Down to the Dirt (6 page)

—Fuck do you want me to do about it, girl?

—Take him out back and kill him, Keith.

—
Take him out back and kill him
? Christ sakes, ‘Tash, are you fuckin’ cracked?

—Well drown him in the tub or something. I don’t know—

—Drown a cat in the fuckin’ bathtub? Mind out now.

—Well I don’t know, just…just get rid of him. He’s in pain.

He is in pain. He’s suffering and don’t understand why it’s so hard to breathe, why his legs don’t have the strength to hold his skimpy body up to walk.

—Alright then. Alright. I s’pose I’ll take him out back. I gotta go change first.

—No, Keith. Do it now. You have to do it now. Becky’s gonna be home soon. I was just talkin’ to her—

—Well yes, I will but—

—Do it fuckin’ now, Keith!

She half-screams this last bit at me, a touch of hysteria in her voice. My mind is too fragile to go against her.

So I scoops the poor little morsel into a white plastic bag. He howls something fierce to be touched. He’s gotten so frail you can actually feel your thumb and index finger meet by squeezin’ underneath his spine. No meat left on him at all. His
bowels lets go again as I’m liftin’ him and Natasha makes a heave towards the toilet.

Puss settles into the bag quite comfortably though, and I remembers how he used to love this when he was a kitten. Stick him in a plastic bag and swing him around ’til your arm got tired. Hang the bag on a doorknob and he’d go right to sleep in it. Claw his way out when he woke up. I wonder if he’s made the association himself, and if so, if it lessens his pain any.

Out in the woods behind the house with a practically dead cat in a plastic bag, looking for the most
civilized
way to kill it. Drownin’ always sounds so lonely. I takes his head out of the bag and holds my hands around his throat. Holdin’ ’em there. One little twist and he’s gone, out of his misery. But I can’t. I couldn’t. He’s so small and his throat is warm and his eyes are open and under different circumstances they’d look, I don’t know, mischievous, maybe even predatory. He’s so small.

I’m in no state for this shit. I stuffs him back down into the bag, lays him on the ground and paces around for a bit. I bounces around is more like it. Generations of windswept needles from the evergreens have made the ground spongy, yieldin’ readily to the pressure of my boots.
How to do this the right way?

Without thinkin’ I digs a large muck-covered rock out of the ground, lifts it up over my head and slams it down onto the cat’s face. But the ground beneath him is too soft, his head presses into it and the rock bounces back at me. He lets out a screech quite unlike any sound that ever comes from a cat; a high-pitched, piggish squeal he must have reserved all his life
for the moment when someone should happen to slam a ten-pound boulder onto his face. Some new strength at the face of death gets his hind legs twitchin’ and scrawbin’ at the inside of the bag, howlin’ and savage.

I can’t stop now.

Can’t let him live like this.

I slams the rock down onto his face again. His front legs reaches out of the bag and aimlessly latches onto the hem of my dress. Natasha’s good dress. He dangles there for a split second before the horror of it reaches my brain and I swings him off me, his claws shreddin’ into the fine fabric of the dress. Still only half out of the bag, he spins through the air and lands with a thud against a rotten tree stump. I goes over to him. Can’t look him in the eye as I pulls the bag back over his head. I looks up to the sky and blesses myself. Then, with all my strength, I laces the rock down on top of him. His eyeball pops out through the bag and he twitches for a bit. Nerves.

Catshit on my forehead, splattered all over the inside of Tash’s dress. Blood under my fingernails. Fuck. I goes back to the house to clean up a bit and get a new plastic bag, a proper coffin. Natasha is watchin’ some talk show.

—Is he dead, Keith?

—Pretty much, I s’pose.

I washes the dirt off my forehead, off my forearms, searches the cupboards for a bag.

—How’d you do it then? You never tortured him, Keith?

—Tortured him? No I never fuckin’ tortured him…I drowned him in a bucket. He never even knew what happened, girl. Any garbage bags?

Natasha starts cryin’ again but I won’t hug her. Her pupils are still dilated. She’s still stoned. Compassion is pointless. I
leaves her standin’ there in the middle of the kitchen, starin’ at her feet, tears streamin’ down her cheeks.

