Page 12

12

A long marriage is complicated. So complicated, in fact, that most people in one sometimes ask themselves: “Am I still married because I’m in love, or just because I can’t be bothered to let anyone else get to know me this well again?”

Kira knows that her complaining drives Peter mad. That he sometimes feels browbeaten. Sometimes she calls him five times a day simply to check that he’s done something he promised to do.

***

Peter’s office is perfectly organized, the desk so clean you could eat off it. The shelves are lined with LPs that he doesn’t dare take home because he’s worried Kira will force him either to throw them away or buy a bigger house. He orders them online and has them delivered to the rink, effectively turning the receptionist into his dealer. Some people hide the fact that they smoke from their spouse. Peter hides his online shopping.

He buys the records because they calm him down. They remind him of Isak. He’s never told her that.

***

Kira can’t remember exactly how old the children were when the snowstorm hit, but they hadn’t been living in Beartown long enough for her to get used to the forces of nature. It was around Christmas, the children weren’t at school, but there was a crisis at work so Kira had to go off to an important meeting. Peter took Maya and Leo out tobogganing and Kira stood by the car and watched them disappear into the swirling whiteness. It was so beautiful and so ominous at the same time. She felt so bereft once they had vanished from sight that she cried all the way to the office.

***

When Peter got injured in Canada and Kira started work, Peter was left at home alone with Isak. One day the child had a stomachache and wouldn’t stop screaming. Panic-stricken, Peter tried everything. He rocked him and took him out in the stroller and tried all the home remedies he had ever heard of, but nothing worked. Until he put a record on. Perhaps it was something about the old record-player—the crackle in the speakers, the voices filling the room—but Isak fell completely silent. Then he smiled. And then he fell asleep in Peter’s arms. That’s the last time Peter can remember really feeling like a good father. The last time he had been able to tell himself that he actually knew what he was doing. He’s never told Kira that, has never told anyone. But now he buys records in secret because he keeps hoping that feeling might come back, if only for a moment.

***

After her meeting that morning close to Christmas, Kira called Peter. He didn’t answer. The man who otherwise always answers. Then she heard on the radio that the snowstorm had hit the forest and people were being advised to stay indoors. She called a thousand times, left shouted messages for him, no response. She threw herself in the car and drove with her foot to the floor, even though she could barely see a yard in front of the hood. She ran out into the trees where they had left her that morning and started yelling hysterically, then collapsed and dug desperately at the snow with her hands, as if she might find her children there. Her ears and fingertips froze, and afterward she didn’t know how to explain what had happened inside her. Only several years later did she realize that it was a nervous breakdown.

Ten minutes later her phone rang. It was Peter and the children, carefree and untroubled, wondering where she was. “WHERE ARE YOU?” she yelled. “At home,” they replied, their mouths full of ice-cream and cinnamon buns. When Kira asked why, Peter replied uncomprehendingly: “There was a snowstorm, so we came home.” He had forgotten to charge his phone. It was in a drawer in the bedroom.

Kira has never told him, has never told anyone, but she’s never really recovered from that snowstorm. From the feeling she had in the car that she’d lost them too. So now she sometimes calls her husband and children several times a day just to complain to them. To reassure herself that they’re still there.

***

Peter puts a record on, but today it doesn’t help. He can’t stop thinking about Sune. The same thoughts keep going around his head for hours as he stares at a dark computer screen and throws a small rubber ball harder and harder against the wall.

When his phone rings, the interruption is so welcome that he even forgets to be annoyed at his wife for always taking it for granted that he’s going to forget everything he’s promised to do.

“Did you drop the car off at the garage?” she asks, even though she can already hear the answer.

“Yes! Of course I did!” Peter says, with the absolute conviction he only demonstrates when he’s lying.

“How did you get to the office, then?” she asks.

“How do you know I’m at the office?”

“I can hear you bouncing that stupid ball against the wall.” He sighs.

“You ought to work as a lawyer or something, has anyone ever told you that?”

The lawyer laughs.

“I’ll consider it if I can’t go professional with rock-paper-scissors.”

“You’re a cheat.”

“You’re a liar.”

Peter’s voice is shaking when he suddenly whispers:

“I love you so much.”

Kira laughs so he won’t hear her crying when she answers:

“Same here.”

They both hang up. Kira is eating lunch four hours late in front of her computer so she can get her work done and still have time to stop to buy new guitar strings for Maya before she rushes home to take Leo to his evening practice. Peter isn’t eating at all—he doesn’t want to give his body the chance to throw up again.

***

A long marriage is complicated.

***

The juniors’ locker room is quieter than usual. The significance of tomorrow’s game has started to get under their skin. William Lyt, who’s just turned eighteen but has a beard as thick as an otter’s coat and weighs as much as a small car, leans toward Kevin and whispers in a voice that suggests he’s in a prison film and is asking for a knife made out of a toothbrush, “Have you got any chewing tobacco?”

