Picks and Sticks Read online

  2

  Divisionals

  JANE REACHED HER LEG way out in front. This back sit spin was her specialty. She had added a variation to it. Because she was so flexible, she was able to bend her head to her knee and spin at the same time. She lifted her knee to her forehead and quickly kissed it, secretly hoping Leonard wouldn’t notice. She was almost done. She lifted up and out of the sit spin and turned into her final corkscrew. The decorations of her local arena spun past as she tightened in on herself. There went the judges; there went the music room; there went the hockey banners; there went her coach, her mother, her brother, the audience a blur. Her blades made tiny circles on the ice. She lifted her hands over her head and came to a perfect stop precisely with the end of her music.

  During her program, Jane had shut out the cheering to focus on the music. Now, the noise of the hometown crowd rushed toward her in a deafening wall of sound, surprising her with proof that she had done well. She looked for her mother as she curtsied.

  Deb was hugging Leonard. That was a good sign. Jane curtsied to the other side of the arena, and then skated backwards, moving toward them, waving to the crowd. She stepped forward onto one foot and glided off the ice. Mike was beaming at her, but it was her mother’s opinion she craved.

  “Way to go, Jane,” Deb said.

  “Did you watch, Mom?”

  “As much as I could,” Deb smiled ruefully and hugged her. Mike grabbed them both into a family bear hug and said, “You were amazing!” He lifted the two of them off the ground.

  “Mike!” their mother yelped.

  Deb was usually too scared to watch Jane’s events. Jane knew this. Her mother would look down or away, her eyes closed the entire program, relying on Leonard and the crowd’s reaction to tell her what was happening. Jane understood, but was disappointed every time. Every single time, she wanted her mother to watch her.

  Mike released them, and Jane stole a glance at Leonard. He was shaking out his hand, restoring circulation. Deb must have practically squeezed it off, his hand her worry beads as she forced him to give a play-­by-­play when all he really wanted to do was concentrate on his skater. Her mother wasn’t even supposed to be beside the coach watching — her place was up in the stands — but Leonard let her do whatever she wanted.

  Strange, how her mother made these events all about herself.

  Jane faced her coach. Handsome in a patrician, snotty way, Leonard looked down his long nose at her, his prized, knee-­length, brown mink coat ruffling in a strange indoor breeze, moving in concert with his grey-­speckled brown hair. He looked like a tall animal in motion — a graceful, long-­haired Afghan hound. His looks were about the only thing Jane liked about him.

  She waited for his inevitable comment. Leonard’s moods were so hot and cold — Jane never knew what she was going to get. Chatty to the point of distraction, aloof to the point of rudeness, he could scare her with the force of his disapproval. She always felt on tenterhooks until she knew which way his mood was going to swing. Then, she would adjust her response accordingly to allow for the least amount of confrontation. It was too exhausting to fight him.

  “The crowd’s going nuts,” Leonard observed instead of hugging her. “Lucky for us the Sudbury arena burned down, and they transferred the competition here. Hometown support might sway the judges Jane’s way.”

  “It didn’t for the senior event,” Deb pointed out.

  “Yes, it did. Being an alternate on the senior team is an excellent achievement first time out,” Leonard argued. “We talked about this, Deb. We decided this together. Competing in the senior event this week provided Jane with valuable exposure and experience. I mean, all the bigwigs are here, and she rose to the occasion, showed them what she’s made of! I don’t want to argue about it anymore.”

  “Did she do well today, though?” Deb prodded him. “I couldn’t watch.” She always said the same thing.

  “I think so,” Leonard said.

  “Will she win?”

  “It’s between her and Mandy Hill.”

  “Yikes.”

  “We’ve gotta win this junior event,” Leonard fretted. “I mean, this is the one we’re going after.”

  Jane felt suddenly defiant. She was standing right there, and it was like she didn’t even exist. “Got nothing GOOD to say to me, Leonard?” she prompted.

  “What did you kiss your knee for?” he jabbed. He had her there. Caught as usual.

  “I … I just … felt like it.”

  “You could have upset your balance completely.”