When I makes it back out to the woods the cat is nowhere to be seen. The cat is gone, the old bag bloody and foul where I left him. This is impossible.

—Here Puss. C’mon Puss-cat. Here Puss Puss Puss.

Something rustles and fidgets over in the bushes to my left. I checks it out but it’s only an old strip of plastic tangled in a bush. I does a little search of the area, knowin’ that he can’t have gone far without something draggin’ him away. A cloud passes in front of sun, the woods goin’ dark, branches like fingers reachin’ out at me from the corners of my eye. I starts to get real spooked out, thinkin’ that maybe something in the woods is after takin’ the cat.

I finally finds him staggering off into some shrubs a good twelve or fifteen feet from where he should have died. His eyeball is hangin’ out of his head and his skull is crushed and matted with blood. White stuff drippin’ from his ear. He topples over onto his side and
meows
with about the same level of urgency he uses to be let out of the house in the mornings. I goes back to get the rock but it’s coated with cat filth and my hands feels too clean from the wash. There must be some other way. I paces again, and when I goes back to him, so help me Christ, he’s purrin’. Lying there on his deathbed with his face bashed in, purrin’ away. Given the circumstances, it’s one of the creepiest sounds I’ve ever heard.

So I stomps him into the ground with my boot. Stomp. But he won’t stop twitchin’…stomp…howlin’…stomp…scrawbin’…stomp…squirmin’. Tooth and nail he struggles on. I finally have to grind the heel of my boot into his neck until his head lets go from his body. Fuck. My boots
coated with cat sludge. Natasha’s good dress ruined like she said it would be.

I holds my breath and scoops him into the clean new bag. He’s a mess. A bloody, matted lump of fur and grizzle. I ties a knot into the top of the bag and slings it out over the tops of the trees down into the pit below.

Nobody ever thought to give that cat a proper name. Just called him Puss.

Natasha looks me up and down when I comes back into the house. She sees the state of the dress and we’re right back where we started.

—Keith. My friggin’ dress. It’s ruined!

—Well I told you I wanted to change it before I—

—You saw how upset I was.

—That’s why I didn’t go and change. You never gave me a chance.

—I told you not to put it on!

—It was your fuckin’ idea!

Puss don’t come home that night. Or the next night. Nobody minds. Cats are busy creatures.

A few days goes by and Becky starts in whinin’, out on the step ’til midnight calling
Puss Puss Pusssssss.

Stories about old Jack Reddigan skinnin’ cats with a straight razor.

Myself and Natasha talkin’ of a move into St. John’s next year.

—Maybe if we had our own place…

Becky leavin’ a bowl of milk and some Whiskas out on the front step.

A scratch at the door one evening.

Becky opening the door to let clumsy old Muggins in.

—Whatcha got in the bag, Mugs? Did you bring me home a present? Is it a present for Becky?

Fuck.

We’re down by two with fifteen minutes left in the third period. I glides in over the blue line with the puck. Keith’s in the clear on my left. I should pass. Makes perfect sense. He’d have a dandy shot on net. But I don’t. Can’t risk it. I fakes the pass and snaps a little bullet to the right hand corner. Goal! The sticks are up. My teammates gather round, slappin’ me on the back, pokin’ me in the arms. Goddamn. Feels good. We’re back in the game.

Face-off. Once again we have to wait for Keith to get into position. I don’t know why he bothers. Sure he never looks at the puck. All he minds is checkin’ and slashin’ and hookin’ and fightin’. That’s it. He mopes around until he spots something or someone he don’t like and then he goes cracked.

