Summer Light: A Novel (48 page)

Epilogue

B
Y LATE MAY
,
BOSTON WAS ELECTRIC
, charged with the disbelief of watching the Bruins squeak into the play-offs, barely beat New Jersey in the seventh game of the series, and—in an uncanny repeat of the last two years—inch their way through the championship finals to Game 7 against Edmonton.

Playing for the Stanley Cup, the team was pumped and ready. Once again they had wound up at the Fleet Center, the capacity crowd on their feet and screaming for blood.

Martin stood in the locker room.

He had stayed away most of the season, even after his holiday call to Nils Jorgensen. He and the goalie had exchanged tentative greetings, but to Martin’s surprise, he began getting calls back from the Swede, venting his frustration about the team, the coach, his lack of defensive support.

“Dafoe might seem tough and unfriendly, but that’s just his style. Stand up to him, but don’t be afraid to listen. He knows what he’s talking about,” Martin advised.

“The team thinks I’m the enemy,” Jorgensen complained.

“You were.” Martin laughed. “For years!”

“It’s a lousy match,” he said. “I’m looking to get traded.”

Slowly, Martin had started calling some of his old friends. Every player, to a man, was happy to hear from him. They were tentative, asking about his health, but Martin just told them about his excellent doctor, waiting for advancements in the treatment of his condition, not giving up hope that one day he would see again.

He had listened to his former teammates’ gripes about Jorgensen, what a conceited idiot he was, how disloyal they felt playing with him. Martin had laughed at them all, saying they didn’t know a good thing when they saw it, telling them to take advantage of the best goalie to pass through the NHL in decades.

Then, with the help of May and Kylie, he had made up a couple of gifts. One was for the Bruins in general, the other for Jorgensen himself. Delivered by Ray, the team’s gift was a sign saying “
ONLY GOD SAVES MORE THAN NILS JORGENSON
.” To the goalie from Martin, Ray presented a stick, hand-painted by Kylie with the slogan: “
THE PUCK STOPS HERE
.”

Now, visiting the locker room for the first time all season, Martin learned that the sign was hung above the door to the rink, and that since Jorgensen had started using his stick, he’d won five times as many games as he’d lost.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

“I’m okay,” Martin said.

“Game Seven,” Ray said.

“Been here before.”

“Feels different without you.”

“Without me, nothing,” Martin said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

The coach called all the players together for one last pep talk. He had his typical tough tone, used his fighting words. In his mind’s eye, Martin could see him squinting, chewing on his yellow pencil. The team stood there, listening intently, nervously shifting.

“You can do it, and I know it,” Coach Dafoe said. “You’re talented, and you’re ready. I said it last summer, in this exact same spot: This is our moment, this is our year.”

Remembering, Martin cleared his throat, feeling that old familiar rush of sorrow and regret, a strange shame that came from being blind and not able to play.

“We have everything it takes,” Coach continued.

Martin bent his head, facing down at the ground so no one could see his face redden. They didn’t have him. They had gone this whole way without him playing wing and, it turned out, they hadn’t missed him a bit.

“We’ve got Ray Gardner, we’ve got Jack Delaney, we’ve got…” Dafoe ran down the roster. “We’ve got Nils Jorgensen, the goalie who stopped us cold our last two tries, with more saves in the play-offs than even I could believe—”

“Only God saves more than Jorgensen,” Ray said, and the team laughed.

“But maybe more than any of you, we have the heart and soul of our team—Martin Cartier. With us today, just like last year and the year before.”

Martin raised his head. His face was red and his eyes were streaming, but he didn’t care.

“Thanks, Coach.”

He felt his teammates slapping him on the back, ruffling his hair. But the moment was short-lived, as Coach Dafoe cleared his throat.

“What’s going on, Cartier?”

“Coach?”

“You’re in your street clothes.”

“Yeah, I’m going to go out, sit with my wife and daughter—”

“The hell you are. Suit up.”

“Coach—”

“Now, Cartier. We’re going to win, and you’re going to be with us.”

“With us,” Jorgensen echoed.

“All the way,” Martin said, feeling someone press his jersey into his hands as he stripped off his shirt and got ready to take the ice.

May’s voice hurt from yelling. She stood in the old familiar box with Kylie, Genny, Charlotte, and Mark. Tobin and Teddy had come as their guests, and so had Ricky Carera, the young boy from Estonia.

Serge had asked that Martin and May help him to save Ricky from the fate predicted by Jim the guard and others, to do right by a lonely, fatherless boy. Tonight, they had flown him to Boston, and they had picked him up on their way to the game.