  “I was fine. Really. I felt … I don’t know … relaxed.”

  “Relaxed? In the middle of your long program!”

  “I didn’t fall, did I?”

  “No changes at a competition, Jane. Especially Divisionals! I shouldn’t have to repeat myself, over and over again.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’ll … try not to …”

  Jane petered out. Mike interrupted, saving her. “You’ve got this clinched!” He lifted her off the ground again, squeezing the breath out of her. She protested and he put her down. She stood, enveloped by her brother’s hockey-­player arms as they awaited her marks. All eyes in the arena were on the judges, but their heads were still down, writing.

  Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd as people waited patiently for the outcome. Jane’s heart would not calm itself. She felt as if she were still on the ice exerting herself, it pounded so hard. She watched the judges’ referee nod at the last, tardy judge, and, in unison, they lifted their number cards high above their heads. Technical Merit marks of 4.8s and 4.9s flashed, dazzling Jane speechless; 4.9s and 5.0s for Artistic Impression finished the deal. She had won the Junior Ladies event for the Northern Ontario Section!

  Mike lifted Jane off the ground for the third time, a yell of triumph gushing out of her lungs. Deb collapsed against them in relief and grabbed her daughter.

  “Mike, stop squishing her!” she admonished, and smothered Jane in kisses. Jane turned to Leonard, expecting congratulations. He nodded, smiled slightly, and patted her head like a puppy. Jane suppressed an urge to bat his hand away. Instead, she took her mother’s hand, and with her brother’s arm draped over her shoulder, she listened to the noise of the crowd. With heightened awareness, as though time was moving slowly just for her, she watched Ivan wheel the pieces of the medal podium out onto the ice. He unfurled a red carpet and, with great care, placed three platforms of differing heights onto it. He straightened and caught her eye, grinning at her. She flashed on their strange meeting at the pond. Perhaps her secretive skate there had brought her luck! Ivan finished his job, then skidded to the side of the boards and blended into the crowd.

  The name of the third place finisher was announced over the static-­filled speaker, a young skater against whom Jane had never competed. Out she came, a scrawny twelve-­year-­old phenomenon. She curtsied at centre, and skated to the red carpet where she went up on her picks and took her place on the lowest rung of the podium. Jane then listened to the announcer call twice for Mandy Hill. The clapping from the audience petered out both times. Eventually, a pink, fluffy girl skated out peevishly, practically manhandled onto the ice by her oversized female coach. Mandy didn’t bother to curtsy to the crowd, but barreled her way to the red carpet where she came to a vicious, ice-­spraying stop, and climbed onto the top podium. She lingered there for a moment before slipping down to the lower, second place position.

  “And now, Divisional junior champion and hometown sweetheart … Jane Matagov!”

  Jane felt her mother squeeze her hand, her brother squeeze her shoulder, and she left her supporters, skated to centre ice, curtsied, and climbed to the top of the podium. A rush of feeling embraced her as she bent her head to receive the gold medal. Her heart felt oddly warm. She put a hand on her medal, placing it carefully in the centre of her chest. She stood up straight and rea
lized with a start that her face was wet with tears.

  Each girl was handed a bouquet of flowers, and with these, they waved to the crowd. Jane glanced down at Mandy, prepared to invite her onto the top of the podium, but her long-­time rival was grimacing a false smile, waving her flowers oh-­so-­enthusiastically. Jane congratulated her on her skate.

  “I’ll nail you at Canadians,” Mandy gritted.

  Jane attempted diplomacy. “You can try.” Wave, wave, smile, smile. Daggers and knives. Jane abandoned her idea of invitation, and the three medalists descended the podium and skated over to their respective coaches.

  Now, Leonard was beside himself. Congratulated by every passing coach, he savoured countless slaps on the back. Watching him lap up the attention, Jane felt embarrassed by his neediness. She looked away into the moving crowd above her, and caught Irina’s pale blue eyes as she descended the stairs.

  “Now the real work begins, Jane,” Leonard was saying. “You think I’ve been hard on you up to now? It’s been cotton candy. Get ready for liver and onions.” Jane only half-­heard Leonard’s stupid metaphors. Irina brushed by her on the way out, shy, quiet.

