—I guess—things really did change in the Church after Vatican II.”

Snake guffawed. “Just fuckin' witcha! I'm not a teacher. I'm a bouncer. At the Tender Trap.”

Katie's mother looked more confused than ever.

“Let it go, Ma,” Katie advised.

“Can I finish packing?” Tuck asked sulkily.

“Sure,” Katie and Mina replied at the same time. Mina shot Katie a dirty look. “Sorry,” Katie mouthed. “We'll be up in a few minutes to get you,” Mina finished.

Looking relieved, Tuck flew up the stairs, crashing the bedroom door closed behind him.

“He's a little upset,” Katie observed.

Mina's face was hard as she rifled in the pocket of her parka for her cigarettes. “Yeah, well, he better get over it, and fast.”

“Hey.” Snake's voice was filled with consternation. “Cut the kid some slack, will ya, Mina? This is a lot of shit for him to process.”

Katie looked upon Snake with newfound admiration. Maybe he wasn't a homicidal maniac after all. “I wrote out all the stuff you need to know about Tuck's schedule,” she said.

Mina waved her hand in the air dismissively as she lit up. “Tuck can tell me himself. I don't need
instructions
.”

“Dear, could you not smoke?” Katie's mother asked.

“I could, but I am.”

“Mina, Mom asked you not to smoke,” Katie snapped. She was sick of Mina terrorizing their mother. It had always been that way, Mina doing and saying what she wanted because their mother was too afraid of what would happen otherwise. It was time for it to stop. “It's
her
house,” Katie continued. “You should do what she asks.”

“Why, so I can be a boring goody goody like you?”

Katie glowered. “Put out the goddamn cigarette, Mina.”

“Girls.” Their mother was wringing her hands.

“Your sister's right,” said Snake, plucking the cigarette from between Mina's lips. “You should show a little respect.”

“Fine,” Mina said brusquely. Katie could see from the flash of pink to her cheeks that Snake had embarrassed her. “Sorry, Ma.” She turned to Katie with a sneer. “Happy?”

“Very.”

“Who wants pie?” Katie's mother squeaked.

Snake's face lit up. “I would love a piece of pie, Mrs. Fisher.”

“We don't have time for pie, Snake!” Mina said. “I have a ton of shit to unpack and I'm sure Tuck does, too.”

“Actually, Tuck has very little to unpack,” Katie said dryly. She turned to Snake, who was disappointed at being denied pie. “Do you know how to hook up a computer?”

“I'm sure I can figure it out, and if I can't, I'll just get you on the horn.”

“Please do. It's his prized possession.” She shot Mina a look:
You sell it, you die.

“We'll work it out,” said Snake. “Hell, the kid himself can probably do it.”

“Thank you,” said Katie.

“No problemo.”

“Enough chitchat, we gotta roll.” Mina zipped her jacket. Katie's mother began to sniffle and excused herself to go into the kitchen. “Shit,” Mina grumbled.

“Give her a break,” Katie replied. She knew she was sounding like a broken record but she couldn't help it. “She's been taking care of him for close to a year! She's allowed to miss him.”

“Amen,” said Snake.

“Thank you,” said Katie. She was beginning to like this guy. “I think we should load Tuck's stuff in my car and then we'll follow you and Snake,” she continued.

Mina looked contrite. “I appreciate it, Katie, really.”

“You should.” Mina could be so goddamn maddening. Combative one minute, genuinely grateful the next. “Mind if I fetch Tuck?”

Mina shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

Katie climbed the steps as though she was ascending to the guillotine. She knew it would hurt when Tuck left; she just hadn't anticipated
how much
. The threat of loss made each step feel as if she were mired in quicksand. If she could drive Tuck to Tully's Basin without breaking down completely it would be a miracle.

“Tuck?” Katie knocked softly at the door, receiving no answer. She knocked again, louder this time. “Tuck?” Still no reply. She leaned her forehead wearily against the door.
It's going to be okay, buddy, I swear.
She knocked again. This time, when she got no answer, she plunged inside, fully expecting to find Tuck stretched out on his bed, feigning deafness in that way only children can. Instead she was met by a cold blast of air from the open window across the room, curtains flapping violently in the winter wind.

Tuck was gone.

Paul's heart sank
as the doorbell rang. It had to be a fan. When he'd first returned to Didsbury, he'd assumed anyone wanting to meet him would simply come to the bar. He'd assumed wrong; fans regularly showed up on his doorstep, a phenomena he found incredibly unnerving. In Manhattan, at least there had been a doorman in the lobby of his building. Here, any nutcase could just show up. Thank God he'd had brains enough to get an unlisted phone number.

He hit the mute button on the remote; he didn't want whoever was on the other side of the door to hear the TV. He glanced at the screen, at the image of Michael Dante handing him the Stanley Cup, and just for a moment, the room seemed to brighten. He had taken to watching footage of old Blades games, especially the one that had earned them their most recent Cup. That had been the greatest night of his life; he'd scored two goals, including the game winner. He'd never skated better.

The doorbell rang again. Paul groaned, ignoring it, concentrating instead on the images on the screen. Every time he watched it, he relived those heady feelings of triumph, the exhilaration of knowing your team was the best in the whole goddamn world. He'd felt immortal. Invincible. If an angel had sidled up to him that night and whispered in his ear that in less than a year and a half, his career would be dead, he would have laughed his head off.

