Summer Light: A Novel (24 page)

The prison always got cold in November. Just when all the houses out there were cranking up the heat, when all the families were roasting turkeys and chestnuts and whatever nice families out there did, the boilers here broke down. So Serge would stand outside in the prison yard doing calisthenics, watching his breath turn white, haunted by memories of his days as a family man.

“Cold out here, Serge,” Jim the guard commented.

“For lightweights,” Serge said, doing push-ups on the tar.

“That’s right. You playing hockey all those years.”

“All those years.”

“How many push-ups are you up to?”

“Two hundred forty, forty-one.” Serge pumped harder.

“Well, don’t want to make you lose count,” Jim said, walking away.

Serge was almost sorry to see him go. Jim was about Martin’s age. He was fit—looked as if he might run and lift now and then. “Hey!” Serge yelled after him, still doing his push-ups. “You ever play?”

“Play what?” Jim asked, half turning around.

“Hockey.”

“Nah. Football in high school. Baseball.”

Serge dropped his head slightly and began to push harder. He upped the pace by half. “Martin played baseball every spring. Once the lake thawed,” Serge muttered.

“What’d you say?” Jim asked.

“Nothing.” But his voice was still too low for Jim to hear, so the guard just kept walking on his rounds. Serge did his three-hundredth push-up, then got to his feet. He walked to the wall, leaned in to stretch his hamstrings.

Martin had killed Detroit last night, Chicago two nights before. He was hot this year. The papers were saying he was having the season of his life, that his marriage was the reason. Marriage hadn’t tamed the Gold Sledgehammer; it had turned him molten, more powerful. Serge was keeping watch on Martin’s eyes, ankles, and knees, though. Once you hit your thirties, injuries could blast a good season to pieces.

“Old man,” greeted Tino, the kid with the shaved head. He exhaled a puff of smoke.

“That a cigarette?” Serge asked.

“Yeah, want one?”

“
Merde,
no. I don’t touch those things. You sure it’s not weed?”

“It ain’t weed, ain’t crack. I’m clean, I keep telling you.”

“Bien,”
Serge said. “This morning.”

Tino laughed. Serge kept his face stern, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth twitching. “Cold out here, man,” the kid said.

“For weaklings,” Serge said.

“I ain’t weak.”

“You will be, eh? Just keep smoking.”

“Aaaah.” The kid took another drag, then hid the cigarette behind his thigh, as if he was ashamed.

“How old are you?” Serge asked.

“Twenty-four.”

“Your father ever catch you smoking?” Serge was no longer shocked by the ages of the young men he met in here.

The kid exhaled out his nose, half laughing. “What father? He split before I came along. Later, Serge. I’m not weak, but I’m fucking cold. Besides, my kids’re coming to visit. I’d better wash up and get ready.”

Serge watched the young man walk inside. The prison yard felt empty, and a great well of loneliness opened inside his chest. Winter always made him feel that way. Even before he’d come to prison. When the snow fell and the wind blew, people needed their families.

“My son’s coming to see me soon,” Serge said to the door the boy had walked through. He patted his pants pocket, where he now always carried the newspaper picture of Martin, May and Kylie—the wedding picture that had run before the season started.

A whistle blew, announcing visiting time. Serge ignored it, standing in the cold. Out here he felt a little alive. Closing his eyes, he could see his lake: nestled among mountains, its ice froze blacker than that of any other lake in Canada. He had taught Martin to skate on that lake. They had had dreams of playing on the same team some day. Big dreams, that Serge had promised to make come true.

“If I ever caught my kid smoking,” Serge said out loud, “I’d have made him quit.” That’s what good fathers were supposed to do: help their kids to do the right thing, what was best for them.

“Serge!” Jim called. “Aren’t you too cold yet?”

“We’re skating,” Serge said, his eyes open now but still seeing the black lake. “My son and I.”

He knew it was crazy to want to stay out in the cold, while inside it was warmer and soon food would be served. But out here he was breathing real air, the same air that somewhere Martin was breathing. When Martin came, he would have to pass through those gates over there. Serge looked east, in the right direction.

Martin would have to come through those gates right there.

Serge closed his eyes again. The black-ice lake was gone, but Martin was coming through the gates. With his eyes shut, Serge could see his son coming. With his wife and the little girl.

On his way inside, Serge walked the long way back to his cell. Lingering outside the visitors’ room, he listened to the sound of women’s and children’s voices. They pulled him closer, almost through the door.

Tino sat at a long table. A small dark-haired woman leaned toward him, and one young child sat on his knees, climbing his body, and a second sat as close to him as possible, as if the terrible separation made them want to crawl right inside him.

Tino’s eyes were shining, his smile wide, the closest thing to joy Serge had ever seen on his face. The boy had his grin, his build. Holding his breath, Serge watched as the boy grabbed his father’s ears, kissed him right on the face.

Knowing how those separations felt, how the connection and need were no less strong for the father than for the son, Serge turned his back and walked quickly away.

