Chapter 13
A few days after Billy was injured, there was another serious conversation in the beverage room of the Ottawa House. Stanton was relieved to hear the Campbells were not going to pull their son off the team. “Not this time,” Angus informed him. “We broached the subject and he went nuts on us, so we took him to see Doctor MacMillan. He said it wasn’t as bad as it looked. There’s no sign of a concussion, he said.”
Stanton leapt on the news. “That’s great! The boy loves the game so much, it would be tough to make him quit.” At the same time, he smiled silent thanks that the Campbells hadn’t been at the game to witness their son’s violent collision with the goal post.
Angus caught his quiet smile and frowned. “Don’t be so quick to celebrate, Mr. Stanton. His mother is still on the warpath over this rough stuff. If he had had a concussion, we’d be having a different conversation, I can tell you that.”
Stanton’s smile faded fast at Angus’s threatening tone. Stanton cast him a troubled look. “I can’t promise you he’ll never get hurt, Angus. You know that.”
They were sitting at a table in the corner of the beverage room. Nothing was said for the next minute or so, and the waiter arrived to pick up their empties and replace them with two more Exports. One look at their glum faces, and he moved away without any attempt at conversation. Stanton took some slight encouragement from the fact that Angus accepted the second bottle of beer.
Angus studied the label on the bottle for a long moment before he took pity on Stanton and offered him an opening. “What is it about hockey that these kids get hooked on, Tony? Do you know?”
Stanton smiled. “Hah, I’ve been hooked on the game all my life, and I’m still not sure why.” He thought about it for another moment before continuing. “For me, it’s the speed that makes it special. I mean, it’s got the same stuff most games have — rules, time limits, a playing field — with two teams competing for points inside a box. But when you tie those blades to your feet? You can go out there and fly, at speeds you can’t experience in any other game. You know, the game is so fast you can lose yourself in it, completely.”
Stanton downed some of his beer and went on, “Look at me. I’m short and heavy, thirty-eight years old. And my joints are already stiffening up on me, but when I put a pair of skates on these stumpy little legs of mine . . .” He paused then, and looked around to make sure no one was listening, before adding, “You know, when I’m on the ice, I can move like some crazy ballet dancer.” He smiled. “Did you ever see those guys?”
“No,” Angus smiled back. “Can’t say that I have.”
“I did. Went to see them once when I was playing down in Pittsburgh. I tell you, Angus, those damn guys fly across the stage like their feet aren’t touching the ground. That’s what it feels like when you’re skating — like you’re a hundred pounds lighter, like you can fly. For my money, it’s that freedom to move, defying gravity; that’s what’s so intoxicating about hockey.” The coach emptied his beer glass and belched, just to make sure Angus Campbell didn’t think he was actually a fan of ballet. Then he reinforced it with a grin. “I should know, being something of an expert on the intoxication business.”
Angus nodded. “I’ll give you that, Tony, but it’s your expertise in hockey I’m counting on. Billy told me two of those kids from Maxville drove him into the net the other night. Maybe I should have a talk with their father?”
Stanton shook his head vigorously. “Oh, jeez, no. That would only make it worse for him.”
“Well, then, how about you? Have you got any ideas on teaching him to defend himself out there? The games I’ve watched, I’ve never seen them take a run at young Brian.”
“You’re right. They’re afraid of Brian,” Tony answered. “And I have been thinking about it, especially after that last game.” He took another sip of beer and gathered his thoughts. “I’ve tried talking to him, you know. I just don’t think I’m getting through to him.” He sighed. “I dunno, maybe he’ll have to learn the hard way, like most of us do.”
“Well, if the learning comes by way of a bad injury, he might just be learning his way out of the game.”
Stanton shook his head in dismay. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “There is one idea I had, to help him. I just don’t know if you’ll go along with it.”
Angus smiled. “What? Give him a gun?”
