Summer Light: A Novel (32 page)

“So you don’t have a headache?” she asked calmly.

“No.” He exhaled loudly. “I don’t.”

“Good,” she said.

“It’s just the pressure.” He bent his head so she could rub the back of his neck. She kneaded out some knots, feeling the tension in his neck and shoulders. “We have to win, May. I have to win. I’ve never wanted anything this much. And we’re behind, three to nothing.”

“You’ve come back from three-nothing before,” she said. “Haven’t you?”

He shrugged. “Yes, but it felt different than this…”

“But what?” May asked. “Did it ever feel easy? Did you ever think you could do it?”

He just kept staring at the ground, his eyes focused on the beige hotel room rug. But he was listening. May could tell by the tilt of his head, the fact he wasn’t walking away from the sound of her voice. This is progress, she thought. They weren’t running away from each other.

“Sometimes you have to be pushed up against the wall before you can find the door,” May said.

“The door?”

“The way out,” May said. “The door to…”

“Victory,” Martin said, pulling her beside him.

In more ways than one,
May thought but didn’t say, embracing her husband and thinking of the card that had arrived that morning: “He’s facing monsters inside him, and he needs to win.”

Jorgensen, his past, his fears, his need to run away. Martin’s father knew him so much better than he could ever imagine.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“Fine. Twenty questions over?” he asked.

“No, here’s one more.” She slid her arms around his neck. “Do you love me?”

“
Bien sûr
, I do,” he said, giving her a reluctant grin as he pulled her body against his. Smoothing back her hair, he kissed her on the lips. “But don’t ask me again.”

That night Boston blitzed Edmonton 3–0, with a hat trick by Martin Cartier. The following night was a repeat, 3–0, with another hat trick by Martin Cartier. The fans in Edmonton went berserk, and the question on everyone’s lips was what had gotten into Martin? He was like a tiger on the loose, taking every shot that came his way, scoring every move he made. When Boston won the third game, tying the series score 3–3, the Bruins left Edmonton on a supercharged high.

The next game would tell the story. Papers ran stories about the great Serge Cartier, how history would compare father and son. Stories flowed about Serge’s gambling and Martin’s temper, about how love had changed Martin, how Boston had paid huge money for a hockey star, and they wanted their money’s worth with a Stanley Cup victory.

The reputation of Nils Jorgensen as one of hockey’s great goaltenders of all time was firmly established. Martin Cartier was already in the record books for most points by a right wing, most assists by a right wing; he had captured nearly every trophy known to hockey. But of the two rivals, only one had won the Stanley Cup.

Martin was going to change that tonight if he died doing it. Feeling his muscles tighten, he thought of everyone in his life worth winning for: May, Kylie, the spirits of his mother and Natalie, his Bruin teammates, his best friend Ray.

Deep down, in a place inside himself he didn’t like to visit or acknowledge, he thought of one other person he would like to win for: his father. His wife had touched a place inside his heart, and now it was wide open.

Unable to tell May his thoughts, he pictured the man’s face, thin and young, untouched by the ravages of living, victory, and wrongdoing. Serge had had a gentle, kind face, and Martin could see it now, calling out for him to skate faster, keep a sense of his opponents, aim the puck at the cage as if he were shooting an arrow.

“I’m going to win tonight,” Martin whispered to his father. “I’m going to take the Stanley Cup.”

Serge Cartier couldn’t speak back, but that didn’t matter: Martin’s eyes were closed, and he could hear his father’s voice. Not the gravelly, rough voice of the gambling man his father had become, but the voice full of hope, love, and a particularly rural type of innocence. Martin had loved his father’s voice at one time, and it gave him strength now.

“You can do it, son,” that voice said. It was a voice of Canada, mountains, black ice, Lac Vert. It was his father’s voice, but it came from deep within Martin’s mind. That didn’t matter, Martin knew. Tonight he was going to win.

“Got money on the game?”

“Cartier sucked the first three games.”