Last week we finished up practice with a little scrimmage. Seeing how goalies gets their own separate practice time, the rule for a scrimmage is that you have to strike one of the posts with the puck in order to score. Not an easy thing to do. I have yet to score a goal in a scrimmage game. Anyhow, there’s Brad Ryan from down the Shore, hustlin’ up the ice, all alone with the puck. Keith comin’ up behind him. One
thing I’ll give Keith is that he
is
a good strong skater. Don’t know where he gets his wind though, ‘cause he’s down under the bleachers before every game eatin’ cigarettes like candy. Brad crosses over the blue line with Keith just inches behind him. Keith hooks his stick around Brad’s ankle. But Brad skates through it and Keith goes down himself. Brad keeps on towards the open net. See, in a scrimmage it’s no sense takin’ a shot on net ‘cause your target is so much smaller and harder to judge. You’d have to be some shot. So Brad carries on, stops with the puck about a foot from the post. He shoots and misses. The puck goes in the net. He stands there tryin’ to dig it out, hopin’ for another shot while he still got time. The tip of his stick finds the puck and scoops it out. Just when he gets it back out front and takes aim at the post, Keith slams into him from behind. Now, Brad’s a big fella. On skates he stands about two feet above the crossbar. But he got no defence. He don’t expect it and sure who would? His neck hits the crossbar. Clothesline. He goes down, his left shoulder takin’ the full weight of his fall. He lies motionless in the net. The game stops and everyone gathers around to see if he’s alright. Rolly, that’s our coach, coaxes Brad to his feet again. We all bangs our sticks on the ice, whoopin’ and cheerin’ as Brad lumbers off to the dressing room. Keith cheers right along with the rest of us, then skates away, grinnin’ from ear to ear.

Brad’s out for today’s game with a dislocated shoulder. He’s on the bench though, showin’ his support. If he had any sense he’d have the shit pounded out of Keith. If we weren’t all on the same team
I’d
probably kick the shit out of him. Maybe if he wasn’t my oldest friend. But it goes to show how much he cares for the game that he crosschecks one of our best
players, his own teammate, during a fuckin’ scrimmage, a week before the championship game.

The championship. It don’t mean fuck all in the end. Banquet night is always good though; wings and chips, medals and a dance. Makes it easier to put up with the same faces winnin’ the same medals every year. Coach’s sons. Favourites. But, to be fair, it
is
usually the coach’s sons who deserves it. They’re made to live and eat and breathe hockey and they usually
are
the most valuable or most sportsmanlike. Well, they’re not usually the most sportsmanlike but that don’t seem to count for much. Most sportsmanlike usually goes to the second-best player on the team, no matter if he’s the sookiest cunt on the planet or not. That’s just the way it goes.

Two years ago Keith won a medal for most improved player. Quite the shock at the banquet, but we figured it had to do with the last game he played. During that last game, last one for the season, he scored two goals, back to back, same shift. Only points he got the whole year. But he didn’t raise his stick or do a jig. He didn’t pump his arm and gloat. If anything he seemed embarrassed. After the second goal he kept his head down, skated on back to the face-off, then made a run at the right-winger as soon as the puck dropped. Five minutes for crosscheckin’. Still, his first goal tied the game and the second one won it. We were all more than happy to win, even if it was only for third place in the league. Better than last. Keith wouldn’t put up with any praise in the dressing room afterwards. He just muttered and cursed and shook his head like we were pointin’ the finger at him rather than congratulating him.

Weeks later at the banquet dance he tried to use his medal to pick up a few young ones. None were impressed. Most
valuable player gets the pick of the bad girls. Most sportsmanlike gets the pick of the good girls. Most improved? Well keep tryin’, maybe next year. I found Keith’s medal on the dance floor that night. The ribbon was busted off. I think I still have it home somewhere. It’s a nice medal.

Nothing suits me better than steppin’ on a sheet of fresh cleaned ice with my skates laced tight and razor sharp. I’d almost say I likes the warm-up
before
the game better than the game itself. No pressures, just skate, just go. Faster. The feel of the blades slicin’ into the ice when you takes that turn behind the net. I loves the gear too. All I ever wants for Christmas is new hockey gear. I s’pose I gets a charge out of it, wrap-pin’ myself in a shell of hard plastic armour. You feels taller, heavier, faster and stronger. Bring it on. The uniform works for me too. Gives me a real sense of…belonging. Ten other bodies, dressed just like me, all with the same purpose in mind. Bring it on.