On one occasion last season David happened to mention to Lars that he had read that a single portion of chewing tobacco did more damage to a person’s fitness than a whole case of beer. Since then the juniors have been able to count on being yelled at so hard by both Lars and their parents that their hairline shifts backward if anyone so much as glimpses the telltale signs of wear on the pocket of their jeans from carrying a puck-shaped can of chewing tobacco.

“No,” Kevin replies.

Lyt nods gratefully anyway, then sets off around the locker room in search of some. They play in the first line together, but no matter how much bigger and stronger Lyt is, Kevin has always been the obvious leader. Benji, who could perhaps be described as having certain issues with authority figures, is lying half asleep on the floor, but reaches for a stick and pokes Kevin in the stomach with it.

“What the...?” Kevin snarls.

“Give me some chewing tobacco,” Benji asks.

“Are you deaf? I just said I’ve run out.”

Benji just lies there calmly on the floor looking at Kevin. Poking him in the stomach with the stick until Kevin snatches it from him, reaches for his jacket, and fishes out an almost full can of chewing tobacco.

“When are you going to learn that you can’t lie to me?” Benji smiles.

“When are you going to start buying your own chewing tobacco?” Kevin replies.

“Probably around the same time.”

Lyt returns without any chewing tobacco. He nods cheerily at Kevin.

“Are your parents coming to the game tomorrow? My mom’s bought tickets for pretty much all my relatives!”

Kevin says nothing and starts to wrap tape around his stick. Benji sees this out of the corner of his eye and knows exactly what it means, so he turns to Lyt and grins:

“Sorry to disappoint you, Lyt, but your family comes to your games to see KEVIN play.”

The room bursts into mocking laughter. And Kevin is spared having to say if his parents are coming to the game. Apart from the fact that Benji never has his own tobacco, it would be hard to find a better friend.

***

Amat is sitting in a corner, doing his very best imitation of an empty corner. As the youngest in the locker room, the maggot, he has good reason to be terrified of attracting attention. He keeps his gaze focused high, to avoid eye contact but still have time to react if anyone throws something at him. The walls of the locker room are covered with posters bearing slogans:

“Train hard, win easy.”

“Team before individual.”

“We play for the bear on the front of our jerseys, not the name on the back.”

A recent addition with extralarge print right in the middle says:

“We’re bad losers, because a good loser is someone who’s used to losing!”

Amat’s concentration wanders for a moment, and a little too late he sees Bobo walking across the floor. When the junior back leans his substantial bulk over him, Amat disappears into his shadow and waits for Bobo to hit him, but instead Bobo smiles. Which is much worse.

“You’ll have to excuse the guys here, they haven’t been brought up properly, you know.”

Amat blinks hard, unsure how to respond. Bobo clearly enjoys this, and turns solemnly to the rest of the players, who are now silent and expectant. Bobo points angrily to the pieces of tape littering the floor.

“Look at this mess! Well? Is this how it’s supposed to look? Do you think your mothers work here or something?”

The juniors grin. Bobo marches around demonstratively picking up pieces of tape until they fill his cupped hands. Then he holds them up toward the ceiling like a newborn child and proclaims:

“Guys, you need to remember that Amat’s mother works here.”

He meets the newcomer’s gaze, smiles, and says:

“It’s Amat’s mother who works here, guys.”

The pieces of tape hang in the air for a moment before raining down like small, sharp projectiles over the boy in the corner. Bobo’s warm breath hits his ear as he commands:

“Can you give your mom a call, maggot? It really is very messy in here.”

***

The locker room empties in ten seconds flat when Lars bellows “TIME!!!” Kevin hangs back till last. He passes Amat, who is on his knees gathering together the pieces of tape.

“It’s only teasing,” Kevin tells him, without a trace of sympathy.

“Sure. Only teasing,” Amat repeats quietly.

“You know that girl... Maya... don’t you?” Kevin says quickly on his way out through the door, as if it had only just occurred to him.

Amat looks up. He’s watched every single junior training session this season. Things never just occur to Kevin. Everything he ever does is carefully considered and planned.

“Yes,” Amat mumbles.

“Has she got a boyfriend?”

The answer is slow coming. Kevin taps the end of his stick expectantly on the floor. Amat stares down at his hands for a long time before his head finally and reluctantly moves a few inches from side to side. Kevin nods with satisfaction and walks out toward the ice. Amat stays where he is, chewing the inside of his lower lip and breathing hard through his nose, before tossing the tape in the trash and adjusting his pads. The last thing he sees before he goes through the door are words written in almost faded pencil on crumpled yellowed paper: A great deal is expected of anyone who’s been given a lot.