May had started getting fan mail of her own. It amazed her, but women across America and Canada were intrigued by her love story, by the fact that she had spent so many years as an unmarried wedding planner. “It gives me hope,” one woman wrote, “that there might be someone out there for me, too.” Other women wanted help in casting a love spell or planning a wedding. May tried to answer all the mail, but she was overloaded both at work and at home.

One frozen night between games, Martin brought home two pairs of figure skates—for May and Kylie—and took them skating on the pond behind the Bridal Barn.

May hadn’t been on skates in years. Feeling ungainly, she’d let Martin wrap his arm around her waist and glide her across the ice. He moved like the wind, fast and sure, holding her steady and whispering in her ear until she got her balance. Breathless, she sat down on a log to watch him skate with Kylie. Shrieking with joy, Kylie wanted to skate all night, and they did: or at least till all the stars came out and the temperature dipped below twenty degrees.

The first postcard arrived amid a batch of Christmas cards. Sitting at her desk, May had been staring out the window at the pond and wishing that Martin was home instead of in Montreal, that they could skate again that night.

“For you.” Tobin placed the card on May’s desk.

“What’s this?” May asked.

“A mystery,” Tobin told her. “I shouldn’t have read it, but I did.”

May stared at the postcard a long time, her heart racing. The photo was of a lake in summer, and the message read: “Take good care of him.” The card was unsigned. Addressed to her, it bore the postmark of Estonia, N.Y.

“Who’s from Estonia?” Tobin asked.

May knew: Serge Cartier. That’s where he was in prison. She had read about him often enough. Glancing up at Tobin, she wanted to tell her. But knowing how Martin felt about his father, May had never talked in detail about him to Tobin, and she hesitated now.

“I don’t know,” May said, blushing as she told the lie. The desire to blurt everything out pressed against her chest. Tobin stood there, waiting, her expression guarded, hurt. They had really grown apart these last months. May opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t. Instead, she just stuck the card into her purse as Tobin went back to work.

At the bottom of her purse, May saw the blue notebook: her diary of Kylie’s visions and dreams. She hadn’t been in touch with Dr. Whitpen since last summer, nor had there been any incidents to record. No more angel dreams, no more questions about Natalie.

But, her fingertips brushing the diary, May thought of what Dr. Whitpen had said about the veil: that Kylie could see through it, that perhaps she had been drawn to Martin because of a connection with his father and daughter. Shoving the notebook deeper into her purse, May tugged the zipper closed.

May didn’t show Martin the card, but her thoughts wouldn’t go away.

Late one December night, after the Bruins had lost at home to the Rangers, she and Martin pulled out of the players’ garage. Recognizing his black Porsche, fans pressed forward with programs for him to autograph. Martin rolled down his window to sign them. Most were fathers and kids, but May saw a few beautiful women standing in the group too. Martin signed in silence, his face stern.

Even as they pulled away, he didn’t speak. May had come to learn that this was his pattern after a loss: He would analyze the game in his mind, going over mistakes he had made, thinking of moves that might have made a difference. Boston was decorated for Christmas, with white lights everywhere, and in spite of Martin’s quiet mood, May felt herself getting into the spirit.

“Our first holidays together,” she said.

“Still no regrets about moving in from Black Hall?” he asked.

“No. I love your—our house,” she corrected. “I can do most of my work here, and commuting down 395 two days a week doesn’t bother me.”

“Good,” he said, holding her hand and placing it under his on his knee. “Don’t want you having any second thoughts. Missing your aunt and Tobin too much.”

“Martin, on the topic of family,” she began as they approached the Boston Common. She held her purse, practically burning with the blue notebook and Serge’s postcard inside. “I’d like to meet your father.”

He didn’t say anything. They had come to a red light, and Martin had stopped, but now it turned green, and he still didn’t move. The car behind him blew its horn, and Martin pulled away fast.

“No, May,” he said, still watching in the rearview mirror to see if the same guy was there.

“He’s your father,” she said. “I know what he did, but he’s old. He’s in prison, all alone, and I think—”

“You don’t know him.”

“But I’d like to.” Dr. Whitpen’s suggestion wouldn’t go away.

“You don’t know him,” Martin said again.

They had zigzagged up the old brick and cobblestone streets, and came to a stop in front of their house on Marleybone Square. A beautiful old brick colonial, it had gleaming white trim and black shutters. May had made a wreath for the front door, and she and Aunt Enid had woven a length of laurel roping to hang above. Aunt Enid had come up for a few days and she was inside right now, baby-sitting Kylie.

“Listen,” Martin said, rubbing his eyes. He looked stressed and tired from the game, his jaw tense and brow furrowed. “You think people are good and fair. That’s the way you see the world, May. I love you for it.”

“I know people make mistakes.”

“Mistakes come in all shapes and sizes,” Martin said. “My missing Ray’s pass tonight was a mistake. You think not kissing your father good-bye was a mistake. I don’t, but you do. My father’s mistakes were different.”