Summer Light: A Novel (36 page)

“Whoa, watch it,” Ray said as Martin nearly tripped over his stick.

“Sorry,” Martin said.

The skaters had been assigned to five lines of ten kids each: blue, red, green, yellow, and orange. They assembled on the ice, and Martin addressed them all and thanked them for coming. As he spoke, their silence was complete. In that vast cavern of ice-cold space, Martin heard his own voice echoing in the rafters.

“I know why you’re here,” he said, and although he spoke quietly, his voice boomed in his ears. “Every one of you, no matter whether you’re from Saskatchewan or the East, from Quebec or right here in Toronto. You’re here because you dream.

“All the time,” Martin continued. “In July, when it’s hot out and all your friends are swimming in the lake, you dream of winter when it freezes, when you can put on your skates and go out on the ice. At night, when you’re supposed to be asleep, you dream of waking up nice and early, hitting the ice before anyone else, when the surface is clear and black.

“If you live on Nova Scotia or Vancouver Island, you look out at all that salt water, at the Atlantic or Pacific Ocean, and you dream it has frozen, that the rocks are goals. If you live downtown here in Toronto, you dream that you have the keys to the ice—the Air Canada Centre or better yet, Maple Leaf Gardens. That you could play your game better than anyone who ever played here before—Wayne Gretsky or Mario Lemieux or even Rocket Ray Gardner!”

Everyone cheered and laughed, and Martin swallowed with emotion. The kids were going wild, thrilled to be playing with him and Ray.

Gazing at the sea of children, he saw himself at their ages. He remembered being that young, of the dreams he had had of meeting a real hockey player. His dreams of playing with a professional, of being taught by his own father. Of playing with his idol, Serge Cartier.

“So let’s do it,” he said, his voice thick and low. “Let’s make our dreams come true right now—let’s play.”

The kids took turns, line by line, shooting the puck and being coached by Martin Cartier and Ray Gardner. Martin talked about discipline and concentration. He corrected grips and postures. He talked about passing and defense, and he answered questions more intelligent and perceptive than any professional interviewer’s.

Then the kids cleared the ice, to watch Martin and Ray show them practice drills. Martin’s heart was pounding as he skated down the ice, waiting for Ray to fire the first shot. The two of them had been doing this for decades, beginning on the clear December ice of Lac Vert.

Wham! The puck hit his stick like a cannonball, and Martin returned it full force. The two friends skated back and forth, exchanging passes, slamming shots into the net, sending the puck away and gliding after it. The kids laughed and yelled. Martin knew Ray’s style so well, he hardly had to look at all. He’d reach out his stick, and the puck would be there. He’d whirl around, and Ray would find him.

Eyes in the back of his head…

His father, marveling at Martin’s superhuman peripheral vision, his incredible skill at anticipating passes from behind, had come up with the theory that his son, in fact, had eyes in the back of his head.

He skates like a blind man,
his father had said once, giving Martin the ultimate compliment. His senses were so acute, so fine-tuned, he could find his man without seeing him, hit the goal without looking directly at it.

“Practice constantly,” Martin heard himself saying to the kids right after scoring an easy goal on a perfect pass from Ray. “Find yourself a buddy, and do drills every chance you get.”

“Buddy,” Ray said, dropping the word over his shoulder as he skated by in search of his son.

“Every chance you get,” Martin said, his voice filling the arena again as everyone fell silent to listen. “Others might skate faster, shoot better. But if you focus, if you put in two hours a day, if you really concentrate, hockey will become second nature. The worst that will happen is you’ll make a really good friend.”

Martin paused, aware of Ray watching him from the sidelines.

“And if you practice every chance you get, if you get a sense for where you are in the world, on the ice, in relation to the puck, your friend, and everyone else—well, one day, you might just get the skill you need to play like a blind man.”

“A what?” someone called.

“A blind man with eyes in the back of his head,” Martin said, staring through dark fog at the crowd of young faces.

The SkyDome was packed, the baseball game was exciting, and the Toronto Blue Jays beat the Chicago Cubs 4–2. From there they headed to the Hockey Hall of Fame. It stood in downtown Toronto, at the corner of Yonge and Front Streets, occupying a stately Beaux Arts building that had once been a bank.

At first the other tourists surrounded Martin, begging him for autographs. Some had their pictures taken with him. Although he complied, his shoulders were so stiff and his mood so dark that most people soon backed away.

“Are you okay?” May asked.

“It’s one thing to bother me when I’m alone,” Martin said, “but it’s another when you and Kylie are with me.”

“I like it,” Kylie said.

They visited the goal scoring arena, where visitors were able to challenge the greatest hockey players of all time. Martin seemed strangely quiet as he led May and Kylie through the exhibits, showing them the photographs, archives, equipment of his game: retired jerseys, sticks, skates of revered players, and the exhibit showing how masks are made. When they came to the Honored Members Wall, they stopped to stare at the glass plaques.

“Are you up there?” Kylie asked.