“That one’s the goalie,” she heard Kylie explaining, and “that’s the forward.”

“Center,” Mark corrected.

“Which one’s your dad?” Ricky asked.

“The right wing,” Mark said proudly.

“My dad played baseball.”

“Cool,” Mark said.

“Ricky’s in Little League,” Kylie explained. “My father and grandfather helped him.”

“I like it,” Ricky said.

“Well, this is hockey,” Mark reminded him. “Watch the game.”

The score had been tied 0–0 for three periods, and now they were in overtime. May had watched Jorgensen block every shot, throwing himself into the puck, using his body as a human shield. She gasped with awe, just like everyone in the stands, wondering how much longer he could hold out.

“Martin looks good out there,” Genny said, smiling toward the bench.

“He does,” May said. She smiled back, but inwardly she felt a catch, as she watched her husband cheering the team on from the sidelines, talking quietly to individual players. She couldn’t help remembering last year when he had skated so fearlessly, dominating everyone else on the ice.

“I thought he’d be sitting here with us,” Tobin said.

“So did he, I think,” May said.

“He’s a powerful man,” Teddy said.

May nodded.

She had been thrilled to see him skate out with the team. Wearing his old jersey, number 10, and his regular skates, he had looked so right and happy. But that was nothing compared to what the crowd had felt. Spotting Martin, their murmurs had turned into a roar: “Cartier!” “Martin!” “Gold Sledgehammer!”

The cries had filled the stadium, and Martin had waved his stick in recognition. But then all eyes were on the game, on the action at center ice, as the players were introduced and the national anthem sung.

May had thought back, over the last two years. She had made up those packages for Martin the first year and for the whole team the second: rose petals, owl feathers, and tiny bones from the barn. How superstitious and stupid they would seem to some people, but not to May.

She was a woman who had witnessed miracles. The blue diary was full of them. Her daughter talked to ghosts; her husband had skated up the lake and back with an angel. Martin had forgiven his father, and May had been there to see it. Giving talismans to a professional hockey team—that was nothing.

May was expecting a baby.

He was due in September, right around the time when summer gives way to fall. If only Kylie didn’t have school, May would have liked to have him in Canada, by the lake where Martin had grown up, where their son had been conceived.

Their baby was a boy. He was already so precious to her, May wanted every advantage medicine had to offer; the early tests had revealed his health, his size, and his gender.

“A boy,” Martin said.

“A big boy,” May told him.

“You really think we conceived him at the lake?”

“I know we did,” she replied. “That last day, right after you saw Natalie.”

“She told me she wouldn’t be back,” he’d started to say.

“But we’ve been sent a little boy to love,” May had finished. “Can we call him Nate?”

Martin nodded, holding her with all his might, knowing that she was carrying his son.

“Go RAY!” Genny shouted now.

“Bruins!” May yelled, watching Martin.

The clock was ticking. Ray had the puck, and he passed it off. Genny screamed with all her might, joined by everyone in the box. Martin was on his feet by the bench, shouting his lungs out. The crowd was wild, yelling for a goal.

The Bruins lost the puck, and it was taken by Edmonton. Jorgensen blocked the shot, but Edmonton retained possession. Out of nowhere, streaking from behind the blue line, came Ray Gardner. He stole the puck right off the Oilers’ stick, passing it off to Delaney.

“Give it to Ray!” Martin yelled.

“Go Bruins!” Kylie yelled.

“Yeah, go Bruins!” Ricky called, his eyes bright with joy.

“Ray, Ray!” Genny shouted.

“Martin, Martin,” May shouted louder, holding her belly.

Delaney passed the puck to Ray, and the drive began. He darted between the defensemen, and watching from the box, May would have sworn the Oilers had stood aside to let him through. His way was clear. The crowd roared.

Ray Gardner swung his arm back, and with one straight shot, he put the puck into the net. The Boston Bruins had just won the Stanley Cup by the score of 1–0.

“Ray!” Genny cried, and the entire crowd joined her.

“Oh, Genny,” May said, embracing her. The two women held each other, jumping up and down as everyone went crazy. The announcer was talking, the music was playing, policemen in riot gear had ringed the ice to keep spectators from spilling over. Kylie was jumping on the seat so high she nearly fell off, and Ricky leapt up to join her. May watched a dozen Bruins smother Ray in a huge hug. They were in the middle of the ice, carrying Ray and Nils on their shoulders, and then an amazing thing happened.