“Hope you’re bettin’ on Edmonton, because they’re gonna kill Boston tonight.”

“Serge, man—two years in a row, Martin’s gonna tank the last game.”

“Game Seven, make or break…”

“Leave the old man alone,” said Tino. “Just let him watch the game, okay?”

Serge sat still, tuning everyone out. The TV was on and working—that was all he cared about. He stared at the screen without blinking. Noise, chatter, cell doors clanging, nothing mattered. Only the game, only the camera panning across the crowd.

There, in the wives’ box, was little Genevieve LeMay. Genny Gardner, now. Her kids were beside her, Charlotte and Mark, practically grown up. But Serge’s eyes focused on the other two—May and Kylie Cartier. He felt tender and protective, and he wished he could keep the other inmates from seeing their faces.

“Hot mamas,” Buford said.

“Shut up,” Serge said.

“Real hot. Play hockey, you get girls like that?”

“That your granddaughter?”

“Nah, Serge don’t have no granddaughter.”

“Pretty girls, though.”

Not even the nasty talk could distract Serge from watching the screen. He didn’t have one word to say right now. Not in defense of himself, or of Martin, or to set anyone straight on the story of Natalie. That was no one’s business here.

No words mattered now, except the ones Serge had inside.

Play, son,
he thought.
Relax. Breathe. Aim true.

The scoreboard flashed scenes from Martin’s career. Now came a picture of Martin and Ray, age seven, after winning their first hockey tournament in Canada. There was Serge at Martin’s side, helping him to hold up the enormous trophy, too heavy for the boy’s small arms.

“Play, son,” Serge thought, but he must have spoken out loud, because half the inmates were laughing.

Play son, play son, they said, mimicking him.

Serge didn’t care. He glared above their heads, focused only on the TV screen. The words kept running through his head, and now he made sure they didn’t leak out his mouth:
Play son, you can do it, you’ve got it won already, the Cup is yours….

And then,
Thank you, May.

The face-off was played, the whistle sounded, the puck was dropped; Game 7 was under way. The capacity crowd at Boston’s Fleet Center were shouting, stamping their feet. Police officers surrounded the rink, their backs to the ice as they scanned the crowd. There had been death threats called in for both Martin Cartier and Nils Jorgensen, and the authorities weren’t taking any chances.

Two minutes into the first period, Martin assisted on a goal by Ray Gardner. Then Ray returned the favor, and Martin scored the next shot. As the puck zipped past Jorgensen, Martin raised both arms over his head and the crowd went wild.

Skating past May and Kylie, Martin saw them on their feet and waving. He grinned, tapping the protective glass as he went by. Kylie lunged toward him, trying to brush his fingers. But now it was time to play again. A pack of Oilers surrounded Martin, drawing his ire, and he got a two-minute penalty for slashing.

Taking advantage of the situation, Edmonton scored a fast goal against Boston; at the end of the first period, the Bruins were winning 2–1.

Martin’s heart was pounding like the wings of a trapped fly. He could hear the crowd, and he felt the memories building. Last year at this time, the Bruins had a shot at victory. Martin had had every chance; he’d scored like a champ, then choked at the end. Having May and Kylie here made all the difference. Skating past their box, he could hear their voices above all others in the stadium.

“Go, Martin!”

“Go, Daddy, go!”

At the second-period face-off, Ray won the draw and hit Martin streaking down the ice just as he crossed the blue line. Martin took his moment, shot, and scored. Coming around the goal, a shadow clouded his vision again: Every single player on the ice had a shimmering double right behind him.

“
Merde
,” Martin said, ducking his head and covering his eyes. His hesitation gave Edmonton their chance as their center got the puck and skated down to the slot. Ray attempted to slow him down by hooking his stick across the center’s arms, but the center made the goal anyway and Ray went to the penalty box.

A buzz went through the stadium, and Martin heard it. He could imagine everyone asking what Cartier was doing with his head down, and Coach Dafoe didn’t waste any time calling him off the ice.