Keith’s always late on the ice. Shaggin’ around in the dressing room or off tormenting some young one. He tromps across the bleachers, no skate guards on, and jumps the boards into the bench. Sometimes he don’t even set foot on the ice ‘til the second period. And he’s always missin’ something, havin’ to borrow a stick or a neck guard or God knows what. How can you show up expectin’ to have a game of hockey without even bringin’ your own stick? It’s beyond me. He treats it all like it was going on up in the meadow. It’s a big lark to him. I wonder if he knows how much his father forks over to sign him up every year?

I’ve made a lot of decent friends in hockey. Fellas from all
up and down the Shore. I finds it good like that. I never was one to be a part of the gang, one of the b’ys, or any of that shit. But I think hockey gave me a place to start from. It don’t seem to be Keith’s thing at all though. He couldn’t be bothered hangin’ around after a game. He never talks hockey ‘cause he don’t know how. He don’t even watch the play-offs! Still, everyone knows him. Not like he’s some poor unfortunate scrap over slunk in the corner with no one to talk to. He runs his mouth off often enough, just never about hockey. It’s like he shows up every week for the sole purpose of expressin’ his absolute contempt for the game and anyone involved in it. All he wants to do is slash people.

That’s how everyone knows him. He’s got the dirtiest name in the whole league. Rather than tryin’ to rack up the points or the goals like the rest of us, he’s always in competition with his own penalties-per-minute record. He brags about it all the time. And if some guy steps on the ice that poses even a hint of a threat towards the record, you can be guaranteed, before the game is up, Keith’ll be after droppin’ his gloves and havin’ a go at him, just to get himself sent off the ice.

Earlier this year the coach from the other team came charging into our dressing room after the game. Said he’d give his left nut to get Keith alone on the ice for five little minutes. Said Keith shouldn’t be allowed in the arena to even watch a hockey game, let alone set foot on the ice with fellas who are tryin’ to learn, fellas who takes the game seriously, fellas who knows how to play. He was some poisoned with Keith. He ranted and raved, kicked shit around. I forgets what Keith did to cause that racket. I’m sure it wasn’t nothing good.

Ten minutes left now. There goes Kieran Maher, flat out with the puck. No one is on him so I cuts across the ice. Where’s the goddamn defence? I’m almost caught up to him as he crosses our blue line. Then some jerk, probably Kieran’s mother, shouts at him:

—Have your shot, Kieran. Have your shot. Don’t let that little fucker catch you!

I guess I’m the little fucker. Kieran tries to have a shot on net but he makes the foolish mistake of stoppin’ before he does. Lots of fellas are like that: can’t take a hard shot while they’re still on the move. But
I’m
not stoppin’, Kieran buddy. Oh no. And I hope your mother’s got a bird’s eye view. Boom. I hammers him into the boards and down he goes. A nice, clean check. The puck slides right into the crook of my blade and I whips it back up the ice with a flick of the wrist. Dandy.

Time I took a little break now. Shane Maher, Kieran’s twin brother, takes my place on the ice. They’ve never once been on the same team and I think it’s ‘cause the coaches have such a hard time tellin’ ‘em apart. No trouble tellin’ ‘em apart on the ice though. Shane’s one of the best players in the league. Kieran’s average. I’m not sayin’ I’m anything extra myself, but I can hold my own. I made the all-star team last year and I would’ve this year only for my ankle was shagged up during try-outs.

Rolly leans over and pats me on the shoulder.

—Nice one, Andy. Good clean hit.

Rolly’s the best coach I’ve had yet. He’s younger than the other coaches by years, so he’s able to keep up during practice. Coachin’ is more than talk. It’s more than speeches in the dressing room and shoutin’ at us from the bench. Rolly gets
out there on the ice with you, shows you what you’re doin’ wrong and then how to do it better. He’s a good laugh too. He knows all the tricks, how to play dirty without the ref catchin’ on. Plus he’s not at it ‘cause he’s got someone belong to him in the league so he don’t play favourites. If you’re havin’ a bad game, he’ll let you know it, no matter who you are.