  “Congrat-­u-­la-­tion. You very good skater.” And she was gone. Jane heard Leonard say “six a.m.” Then she was pure fight.

  “You said we were going to take a break.”

  “I said maybe,” he countered. “You bobbled the landing on the axel, it seems to me. Overrotated. Made me think you’ve been trying for more rotations somewhere out of my sight.”

  “I skidded. The ice was rough there.”

  Leonard turned to her mother. “Wouldn’t it be great to see Jane try a double Lutz/double toe combination, Deb? I think she’s ready for it.”

  “She’s just a junior!” Deb exclaimed.

  “Senior alternate and incredible jumper,” Leonard retorted. “I think we should try.”

  Deb smiled at her daughter. “Okay. But only after Jane takes a break.” Jane’s jaw dropped. Her mother never took her side against Leonard. She sidled up to Deb and wrapped her arms around her waist. Her coach, oblivious, continued his stream of new instructions. As the arena continued to empty, Jane sighed, pretending to listen, and looked off in the direction of the winter girl.

  Leonard drove Deb and Jane home in his rusty old junker, stark proof that his coaching life had not been glamorous. His fur coat had been his only splurge, a coach’s necessity. Recently, his life had consisted of driving from town to town in Northern Ontario backwaters, scratching out a living by teaching dance and freestyle skating to untalented nobodies. He complained endlessly about how his amazing talent was being wasted. An accomplished but notoriously difficult coach, Leonard had been kicked out of more than one Toronto club. He was still awaiting his big break into the upper echelons of coaching, but for this you needed a star. With Jane, Leonard sensed his time had come. Jane felt enormous pressure to please him.

  Still high from their victory, he chattered non-­stop. Divisional junior champion! Senior alternate first time out! The sectional people had held a little gathering for the coaches, skaters, and their families after the event, and the president of the Canadian Figure Skating Association, Gerald Finch, had even been there. Leonard was still repeating Finch’s praise to his captive listeners.

  Jane grew tired of nodding, sat up straighter, and watched her town mosey on by, yet again tuning Leonard out. He had turned down the town’s only main street as if on a victory parade — except no one attended. He turned right at the town’s one stop light. There was Steve’s Bakery, the doughnut shop that Dad had liked to take them to when Mom was working. There went the Presbyterian Church, the Anglican Church, and the Pentecostal Church. Up ahead was the Roman Catholic Church. This was Church Street. Jane’s house was surrounded by churches. She had never set foot in any of them, except when she slept over at a friend’s place, and the mother decided Jane needed to be saved. She sat and stood repeatedly in the Pentecostal Church that Sunday morning, listening to shouts of praise and thanks to God. Even her friend did it. That spooked her. She had never gone into another church. But maybe those were places where people actually figured out what they wanted from life.

  The pond is my church, Jane thought suddenly.

  Leonard’s chatter pierced Jane’s reverie. “She’s got to be in bed at nine o’clock every night. Eight hours sleep, every night. No exception. She’s got to eat, drink, and sleep skating.”

  Jane watched her mother nod and look out the window. “I’ll do my best, Leonard. I’ve been on nights. I haven’t been able to stay on top of her.”

  Jane bristled. “I’m fifteen years old. I can stay on top of myself.”

  Leonard shot back, “Okay, Jane. Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning at six o’clock at the arena. Already warmed up.” So much for Jane’s break. She tried a tiny argument.

  “That means I have to get up at five.”

  “Yup. That means bed at nine. Right, Deb?”

  “Right,” Deb sighed. “I’ll be trying to nap before my shift tonight. Jane, you’ll just have to promise me you’ll get into bed on time.”

  “Yeah. Okay, Mom.” Jane gave up. Her mom had clearly done so. As always.

  Leonard jerked the car into their driveway. Jane got out, struggling with her skate bag, and went inside. She dumped her stuff, tumbled up the stairs, and sat on her bed. She stared at her little hockey skates on the nightstand, took off her gold medal, and draped it around the skates, conscious of the effect. Then she lifted it off again and shoved it inside one of the hockey boots.