“What’s wrong?” Coach asked when Martin came over.

“Nothing. Just a rush.”

“What kind of rush? Over here, Doc.”

The loudspeaker was blaring, announcing the fact that Edmonton had just tied the score, 3–3. The crowd was booing, throwing things onto the ice. Police in riot gear surrounded the players’ box. Martin blinked, trying to clear his eyes. The doctor attempted to examine them with a small light, but Martin couldn’t sit still long enough.

“Put me back in, Coach,” he demanded.

“Not if you’re dizzy.”

“Dizzy, bullshit,” Martin said. “It’s gone, eh? All year you’ve been telling me ‘wait till the finals.’ Well, it’s the finals, and this is our last game. Put me in.”

The third period was under way, and time was running out. Martin skated back and forth, up and down the ice, trying for every shot he could. Nils Jorgensen blocked him every time. The shadows had disappeared, so Martin couldn’t blame his eyes. He was up against a fierce goaltender, and Martin had the feeling they were fighting to the death. Both men bore scars the other had inflicted, inside and out.

The drama began to build. The clock was ticking down, and every time Edmonton got the puck an eerie chill went down Martin’s spine. But then Ray stole the puck and carried it down to the offensive zone, keeping it there while Edmonton tried every trick they had to steal it away.

Now time was running out. The Edmonton fans were chanting: “CARTIER CURSE, CARTIER CURSE…” The game was headed for overtime, and once again Martin thought of last year.
What’s different now,
he asked himself?
What do I have this year that can help me? I’m another year older and more tired. But this year I have May. We’re making it through, we’re together, she loves me.
He felt his wedding ring under his glove, and he thought of the rose petals in his waistband.

May and Kylie were on their feet, cheering at the top of their lungs. Martin skated close, and he saw love in their eyes. It choked him up in a way he couldn’t explain, and suddenly he couldn’t hear the rest of the crowd. The time was ticking down, but for Martin, it suddenly stood still.

Ray fed Martin the puck, and the drive began.

The crowd rose as one and screamed louder. Their cheers shook the stadium, but Martin barely heard. He thought of his mother and father, his wife and two little girls. Thoughts so simple yet charged with fire. The energy shot through him, and he started to run, not glide from the left wing. A chorus of yells surrounded the rink, rising in a long crescendo of “GO, GO, GOOOO!”

It started the instant he hit the slot, the cloud of darkness overtaking his vision. Martin cocked his elbow and lost the puck. Someone had stolen it from him, an opponent he hadn’t seen coming who took it straight down the ice.

He hadn’t seen! The buzzer sounded. By the score of 4–3, the Cartier Curse had prevailed and the Edmonton Oilers had again won the Stanley Cup.

Serge filled out another postcard and addressed it to his daughter-in-law: “He played his best,” Serge wrote. “So did you. Don’t let him stay down.” He knew how bad the loss had to be.

She had written back after the last card. She had enclosed pictures of herself, Kylie, and Martin. Serge wished she had said something about telling Martin about their meeting, but he accepted the disappointment. If Martin wanted to come, he knew where to find him.

“Hey, Serge.” Tino was walking toward him in the prison yard. He pronounced the name the French way: Sairge. It was a sunny day, and the boy squinted into the light.

“Hello, Tino,” Serge said, squinting back.

“Your kid lost the hockey game.”

“He won more than he lost,” Serge told him. “He took his team to the Stanley Cup finals.”

“Yeah, whatever it is,” he said. “I don’t know much about hockey. But I saw him playing.”

“You know the World Series?”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Know the Super Bowl?”

“Football, yeah.”

“Well, the Stanley Cup is the World Series and Super Bowl of hockey. It’s the top of the mountain, as high as it gets. And Martin took his team to the finals.”

“Yeah? Wow. That’s cool.”

“I passed it on to Martin,” Serge said. “Playing hockey. I just hope he’s okay tonight. Not being too hard on himself.”