A few years ago a scout from the Quebec Nordiques came to watch Rolly play in the regional championships in St. John’s. Rolly’s team lost, but he made a good impression with two goals and two assists. Mr. Scout cornered him after the game and offered him the moon. Said Rolly had to strike while the iron was hot, while he was still young enough, in his prime. But Rolly wouldn’t hear tell of it. Some says it’s ‘cause he was still workin’ on his engineering degree. But no one really knows for sure why he turned it down. Quebec weren’t doin’ so bad that year and he could always have finished his schoolin’ some other time. Some says he was afraid of gettin’ swallowed up, that he’s more content being the hot shot on the home ice here rather than being a face in the crowd up there. But I don’t think that. That’s only jealous talk. Rolly’s a pretty humble fella. God knows what was goin’ through his head at the time.

Big Frank Lowe is our assistant coach. He don’t say much. He’s a gruff, crooked presence for the most part. But he knows hockey and he keeps a close eye on the game. His son, Little Frank, is on our team. Little Frank’s a decent defenceman, but he’s a bit on the heavy side. He loses his wind pretty early in the game and don’t ever seem to get it back.

Shit, only six minutes left now and we’re still down by one. Little Frank comes huffin’ and puffin’ up to the bench lookin’
for a break. I looks up towards Rolly and he nods for me to go on. As soon as I hits the ice the whistle goes. Offside. Face-off behind enemy lines. That’s what we likes to see. I takes the face-off myself. Before the puck drops I hears shoutin’ from our bench. It’s Big Frank. He’s up in Rolly’s face growlin’ and cursin’, and then he walks back to the other side of the bench. That’s odd. The puck drops and I misses it. Shane Maher swoops in and saves it. He passes it over to the left-winger. I finds an opening and positions myself in front of the net. I picks up the pass from the left, fakes a shot, passes it back to Shane, he shoots and he fuckin’ scores! What a goddamn play. She’s all tied up with over four minutes left. We can win this game. One side of the arena is howlin’ for blood and the other side is hootin’ and whistlin’ and clompin’ for joy. Nothing like it.

Face-off. Little Frank comes back on the ice to replace a defenceman. When the puck drops I pulls it back to my skate and kicks it up the ice between the other guy’s legs. Rolly showed me that. I darts forward and picks it up again before anyone knows what happened. And then I takes a vicious shot to the ribs from the butt of someone’s stick. Fuckin’ Kieran Maher! Still pissed at me for knockin’ him down I s’pose. He leans towards me with a big stupid grin on his face and grunts something at me. Sounds like he called me a little queer. I drops my gloves and gives him a good hard shot to the throat. No sense goin’ for his face when he got the mask on, I’d only tear the shit out of my knuckles. I slugs him again and down he goes. That’s another way to tell the twins apart, on or off the ice: Shane’s the best kind, but Kieran, he’s a sly little shit.

The whistle blows and I makes my way over to the box without being told. A cheer goes up on the enemy side of the bleachers. Applause for the referee. Kieran’s mom has a few
more words to say to me too. I don’t know what she’s so loopy about. She’s got a son on each team. One of ‘em’s going home a winner for Christ sakes.

Two minutes for roughin’. Four and a half minutes to go and I’ve left the team shorthanded. Keith skates past the box and gives my helmet a crack with his stick. He’s fuckin’ askin’ for it.

I hangs my head and tries to catch my breath. I glances over at the bench. Rolly shakes his head at me. He got no time for fightin’ on the ice. He says if you can’t settle your scores with a good clean hit, wait for the bastard outside the rink after the game. But it’s hard not to lose your head out here when your blood is pumpin’ and some asshole starts playin’ dirty, callin’ you names.

I tries to focus on the game. The puck ricochets into our end. Little Frank is just standin’ there, lets it go right past him. He dawdles down into the corner to pick it up but the other guy is comin’ up strong behind him. Our goalie gets to the puck in the nick of time and shoots it back up the ice. Rolly calls Little Frank over to the bench and sends someone else on in his place. The play is in our end. Keith has a shot on net but don’t even come close.