Grant went outside and backed his Jeep into the garage. He got out and caught a glimpse of some tiny training wheels hanging behind the shelves where they kept the recycling boxes. Grant thought that Rachel had given them to Goodwill. And he wished to hell that she had. He felt something coming. It was on him before he could deflect it.
You were out with Adam and he was riding his silver and blue bicycle with the training wheels still on. You watched him ride away, bombing along the sidewalk. The training wheels were barely touching the ground. You ran after him and told him that you had an idea. His eyes lit up and he jumped up and down in the saddle when you told him the plan.
At the park you took a small wrench from your pocket and removed the training wheels. You held on to the handlebars while Adam pedalled. There was nobody on the path and you jogged alongside of him, reciting the same mantra:“Sit straight on the bike, don't look at the front wheel, just watch where you're going, use the handlebars to keep balanced.”
He giggled and yelped when you let go. You watched him wobble and correct himself as he rode away. He went quite a distance on his own and then used the brake, put down his right foot for balance like he'd been riding for years. He looked back and waved. You felt an incredible rush of pride and sadness. He turned the bike, adjusted the pedal, and started back to you, a few wobbles and tips as he came back, but he made it.
That night you told Rachel all about it once you'd tucked him in. She fought tears when you whispered to her about what you felt deep in your chest as his little legs pumped and you let go, watched him ride away.
It's been a long time since you've talked to her like that.
As this comes to you it's incomplete, like many of the others. What's missing is little Adam's real face. The face you see here isn't his. It's white and powdery and it unnerves you.
Bert Commerford
Travis burned through his tryouts and was signed by the Stoney Creek Spirit of the Golden Horseshoe Junior B League. Man, was I proud. When Travis got word that he'd earned a spot on the team, we jumped around and screamed like a couple of children. I'd never seen him so wired, and it was amazing to see the lift it gave him. The atmosphere in our house was buzzing, like it used to when the service station was doing well, Wanda was alive, and my boys were still children.
The whole thing gave us all such a shot in the arm. Even Rusty seemed to calm down and act a little steadier. Things still weren't great. We'd had another argument around a week before Travis's tryouts. Russ had told me he'd been doing some work for the Street brothers, legitimate stuff where they distributed goods for “small industry.” I told him that was fine, but if I found out he was dealing drugs or stolen property, I'd boot him out of the house. He went wild, shouting and carrying on, bringing up Wanda and how I did the same to her, lent my ear but never really listened. I left the house and walked over to the service station to start working on getting our snowmobiles ready; the air had turned cold and dry and it smelled metallic, which meant that snow wasn't too far away. I wanted to get away from Russ.
The arguing and bullshit had a way of tiring me out. There was knot the size of a fist in my belly for Trav's first game. The arena was new, more seats, more electricity in the air. The players seemed bigger, faster, like gladiators. The jerseys they wore were bright, real vivid, just like the pros. I was a total wreck, chewing my nails, waiting for the opening faceoff. There was no waving at the players. I noticed that right away. I spotted Travis, wearing number 9, but he never scanned the stands to look for me. This was a different thing now. We'd never come out and said it, but we both knew that he was capable of making a dent, maybe heading to A and who knows how far from there. Yeah, I know, a hundred thousand other dads think their lad is going to be putting on a Maple Leaf jersey by the time they turn twenty. But Travis had speed and hands like a surgeon, and he was playing hard, determined to make a real go of it. When I look back on his games, I see him moving with incredible speed, doing things with the puck that were beyond his age and level. I recall that his ice-time went from four or five minutes a game to about twenty minutes pretty quick. And he was racking up assists and playing good two-way hockey. He only scored two goals, but he knew how to pass and control the boards. So I don't think that all his potential was just in my mind.
During that first Junior B game, Rusty finally showed a few minutes into the first period. I saw him walk in and stand near the Zamboni doors. When there was a break in the play I whistled and he came up and sat with me. He carried himself a little differently that night. A swagger in his step that I didn't like. It wasn't until he sat his ass down that I saw his face had been cut and he had a mild shiner on his left eye. I checked out his hands: his right was swollen around the bottom knuckles, fresh cuts on his fingers. He looked pale, which wasn't too uncommon with Russ; his skin was fair like his mother's.
“Looks like you were in a pretty good waltz,” I said.
He rolled his eyes and said he didn't want to talk about it. He asked how Travis had been playing, and I told him that he'd only been on for one quick shift. I wound up watching Russ as much as I did that first game. He was cocky, the big man on campus. Just the look in his eye and the black leather jacket and thin leather gloves he'd taken to wearing, the backwoods hit man. He stepped into the aisle to get us a Coke and some guy had to pull up to avoid bumping into him. Russ looked at him, just begging for trouble. I went to speak up and tell my boy to back off, but the guy just shrugged his shoulders and let Russ pass in front of him. I watched him head down to the concession stand. He was running with the Streets, getting banged up in the process, walking around like some fucking cowboy. He knew how to manipulate a situation, too. So I don't think his potential, or lack of it, was just in my mind either.
It was a Monday morning, a little light snow had started, and the sky to the west was getting dark and looked to be churning, headed our way. I had dropped Travis at school and decided on two eggs and some bacon down at the Copper Kettle. There wasn't much happening at the station — I had to get used to the idea that my business had been reduced to a hobby, something to fill in the time here and there, maybe provide a little pocket money when a regular came in for an oil change or tune-up. I have to admit that as I drove to the diner I felt pretty good about things for a change. Travis was doing what he wanted, and there was this hope — yeah, a long shot but still a hope — that I might have a pro hockey player for a son. I had some money in the bank, enough that I didn't have to sweat about things for a while. Rusty was next. I needed to find a way of reaching a ceasefire with him. That's about as much as I could ask when it came to Rusty.
You can't beat a place like the Copper Kettle on a chilly day, when the snow is falling. Don Bertram Jr. ran the Kettle. His father had built it in the sixties and decorated it with copper light fixtures, which were polished weekly. It had the familiar Formica tables and counter that you find in most diners. The chairs were finished in thick burgundy vinyl. The menu was simple, but they served big portions and brewed coffee that you could smell in your clothes when you got in your car afterwards. Don was in fine form that morning, cracking jokes as he cracked eggs and mixed pancake batter. I said hello and he told me he'd make my usual, unless I had any objections. His daughter Grace worked the tables and smiled, pointed to the booth where Gus and Will Makepeace were sitting, smoking and likely sipping their third or fourth coffees. I joined them and they gave me the tenth degree on Travis. They were thrilled for him. My mood continued to climb. You'd have sworn it was their own blood they were talking about. Will ran the equestrian centre to the north