The boy nodded. He seemed glad to be talking to Serge while the old man was in a quiet mood; he had a pack of cigarettes visible through his shirt pocket, but he hadn’t reached for one.

“You’ve got kids,” Serge went on, “I see them in the visitors’ room.”

“Maybe some day Ricky’ll be a big-league pitcher,” the young man said. “I’m good myself. I can strike out six guys in a row, no problem. Just like you passing on the hockey to your son, I’ll do the same with baseball for Ricky.”

Serge thought of Martin. He remembered endless drills, frigid nights on the lake when Agnes would have supper waiting while the moon rose high over the mountain and illuminated the ice with sharp white light. Martin and Ray had fired pucks at Serge in the pine-bough goal, and Serge had taught them how to aim true and straight. Then Serge’s contract had taken him away, and his drills with Martin were over.

“I’ll give him everything I know,” the young man was saying. “My fastball, my slider, my best El Duque—” He wound up, pitching an imaginary fastball straight at the guard.

Serge felt the regret starting to flood in, the memories of being a young father and deserting his wife and son, the glory of the road, the hotels and women, the thrill of winning season after winning season. Lucky streaks, quick bets, good cards, bad cards: a tumultuous life leading to this moment in the sunny yard of the prison. He should be there for Martin, telling him he had played a good series, that he would win the Cup next year.

Listening to this young convict dreaming of being a better father, making a difference in his son’s life, made Serge hate himself so much, he stepped away.

“Quit that,” Serge snapped.

“I’m striking the guy out.” Tino retracted his bare arm, holding the invisible baseball against his chest. “So I can pass my pitching on to Ricky.”

“You can’t pass it on when you’re in here,” Serge said harshly, picturing Tino’s little boy.

“Hey.” The young man looked hurt.

“You’re kidding yourself, you think it’s any different.”

“I can play—”

“You’re in prison,” Serge said.

The kid shook his head, sneering. He started to walk away, but Serge grabbed his arm.

“You take drugs, you steal cars—that’s what you’re passing on to your son.”

“Shut up—”

“Maybe you’ve got the genes to play baseball, but your actions say something different. Otherwise you wouldn’t be locked in here with murderers and thieves. With me.”

“Yeah, with you,” Tino said.

“I’m as bad as the rest of them.” Overhead, the sky was so blue. Serge could see just a square of it: a window made of prison walls and razor wire, looking up at the blue sky. “I’m in here, aren’t I?”

“It ain’t forever,” the kid said.

“It might be to your son,” Serge said. “Who else is gonna pitch him balls out there?”

“Shut up,” the kid said again, turning to leave.

Serge scowled. He shouldn’t have gotten into the conversation in the first place. Talking never did any good in here. It took his pride and threw it back into his face. Better to think about Martin’s pain in silence. Words brought ugly truths to light and made good memories a joke. Serge thought of fathers and sons, mysteries as deep and troubled as a northern sea.

“Dignity, kid,” Serge called. “That’s what you want to pass on. Forget the fastball. Dignity and living a good life. Get the hell out of here.”

But Tino had already walked away.

 

 

Chapter 19

H
EADING NORTH TO LAC VERT
, May recognized landmarks—the road signs, the old abandoned Texaco station, the small suspension bridge, the distant hills. They made the same rest stops as last year, stocking up on juice and treats for the ride. At the Canadian border, when the guard greeted Martin, this time he had a big hello for May and Kylie as well.

May took Martin’s hand while he drove; he had withdrawn into himself after Game 7, and he hadn’t come out. Driving, he seemed distracted. He ran a red light on the way to the highway. A squirrel ran in front of the car, and he hit it without even swerving, as if he hadn’t even seen it.

“Are you tired?” May asked. “Do you want me to drive?”

“I’m fine.”

“That squirrel—”

“It came out of nowhere.” Martin checked the rearview mirror to make sure Kylie was asleep and hadn’t seen. “I didn’t see it till it was too late.”

“You didn’t see it at all,” May said.