  3

  A Long Day

  of Dilemmas

  FOUR-­THIRTY A.M. Alarm clock ringing. Alarm clock falling onto floor, ringing louder. Arm groping for alarm clock. Alarm clock flying into wall. Silence. Four-­thirty-­one.

  Jane pulled herself out of bed and stepped into the Adidas track pants left lying on the floor. She stumbled into the bathroom. Her brother hovered over the toilet. She groaned, and waited by the door, staring sleepily at his naked back. With his rumpled hair and smooth muscles, girls were crazy for him, but he was oblivious, his eye on the holy grail of hockey. A group of girls from her grade would sit and watch his games, and then wait around for him, hoping for a kind word or a glance in their direction. And when they got one, they’d run off giggling, confusing Mike even more. He’s pathetic with females, thought Jane. I have to point that out to him soon. She continued to stare drowsily at his longish brown curls.

  “Hurry up, for crying out loud,” she hissed as she turned her back and leaned against the hallway wall.

  Jane couldn’t figure out which of them was more affected by their father’s death. She would catch in her grown brother her father’s stance, the exact way he had moved. Even his eyes were the same. But somehow Mike was gentler, tamed by the knowledge that a life could be taken in a split second. He was ultra-­responsible, had swung the other way completely, their father’s wild edge not a part of him. His past coaches had tried to instill a killer instinct and there were flashes of it, but they were rare. He was more the finesse player, the playmaker, the brains. Jane loved to watch him play.

  Today, he was mildly pissed off in a groggy, adorable way. “You throw that clock against my wall one more time, I’ll kill you.”

  “Sorry. Could’ja just hurry up, please?” Mike slowly finished up, infuriating his sister with short, quick bursts of pee. “You’re at the three-minute mark,” Jane grumped. Finally, Mike bumped past her and stumbled back to bed, nudging her playfully out of the way.

  Foregoing a shower, Jane was in the kitchen in minutes. She extracted the blender from its messy cupboard and threw in a frozen banana, milk, ice cubes, a little touch of ice cream, strawberries, a Fred Flintstones vitamin C pill, and a raw egg. She watched the contents mash together, her mind on the tasks ahead. She poured the smooth, cold drink into an oversized cup and left the blender for M
ike to clean.

  Half-­awake, Jane shuffled through the living room and set her smoothie on a dresser in the hallway. On it was a small photograph of Deb and Leonard in their pairs’ skating outfits, a dynamic duo, circa 1955. She resisted an urge to lay the picture flat. It was so obvious that they were living out their shattered dreams through her.

  Jane bent down and shoved her two pairs of figure skates, skate blade-­rubbing chamois, towel, scribe for drawing perfect figure eights, and freshly pressed practice skating dress into an overstuffed Adidas skating bag. Mom must’ve set these out before she left for the nursing home last night for her “graveyard shift.” The kids hated that shift: the tiptoeing required during the day and the bleary-­eyed crankiness of their mother after school. Jane slipped on a pair of tall boots and began tossing hats out of the hatbox, looking for her favourite. Not finding it, she abandoned the mess on the floor and donned her parka.

  Overseeing her activities was a large portrait of her father, Bud, in hockey uniform, staring hard at the camera. It was hung on the wall above the antique dresser that their mother insisted lent class to their hallway. That morning, it stopped her in her tracks. There were Mike’s tough, puppy-­dog eyes, the intelligence but with more anger behind. She stared at the photograph of her father, amazed her mother hadn’t hidden it, too. She glanced at her watch, and stared back up at it. Bud’s eyes seemed to get clearer, browner, wiser. Jane looked over at Mike’s hockey sticks in the corner. She contemplated them for a moment, then reached over and grabbed one. She turned it over in her mitts, weighing the potential consequences. She would just use it this morning; she’d have a quick skate with it before anyone else showed up, especially Leonard. A quick hockey skate for old time’s sake, she rhymed in her head. Then she would return it before Mike even noticed it was gone. She hoisted the heavy figure skating bag over her shoulders, held onto the stick, grabbed her smoothie, and tramped out the door.