Fever Season (4 page)

The pain was immediate, and David jerked his hand back. The skin was already turning bright red where the strap had struck. He fought back tears with all his might. Kevin wasn't going to see him bawl. Thankfully, the principal didn't strap him again.

“Now go home,” the principal told him. “And don't let me see you in here again.”

C
HAPTER
3

David's mother could tell right away that he'd been in a fight. It was obvious from the dried blood on his face. Also, his right eye was going black. But she didn't seem angry, only concerned.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

David nodded slowly. Neither his nose nor his hand hurt much anymore. The long walk home in the cold had dulled the pain.

“Well, come over to the sink and we'll get you cleaned up.”

David's mother ran some warm water over a face cloth, then dabbed it gently under his nose. The water made the dried blood glisten.

“Daybo gots a boo-boo?”

Although his thawed-out face was starting to hurt again, David couldn't help but smile at his little sister's baby talk.

“That's right, Alice. David's hurt himself, but Mommy's going to make it all better.”

Alice clapped her pudgy little hands. Then she looked serious again. “Dolly gots a boo-boo, too.” She held up her little rag doll to show that one of its button eyes was hanging by a thread.

David groaned. He didn't want to sew it up for her. Not now.

“Dolly will have to wait her turn,” their mother said. “Mommy will fix her boo-boo when she's finished fixing David's. Why don't you put Dolly in bed like a good little nurse and wait in the bedroom for me?”

Alice toddled off to the room she now shared with her brother, leaving David and his mother alone in the kitchen.

“One of the older boys from school?”

David nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” David didn't want her to know what had happened with the cupcakes.

David's mother chipped off some ice from the block at the top of the icebox and wrapped the pieces in a towel. She gave it to David to put on his eye. “Maybe you should talk to your father.”

He shook his head. That sounded like a bad idea. His father already thought he was puny and weak. All he would do was make David feel worse. But he'd notice the black eye. “Couldn't we just tell him I got bumped by a horse at the blacksmith's?”

His mother sighed. “I'll talk to him. Tonight. After you're in bed.”

David nodded. If his father had to know that bullies had picked on him, then he'd rather his mother did the telling.

That night, when he was supposed to be asleep, David carefully pushed open the door to his bedroom. Although the squeal of the hinges sent shivers down his spine, nobody except David heard it. He could see light coming from the space under his parents' door, and he could make out the sound of his mother's voice. Quietly, he crept down the hall to listen.

“Of course not,” he heard his mother say. “I think he needs to spend some time with you, but is he old enough?”

“There's no age limit,” his father said.

“But it's so rough. Do you think it's all right?”

“I wouldn't have said so if I didn't. Besides, I think it'll do him some good. All he seems to know about are women's things. This will give him and this boy something in common they can talk about.”

“I hope you're right.”

One of his parents must have turned off the light after that, because David suddenly found himself in the dark. Waiting silently until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he tiptoed back to his room. What would do him some good? And what in the world could possibly give him anything in common with Kevin Bull?

The next evening David's father took him to a hockey game. Even though David had never been to a game before, it was impossible to live in Montreal without knowing at least a little about hockey. People who had skates could use them on the snow-packed streets in the winter, and they played pickup games in lanes and alleys. Small cards showing coloured pictures of hockey players were given away in packs of cigarettes, and many fathers gave them to their sons. David had seen boys trading them at school, but he'd never been very interested in hockey. Obviously, a lot of people were, though, because as soon as David and his father stepped off the Sherbrooke streetcar, they were swept up in a huge crowd heading down Wood Avenue to Saint Catherine Street.

The people in the crowd weren't really pushing, but they couldn't help bumping into one another as they made their way along the narrow sidewalk. Street lights cast only a dim glow, but ahead the entrance to Westmount Arena was bathed in light, and David could see excited faces. He found himself getting enthusiastic, too, as he walked among the noisy gathering. But David and his father went right past the main entrance.

“We have to find someone on the other side,” his father told him. He almost had to shout to make himself heard. “Take my hand. I don't want us to get separated.”

David had to hold tight as he and his father made their way against the flow of people. He wondered how they were ever going to pick one person out of the crowd, but his father knew what he was doing. There were a lot fewer people once they finally turned the corner, and David's father had no trouble locating the man he was looking for.

“Salut!”
the man said.

“Bon jour, Henri.”

“Vous venez pour voir les Canadiens, eh?”

“Mais oui,”
David's father said.
“Je préfère la façon
qu'ils jouent.”

David couldn't understand what they were saying, but his father had told the man he liked the way the Canadiens played. Most English hockey fans in the city preferred the Montreal Wanderers, the city's other professional team.

“And 'oo's this young fella with you?” the man asked.

“
C'est mon fils, David.
David, this is Henri Leduc.”

Henri shook David's hand. His grip was too strong and his breath smelled like cigarettes. “Quite a shiner you got dere, kid. You a hockey player?”

David shook his head.

“C'est sa première partie,”
his father said.