Martin didn’t answer. He just pulled his hand away, to keep both hands on the wheel, and focused on the road.

Last year, everything was brand-new. She hadn’t known what to expect, what was going to happen. But now she could picture the small house nestled into the mountainside, the glittering lake, the starry nights. The Gardners would be waiting just up the shore. This summer May had the sense of returning home. But instead of feeling excited, she felt a growing sense of unease.

They spent the first few days sleeping, playing, and eating: a true vacation. Martin took Kylie rowing up the lake, and May lay out in the gazebo reading and writing. They all went swimming, and at night they sat in lawn chairs telling stories about the stars.

After midnight on their third night there, Kylie sleepwalked into their room. May and Martin had been making love, and suddenly they looked up to see Kylie standing beside their bed. While Martin pulled the sheet over himself, May leaned toward Kylie.

“Honey?” she asked.

“In the stars.” Kylie pointed at the window.

“What do you see?” May asked.

“The Blind Man,” Kylie said, her gaze directed at the stars. “He can’t see.”

“Is she awake?” Martin whispered.

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m supposed to tell him…” Kylie was blank-faced.

“Tell him what?” May asked.

“Where to look,” Kylie said. Then, turning, she walked back to her room. Climbing silently out of bed, May followed to make sure Kylie was safe. Once assured she was fast asleep, May hurried back to record the incident in the blue diary.

“What was that all about?” Martin asked.

“I’m not sure.” May said, trying to remember every detail.

“You’re still keeping that notebook?”

“Yes,” May said, laying down her pen.

“What good does it do?”

May stared at him. She thought about Dr. Whitpen’s theory, that Kylie’s dreams were connected to Martin’s own story, but she kept it to herself. “It helps the doctors understand what’s going on,” May said.

“What was that bit about the Blind Man, eh?” Martin asked. “There’s no constellation like that.”

“I know,” May said, gazing out their window at the stars.

Charlotte called to ask Kylie to sleep over the next night, and after thinking it over, May decided to let her go. She and Martin needed some time alone. Together they talked about their time apart, his Stanley Cup loss, what they hoped the summer might bring.

“What are you doing up?” Martin asked, when he found her awake the next morning. They had tried to make up for what they’d been through during the spring, and the late afternoon and night before had been filled with touching, swimming, and amazing tenderness. Now he reached across the bed to grab her leg as she walked over to open the curtains.

“It’s nine-thirty,” she said. “Do you know the last time I slept this late? It was—”

But Martin had a good grip, and he pulled her right back onto the bed, rolling on top of her as she tumbled down. “Nine-thirty’s nothing,” he told her. “We have a chance to be alone and you’re not getting up till noon.”

“But it’s beautiful out.” She pointed at the window where sunlight blazed through the crack between the curtains. “We should—”

“Should nothing,” he said, smoothing back her hair and kissing her hard.

“I’ll never be able to sleep till noon,” she whispered, feeling his hands on her shoulders, moving down the front of her body.

“Who said anything about sleep?” Martin asked, kissing her neck.

They made love, then Martin brought her coffee in bed, then May opened the curtains, then Martin closed them. When he returned to bed, May noticed him squinting and covering his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m not ready for daylight yet,” he said, lunging toward her. “Get back under those covers, woman.”

May wanted to ask him more, but she found herself lost in passion. Martin was intensely physical. He was rough with his upper body and gentle with his hands, and May let herself surrender to sensations she had never even imagined. Once he kissed her hard, then whispered into her ear, “Is that good? Do you like it like that?” and May was shocked to hear words. She had so totally forgotten herself, lost track of where she ended and Martin began, that she had felt her voice and thoughts and feelings merging straight into his.

“It’s incredible,” she whispered.

“Tell me,” he said.

“With my body, not my voice.”

The light had brightened, even through the closed curtains, as the sun traversed the sky, and May walked across the room to pull down the shades and make the room darker.

“I thought you wanted sun,” he teased.