He joins the juniors at the center circle. In the middle of it is an image of a large, threatening bear. The emblem of the club: strength, size, fear. Amat is the smallest person on the ice; he always has been. Ever since he was eight years old everyone has always told him that he won’t be able to handle the next level, that he isn’t tough enough, strong enough, big enough. But now he looks around him. Tomorrow this team is playing a semifinal game—they’re one of the four best junior teams in the whole country. And he’s here. He looks at Lyt and Bobo, at Lars and David, at Benji and Kevin, and thinks that he’s going to show them he can play. Even if it kills him.

***

There’s hardly anything that can make Peter feel as bad as hockey can. And, absurdly, there’s hardly anything that can make him feel better. He keeps going over and over his situation, until the air in his office seems to run out. When the frustration and nausea start to get unbearable, he gets up and goes out to sit in the stands. He usually thinks better there, so he sits there bouncing his ball up and down on the concrete for so long he doesn’t even notice the junior team start their training session down on the ice.

***

Sune emerges from his office to get some coffee, and on the way back he sees Peter sitting on his own in the stands. Sune knows that the GM is a grown man now, but it’s hard for an old coach to stop thinking of his boys as boys.

Sune has never told Peter he loves him. It can be just as hard for father figures to say that as it is for real fathers. But he knows how afraid Peter is of disappointing everyone. All men have different fears that drive them, and Peter’s biggest one is that he isn’t good enough. Not good enough as a dad, not good enough as a man, and not good enough as GM. He lost his parents and his firstborn child, and every morning he’s terrified that he’s going to lose Kira, Maya, and Leo. He couldn’t bear losing his club as well.

Sune sees him lift his head at last and look out across the juniors on the ice. Absentmindedly to start with—he’s so used to following this team now that he counts them without thinking about it. Sune remains standing in the shadows just so he can see Peter’s face when the penny finally drops.

For ten years Peter has helped shape this group of boys. He knows all their names, knows the names of all their parents. He ticks them off one by one in his mind to see if anyone’s missing, if anyone might be injured, but they all seem to be there. In fact there’s actually one too many. He counts again. Can’t make sense of it. Until he sees Amat. Shortest and slightest of them all, still in equipment that looks a bit too big, just like in his skating classes. Peter just stares. Then he starts to laugh out loud.

He’s been told so many times that the boy ought to stop playing, that he doesn’t stand a chance, and now there he is, down on the ice. No one else has fought harder for this opportunity, and David is giving it to him today of all days. It’s a small dream, nothing less, and Peter could do with a dream today.

Sune nods with both joy and sadness as he sees this. He goes back to his office and closes his door. This evening he’ll hold one of his last training sessions with the A-team, and when the season is over he’ll go home and—deep down—will wish what we all wish whenever we leave something: that it’s going to collapse. That nothing will work without us. That we’re indispensible. But nothing will happen, the rink will remain standing, the club will live on.

***

Amat adjusts his helmet and skates straight at an opponent, is checked and falls, but bounces up again. He gets hit and falls, but bounces up again. Peter leans back, smiling the way Kira says he only smiles when he’s starting to fall asleep after a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and half a glass of red wine. He allows himself fifteen minutes in the stands before he goes back to his office, with his heart feeling much lighter.

***

Fatima is standing in the washroom stretching her back, slowly and carefully, so no one hears her whimpering in pain. Sometimes she quite literally rolls off the sofa bed in the morning because her muscles refuse to let her body sit up. She hides it as well as she can, always lets her son sit by the aisle on the bus so he’s facing away from her when they stand up to get off and can’t see the expression on her face. She discreetly lets the ends of the plastic bags in the trash cans at work hang so she doesn’t have to bend down quite so far to get hold of them when she empties them. Every day she finds new ways to compensate.

She apologizes as she creeps into Peter’s office. If she hadn’t he would never even have heard her. Peter glances up from his papers, checks what time it is, and looks surprised:

“But Fatima, what are you doing here now?”

Horrified, she takes two steps back.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just going to empty the trash and water the plants. I can come back when you’ve gone home!”

Peter rubs his forehead. Laughs.

“Hasn’t anyone told you?”

“Told me what?”

“About Amat.”

Peter realizes far too late that you can’t say something like that to a mother. She immediately assumes that her son has either been in a terrible accident or has been arrested. There’s nothing neutral when you say “Have you heard about your child?” to a parent.

Peter has to take her gently by the shoulders and lead her through the hallway, out into the stands. It takes her thirty seconds to realize what she’s looking at. Then she claps her hands to her face and weeps. A boy training with the junior team, a head shorter than all the others. Her boy.

Her back has never been straighter. She could run a thousand miles.