“No,” Martin answered.

“Not yet,” May said, sliding her arm through his.

“Takes three years after retirement, if I make it here at all,” Martin said. “And I don’t plan to retire for a long time.”

“Is your father here?” Kylie asked abruptly.

“Yes,” Martin said, starting to walk away.

“Where?” Kylie asked.

Without even looking, Martin pointed at a plaque right in the middle.

“Serge Cartier,” Kylie read.

“There was some talk about kicking him out.” Martin was gazing down the long hall. “They should have.”

“Did you ever come here with him?”

“Once or twice,” Martin said. “We brought Natalie when she was little. Stood right here, in this very spot.” He stared down at the floor, as if he could see her small footprints.

“All of you together?” Kylie asked.

“Yes.”

“The strange thing about the Stanley Cup,” Kylie announced, “is that it was donated in 1893 by the Canadian Governor-General, Lord Stanley, and he never even once saw a Cup game.”

“How do you know that?” May asked, laughing.

“I dreamed about it when Martin was playing the finals. Someone told me in my dreams.”

“Who?” May asked, but Kylie just shook her head.

“Didn’t Lord Stanley like hockey?” May asked, going along with the story.

“No,” Martin said, as if he already knew.

“But his sons did,” Kylie said. “He created the Stanley Cup because he loved his sons.”

“Yes, he did,” Martin said, peering at her. “Who did tell you that story, Kylie? Not many people know it.”

“Some people do,” she said.

“Yes…”

“You know who loved it the most. Your father told her right here, when you were all standing in this spot.”

“Natalie…” Martin was staring at Kylie as if he had just seen a ghost.

For their last excursion before returning to Lac Vert, Ray surprised everyone by renting a minivan.

“We’re going to Niagara Falls,” he said when the Cartiers walked back into the King Edward. “Get your cameras—the bus leaves in ten minutes.”

The actual drive took one and a half hours, but it turned out to be not so much a day trip as a pilgrimage. There were many stops to be made along the way: at the Butterfly Conservatory because Charlotte loved butterflies; Kurtz Orchards so Genny could investigate alternate sources for fruit for her jams; the Inniskillin Winery so Ray could buy a few bottles; and MarineLand because Kylie wanted to see fish and animals.

As soon as they arrived at Niagara Falls, Martin wanted to take May and Kylie down the elevator at Table Rock House, on the Journey Behind the Falls. If they didn’t go now, it would be too late. The elevator would close, and they’d miss their chance. The sun was bright gold, sliding into low purple clouds above the horizon. It spread buttery light over the rocks and rails, the buildings and falls themselves.

Martin herded his family through the gate. Whisked one hundred and fifty feet down through the rock, Kylie laughed as her ears popped. She couldn’t get over the fact there was an elevator inside the earth, and neither could May. Martin loved showing them something new, feeling their excitement. He wanted to forget the pain in his eyes, the shock of hearing Kylie repeat almost verbatim that conversation he’d had with his father and Nat so many years ago.

“Ready?” he asked.

May and Kylie nodded, pulling on the yellow slickers handed to them by the attendant. Martin got his on, and together they stepped onto the viewing platform. A wall of water enclosed them as Martin caught his breath.

“We’re standing inside Niagara Falls!” May said.

“It’s like being inside a wave,” Kylie called.

The water roared all around them, the spray soaking their faces and hair. Martin blinked, trying to clear his vision. The crowd was very thin, most people having left for the day.

“What’s wrong?” May asked.

“I know it’s not Kylie’s fault, but her telling that story about Lord Stanley, the one my father told to me and Natalie. Jesus, it was as if Kylie had been there…”

May nodded, listening.

“I must have told her the story once,” he said.

“Probably.”

“But I don’t remember it,” he said. Then glancing up, “Is she still upset about her visit to the university?”

“She’s confused because she got so many cards wrong. Out of fifty, she only picked the right one once.”

“What does that mean?”

“It seems she’s lost the gift,” May said.

“I don’t know.” He was staring into space. “The way she talked about my father, as if she’d been there…”

“She used to dream about helping you find your way back to him,” May said.

“That would be a nightmare, not a dream,” he said.

“It felt important to her. To me, too.”

“I know,” he said.

“I’m a river!” Kylie sang out.

“Be careful, honey. Not too close,” May warned her, stepping away from Martin.

Their voices were off to his left. Martin stepped back, drying his face. He squinted, but everything was dark down in this subterranean chamber. Backing against the stone, he felt condensation.

“It’s slippery!” Kylie cried.

“Take my hand,” May said.

“Mommy!” Kylie shrieked, her voice sharp and full of panic.

Martin lunged toward the sound of their voices. His hands found emptiness. The walkway seemed to end as he crashed into the rail. The roar of the water got louder, as if he had stepped right into the falls. It banged and rushed in his ears, so loud he couldn’t hear May or Kylie’s voices. Spray coated his face, and the more he wiped his eyes, the worse his vision became.