The bell rang again.
Goddammit.
Paul put the DVD on hold, freezing an image of himself holding the Stanley Cup aloft on the screen before storming over to the front door. Clearly this person wasn't going to take no for answer. He knew he looked like crap—he had bed head, stubble grizzled his face and chin, and the sweats he was wearing had seen better days—but he didn't care. That's what they got for ambushing him in his lair on a Saturday morning.

“Coming!” he barked as the impatient SOB on the other side of the door rang the bell
again
. Michael Dante had recently told him a story of someone showing up at his Brooklyn brownstone claiming to be the Angel of Death. “You're a little early,” Michael had said. “Could you come back in, say, fifty years?” He closed the door in the guy's face and that was that. The lesson being: Always try to keep your cool.

Paul unbolted the locks and swung the door open, expecting to confront a starry-eyed Blades fan laden with paraphernalia for him to sign. Instead he found Tuck Fisher.

“Tuck?” His first thought:
Something's happened to Katie.
“Everything okay?”

“No.” The boy was on the verge of tears. “Can I come in?”

Paul only hesitated a beat. The kid was upset. No way could he turn him away. “Come on in.” He ushered Tuck inside. “Have a seat.”

Tuck made a beeline for the couch, folding his hands between his knees as he sat down. “I'm sorry,” he said tearfully. “I didn't know where else to go.”

“It's okay,” Paul assured him, growing more alarmed. Whatever was happening, it wasn't good. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure,” Tuck said uncertainly.

“Let me go see what I have. Sit tight.”

Paul went into the kitchen, scouring his refrigerator for something a kid might like. Red Bull was out, and so was the Guinness. “You like Gatorade?” he called out to the living room.

“Sure.”

“You got it.” He grabbed the plastic bottle from the fridge and brought it out to the boy. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Tuck twisted the bottle open and gulped, wiping the excess on the back of his sleeve. His eyes were drawn to the TV. “Whatcha watching?”

Paul felt embarrassed by the image of himself frozen on the screen. “Old games.”

Tuck twisted toward him. “You got knocked in the head a lot, right?”

Paul grimaced. “Right.”

“So you had to quit?”

“Yup.” Paul took a seat on the other end of the couch. “So, what's up?”

“I ran away,” Tuck admitted quietly.

Great.
“How come?”

Tuck's eyes strayed back to the screen. Paul could tell he was straining not to cry. He remembered what it was like to be that age, caught between pure, unself-conscious childhood and adolescence; wanting to be perceived as mature, yet still wanting to cry and be comforted when you were hurt.

“It's okay,” Paul coaxed. “Whatever you tell me stays right here in this room.”

Tuck's eyes clouded with suspicion. “You swear?”

“I swear,” Paul scoffed, feigning indignation. “I'm your coach, right? I'm not gonna let you down.”

“I guess,” Tuck muttered.

“So, what's going on? Why did you run away?”

Tuck picked at a hole in his jeans. “Because I don't want to live with my mom. She got out of rehab today and came to pick me up and I don't wanna go. I wanna keep living with Nana and Aunt Katie.”

“Gotcha.” How much should Paul let on he knew? He knew all about the situation from Katie. But he didn't want to tip his hand by saying or doing anything that would let Tuck know they'd talked about him. “How come you don't want to live with your mom?”

The hole in Tuck's jeans became bigger. “She's kinda messed up.”

“But she's been in rehab, right?” Paul tried. “Maybe she's better now.”

Tuck frowned. “Doubt it.”

“People deserve second chances, don't they?”

Tuck said nothing, concentrating on the growing tear in his pants.

“I'm sure she loves you and she's been working hard to get her sh—act together.”

Tuck jerked his head up, grinning. “You were gonna say ‘shit.' ”

“Yeah, I was. Let's get back to your mother. Doesn't she deserve another shot?”

“She showed up with some guy named Snake!” Tuck said indignantly. “And we're gonna live with him down in
Tully's Basin
!”

“What's wrong with that?” Paul asked, even though he knew the answer.

“I won't even be able to catch the bus from there!”

“I'm sure you will.”

“My mom doesn't have a job!”

“She'll get one.” Tuck's expression was so cynical it took Paul aback. “I'm looking for a new waitress,” he heard himself say, which was true. Izzy couldn't keep orders straight; he'd had to let her go. “Does she have any waitressing experience?”

“I think so,” Tuck said eagerly.

“Tell her to stop by the bar and talk to me, okay?”

Paul was glad to be able to help, though his motives weren't exactly pure: If he helped Mina out, maybe he'd score some brownie points with Katie. Maybe she'd come to see him as a compassionate, loser bar owner instead of just a plain loser bar owner. He'd take what he could get.

“This is a nice house,” said Tuck, glancing around. “Kinda boring, though.”

“I'm still putting it together. Don't try to change the subject. We're talking about your mom.”

The momentarily lightness in Tuck's face drained away, replaced by a look of mulish determination. “I still don't wanna live with her.”

Paul sighed, scratching the stubble on his left cheek. “I'm not sure you have a choice, pal.”

Tuck turned shy. “Can I live here?” he asked in a small voice.

“Tuck.”

“Are you my dad?” Tuck blurted.

The desperation in his eyes was like a stake puncturing Paul's heart. He made sure his voice was firm but gentle. “I'm not your father.”

Tuck deflated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because my mom has screwed lots of guys—”