Henri grinned. “His first game, eh?”

“If we can get tickets …”

Henri looked around slowly. “The Bulldogs are Stanley Cup champions … but for you, my friend …”

He pulled out two tickets from inside his coat. “'Ow 'bout some seats near centre ice?”

“Combien?”
David's father asked.

“Five dollars for da pair.”

David's father glanced at the tickets. “They're in the last row, and they sell for fifty cents apiece at the box office.”

“
Oui
, but da box office is sold out, no? And I could get five dollars for each of these tickets to see the Bulldogs.”

Five dollars was a lot of money, but David could tell from the expressions on their faces that what Henri had told his father was true. Mr. Saifert agreed to pay.

“
De rien
, Mike. Enjoy the game, kid!”

David waved at Henri, then he and his father rejoined the crowd making its way into the Arena lobby. Mr. Saifert recognized some of the other men inside and spoke to them in French, as well. David just stared. He hadn't known his father could speak the language.

“A working man in this city has to speak some French,” his father explained. “Only rich businessmen can get by without it.”

It had been cold out, but it was warm inside the Arena, so David started to unbutton his coat.

“Keep it on,” his father told him. “And your hat and gloves, too. The lobby's heated, but the rink isn't. It's got to be cold or the ice would melt.”

His father was right. It was almost as cold inside the playing area as it had been outside. Even bundled up in winter clothes, it took a little something extra to stay warm while sitting in the seats of a hockey rink.

“What are those people holding?” David asked.

“Baked potatoes,” his father told him.

David laughed.

“It's true! A hot potato can keep your hands warm all game. It's too bad we live so far away, or I'd have had your mother make some for us, too.”

Fortunately, the Arena rented blankets for people to use during the game. They cost twenty-five cents. David's father paid for one and spread it across both of them when they sat in their seats. Being in the last of the Arena's twelve rows, they were pretty high, but they were near the centre so the view was good. David had never seen so many people in one place before. There were enough seats for six thousand people, and space for several thousand more in the standing-room sections. As the time neared eight o'clock, the fans got restless. Some stamped their feet, others clapped their hands. Many hollered French words David couldn't understand, but he sensed the passion and joined in. Then, just when he thought it couldn't possibly get any louder, the Canadiens hit the ice and the rink exploded in cheers. David jumped to his feet with the others and greeted the hometown heroes.

“That's Georges Vézina!” his father shouted, pointing at the stone-faced man with the leg pads who was wearing a red, white, and blue toque that matched his Canadiens sweater. “He's the goalie. That's Don Smith and Louis Berlinquette. They're the wingers.”

As his father named each Canadien skating onto the ice, David had never seen him so excited. There weren't very many to keep track of, though.

“Teams have six men on each side,” his father explained, “including the goalie. They also have two or three spare players, but most of the men who start the game will play the whole sixty minutes. Unless they get hurt.”

The last Canadiens player onto the ice was a handsome man with jet-black hair. He got the loudest applause from the crowd.

“That's Newsy Lalonde,” his father said proudly. “The captain.”

After the ovation for the team's top star, the cheers began to fade. Soon the visiting team took to the ice, but the Bulldogs skated around to only a smattering of approval. However, when the last Quebec player made his way through the gate, the mood at the Arena turned ugly.

“Boo! Boo! Boo!” everyone cried.

“It's Joe Hall,” David's father said. “The fans all hate him. A hockey player has to be tough, but Joe Hall's just plain mean. He once got kicked out of a league in Manitoba for his rough play, and I was at the game in Montreal a few years back when he was suspended for punching a referee. The newspapers call him Bad Joe.”

“He's got a black eye, too,” David said.

“Newsy gave him that shiner in Quebec City last week, so Bad Joe's bound to be out for blood tonight. Lalonde and Hall have been feuding for years.”

Just then the referee blew his whistle, and the two teams lined up for the faceoff. Lalonde was first to the puck and pushed it ahead. Then he sped around the Quebec centreman and picked up the puck on the other side.

With Smith and Berlinquette at his side, Lalonde headed for the Quebec end. Ahead of him was a big Bulldogs defenceman, so Lalonde had to go wide around him. Changing direction caused Berlinquette to get ahead of him, so Lalonde dropped the puck back to Smith.

“They can only pass the puck beside or behind them,” David's father said. “Anyone in front of the puck carrier is offside.”

The fans roared their approval as the Canadiens bore down on the Bulldogs, but they couldn't score. Cheers turned to boos when Joe Hall picked up a rebound and carried the puck out of the Quebec end. There were cheers again when the Canadiens stopped him.

Back and forth went the two teams, the crowd cheering every great play and every tough hit. David was cheering, too. “Come on, Newsy!”

Lalonde picked up a loose puck near centre ice and headed straight for Joe Hall. Smith was at his side, so Hall couldn't give Newsy his full attention. Lalonde looked ready to make a pass, so Hall leaned to his right to cover Smith. When he did, Lalonde kept the puck and raced past him on the left!