“I don’t want to see or hear,” she said, shivering with excitement. “I just want to feel you.”

“You’re wild,” he said.

“Only with you.” She lay down beside him. Their separation had cleared the air, and now she felt closer to him than ever before. Kissing her lips, he placed his hand over her eyes. Unable to see, she felt his breath on her cheek, his arms surrounding her body—the sensations of his fingers on her skin, his lips on hers, were exquisitely intensified.

May felt overwhelmed with the simple thrill of making love with Martin. She had never believed this kind of intimacy possible. They didn’t speak, and she couldn’t see, and she knew that she had surrendered sight and hearing for touch, for the chance to experience this level of trust and risk in her own bed with her own husband.

As the days wore on, Martin and May got down to business as sort-of-usual. Reporters stopped calling to interview him. The memory of those terrible last few seconds in the game began to fade. Ray came over to talk, and the two men drank beer and had a postgame postmortem sitting on the porch.

While living in Boston, May had worked out a system with Tobin involving the telephone and a fax machine, and this summer they perfected it from Canada. They agreed that Tobin would handle any new clients from June through September, and May would oversee the in-progress wedding plans from Lac Vert.

One day, while Martin and Ray went fishing, May invited Genny and Charlotte over to visit. While the girls played outside, their mothers talked on the front porch.

“How’s Ray taking the loss?” May asked.

“A little better every day. The name Martin Cartier was pretty touchy that first twenty-four hours.”

“He blames Martin for losing?”

“They all do,” Genny said. “He lost the puck instead of putting it away.”

May frowned, wanting her friend to rise above blaming her husband.

“Athletes always need a scapegoat,” Genny told her. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. Ray’s been it plenty of times, and so have all the others. Everyone makes mistakes. But that one…”

“It was big.” May remembered those awful last seconds.

“He just stopped in mid-ice,” Genny said. “Ray said, if he wasn’t so mad at him, he’d be worried.”

“Why worried?”

“Well, it was as if Martin was paralyzed or something. As if he just went numb.”

“I thought that, too.” In her mind, May could see Martin driving down the ice, then just halting—his arm cocked and ready to shoot, with the puck already on its way to the Edmonton goal. “His father mentioned something to me the time I went to see him. He said Martin’s been favoring his right side.”

“They go back and forth.” Genny laughed. “Depending on what’s hurt. There’s always something.”

“So I shouldn’t be concerned.”

“Not unless he wakes up one morning and can’t move. That’s about the only thing serious enough to keep Martin off the ice.”

“Okay,” May said.

Then, offering Genny some tea, May headed for the kitchen. Following along, Genny stopped to look at some old pictures in the living room. She caught sight of Martin’s mother’s collection of needlework pillows, displayed all along the back of the sofa.

“Agnes always kept busy,” Genny said. “Knitting, needlepointing, doing cross-stitch. She showed me how to make a sampler once.”

“Did you make one?”

“I started it.” Genny said, looking around the room. Her gaze traveled over all the walls, the mantel, and the bookshelves. “Hmm. That’s funny.”

“What?”

“There used to be a cross-stitch picture hanging in this room. Dark blue thread on fine muslin, I think. It showed two baby animals, and I loved it so much. It inspired me to try my own. Agnes made it when Martin was born.”

“I wonder where it is,” May said.

“I wonder.” Genny scanned all the walls of the room as if the picture would suddenly reappear. “It hung here forever.”

Martin borrowed Ray’s uncle’s truck and drove to the local nursery to buy up all their rosebushes. He wanted May to have her own rose garden up here, just like the one in Black Hall. The growing season was about a month behind Connecticut, so most of the bushes he picked out were full of buds.

Kylie had come along for the ride. While Martin loaded sixty rosebushes into the truck bed, Kylie played with an old basset hound lying in the shade.

“Careful now, he bites,” called the nursery owner, Jean-Pierre Heckler.

Martin put down the rosebush he was carrying and went to retrieve Kylie.