put my pen down and looked at him.
“Finish that one, put the bottle with the empties over there, and finish your homework.”
He sat very still, as if there were words stuck in his throat. He studied the papers I had spread out on the table.
“I guess we're late with your cheque for the league. I should cut it for you right now,” I said.
Travis grinned and looked relieved.
“Cool, Dad. I didn't want to ask. I know it's, you know . . .”
He pointed at the papers and shrugged. I could see that he was aware, in his own way, about money, what it takes to feed and outfit two boys, pay for hockey, keep up with the bills. Not to mention college, if that's the route they decided to go. I wrote the cheque and told him not lose it. He folded it, placed it in his shirt pocket, and swigged at the beer. He got up and left. I watched him carefully. He was getting thick in the shoulders and up through his back. He wasn't a huge lad, but he was solid.
“What do you weigh now, anyway?” I asked.
He turned and scratched his head.
“Around one-sixty, give or take. Thanks for this,” he said, tapping his shirt pocket.
He went up the stairs smooth as a cat. I could've cried right then. Despite all that had happened he was a good kid.
I'm pretty sure it was that same week that Rusty and me drove down to Niagara to see Travis play. Travis had gotten into the habit of riding down to the rink with Gerry Ferguson and his boy Emmett. Emmett was the goaltender, and he liked to get to the rink at least an hour before the rest of the team. Travis was dedicated, and when he got wind of Emmett and his father heading down to the arena so early, he was in there like a dirty shirt.
Rusty and me were on the road, radio playing down low as we sailed along the highway. Neither of us had said a word. Opening up any conversation with Russ was like pulling teeth. His silence was never just silence, simply there to let the mind wander elsewhere. It was miserable, like he wanted to piss you off with it.
He'd always been a difficult lad. I remember his teacher in grade three calling Wanda and me to the school one afternoon. We sat in a corner of the classroom while the children lined up outside for the school bus. I could see Rusty out the window; he knew we were inside with the teacher, but he never once looked our way, never showed any curiosity at all. The teacher was a plump, red-faced lady who kept fanning herself with a notebook. She told us that Russ did things randomly. Throwing chalk, ripping up library books, even slapping another student in the face without any provocation. Usually, she said, you could see these little incidents coming with most kids. With Russ, he'd be happy one minute, kicking a kid in the shins for absolutely nothing the next.
I clamped down on him at home after that meeting. I watched him and corrected him when he did anything “randomly disobedient.” I thought I'd gotten the upper hand for a while. And then one time we were in Toronto for the day, in this massive shopping mall with a parking lot so huge you needed a map. Wanda had taken Travis to fit him for shoes. Russ spotted this aquarium place and wanted to look at the fish. So I took him inside, and I was looking at some goldfish bowls, figured, hell, get the lad a fish or two. I wasn't in there two minutes and I heard someone yelling, “Hey, get out of there, now!”
I wheeled around to see Rusty standing on this little plastic step, his arm plunged elbow deep in a huge fish tank. I got over there in a hurry and pulled him off the step. He slopped water all over his pants, knocked the lights and filter askew. Turned out he'd asked one of the employees what kind of fish were in that tank. The guy told him piranhas. Russ asked if those were the fish with teeth, the ones that could eat a cow in minutes. Yeah, the guy told him. After I got him away from the tank, he held out his hand, grinning wide, and said, “See, they don't bite. That guy told me they were the ones that bite!”
For his efforts he got a slap upside the head and grounded for a week. On the way home he cast his silence over the entire car. Even way back then he could generate misery by just keeping his mouth shut and his dark little eyes focused on nothing in particular.
So we were in the car, cruising along in Rusty's fog, halfway to the rink and I tried to get him talking. I asked him if he planned to join me at the station, help wind things down and tune up the two snowmobiles we had out back. He rolled his window down a notch and lit a smoke.
“Doubt it,” he said.
I felt bad that he wasn't making any money, hadn't to my knowledge found a job. I'd been giving him a few bucks here and there. We were just coming off the highway when I said, “You know, there's a little money available for college, trade school, if you're up for it.”
He grunted and inhaled a drag. He started pushing his long, oily hair back over his ears.
“Well, you going to answer me or not?”
He looked at me, embers in his murky eyes. He didn't yell, but raised his voice enough to irritate me.
“Oh yeah, a trade, like maybe a Class A Mechanic's papers, so I can wind up with a bankrupt gas station in the middle of Shit Town, Ontario. I figure I'll just follow my thumb for a while. And I'll make my own money, thanks.”
Here's the thing: I'm a pretty easy guy to get along with, but like I said at the start, I shoot straight, and I don't take anyone's shit. I knew that Rusty had taken his mother's death pretty hard. His attitude, when he was around, was pretty toxic. That was his way of grieving her, I guessed. But he wasn't a boy anymore. He was twenty now, for God's sake. So I pulled off the road and told him there was no need to be such a pain in the ass. I held eye contact with him. He looked away. He flicked his cigarette out the window and said, “You know, I came along because I wanted to see Travis play, wanted to support my little brother. But I don't think I can handle much more time with you.”
He got out of the car and slammed the door so hard I thought he'd break the glass. I'd had it by then. I got out with him.
“Get back in the fucking car, Rusty!”
He'd already started marching away. He took his jean coat off and tied it around his waist by the sleeves, setting up for a long walk home. He turned and flipped me the finger. And then leaned forward, trudging urgently like he was trying not only to walk away from me, but maybe from his life as well.
At the time, I figured I had a pretty clear choice. I could run after Rusty and get into an argument with him, a shouting match where we'd say things to each other that we'd live to regret. I could chase the son who had distanced himself, chosen to carry a chip on his shoulder. And for a minute or two I nearly did just that. But if I'd gone after him, I'd have missed my youngest son's game. I would have been a no-show and disappointed Travis, the boy who was trying his best despite everything. A kid who had chosen to knuckle down and move on. I put the car into drive and continued on towards the arena, taking glances in the rearview until Rusty faded from sight.
The first thing I noticed was that they'd installed new lights in Janewood Arena. I hadn't been in there for months, and I felt a little guilty. It had been Wanda who'd taken Travis to the majority of his games. And later, after she'd gone, Travis usually hitched a ride with the Fergusons. The new lights made the ice look so white it was almost silver. The teams had already taken their pre-game skate and were just filing back onto the benches. There was a good crowd on hand. A few hundred, a lot of them with their hands curled around a hot cup of coffee. I decided not to go up into the stands. I stood near the goal judge's seat near the end of the rink and