Stanton managed a nervous laugh. “No. Not quite. Actually . . . what I had in mind was doing something to build him up, like maybe getting him work at the farmer’s co-op. You know, with Paul Labelle.”
It was Angus’s turn to shake his head. “I mighta known it was going to cost me, the way you were coming at it. What? You don’t think I work him hard enough?”
Stanton leaned away, realizing he had touched a sore spot. “No, no, that’s not it. It’s just that he needs some beefing up, the kind you get from hard, physical labour. You know what I mean. Like on the farm.”
Angus rubbed his chin and thought about it. Stanton had hit on the right comparison. He finally responded, “To be honest, you may be right. I’ve thought about that, what little chance town kids have to put some meat on their bones — not like on the farm, with all your chores.” Angus actually grinned at the red-faced little Irishman who kept surprising him. “You know, aside from costing me a worker, that might be a good idea. Have you talked to Paul about it?”
Stanton shook his head. “I wanted to see what you thought.”
“Well, why don’t you? I’m sure the boy could help him out after school, and such. Make sure Paul understands we wouldn’t expect him to be paying the boy. He’d be doing him a favour.”
“Okay, then, I’ll do that. I’ll talk to Paul.”
“We’ll have to make sure the homework still gets done, after supper. He’ll have to decide which it’s going to be. Hockey or television.”
“Television?” Stanton queried.
“Yeah. As soon as they’re in the door, that damn television is on.”
Stanton’s red face got redder. He hadn’t even thought of the homework issue, so he was glad for a diversion. “You folks got a set, do you?”
“Broke down and got one. Sylvania, seventeen inches. Got a good deal on it, from Roy Plamondon.”
“Can’t see much use for them, myself. Except for Saturday night hockey. My father’s after me to put one in the bar.”
“I like the Friday night fights, myself.”
“Gillette, eh? Look sharp, feel sharp, be sharp, too.” He smiled. “Folks in the bar might like that — the fights I mean.”
Angus laughed. “’Course you better make sure it doesn’t interfere with their drinking.”
Stanton was taken aback. “You think it might?”
Angus smiled and got up to leave. “Don’t know, but I better get back to the shop and do a couple of tune-ups. I haven’t finished paying for that television set.”
“Okay, then. I’ll talk to Paul. And then I’ll have another talk with Billy. He’ll have to learn how to handle the rough stuff, if he wants to keep on playing.”
“He doesn’t seem worried. I think he’s proud of that scar.”
Stanton smiled as he watched Angus go out the door. His team was still intact.
The scar was still fresh on Billy’s forehead when the coach extended an invitation to stay behind after a game in the Munro Mills Arena. “Hey, fellas,” Stanton called out to Brian and Billy as they were leaving. “Why don’t you hang around and watch some of this bushwhack hockey. C’mon, I’ll buy you a Coke.”
Billy hesitated. He and Brian had planned to walk up to Shirley’s place and look for Elaine and Susan, but when he looked at Brian all he got was a shrug. Too polite to say no, Billy followed Brian and the coach to the snack bar.
“What would you like, boys?” Stanton asked. “Soft drink, hot chocolate? Fries, maybe?”
The two of them grinned, captured easily by the smell of hot fries and vinegar. “Uh, thanks, Coach. Fries and a coke, maybe.” Their stomachs already growling, they were a little perplexed at this kind of attention from Tony Stanton. They wondered if he had some bad news for them.
They stacked their equipment against the wall by the snack bar, and picked up their food. After making their way to a spot behind the penalty box, they squeezed into three of the few remaining seats in the arena. An evening of senior hockey drew a pretty big crowd in Munro Mills, where the new arena was still being celebrated.
As soon as they sat down, Stanton started a running commentary. “You ever seen these guys play?”
“Once in a while,” Brian answered, “after a weekend game.”
“Most of them are in their twenties; some in their thirties. A few played Junior A, and had a couple of years in the pros.”
“Yeah, Coach?” Brian was suddenly more interested.
Stanton smiled. “Yeah, some of these guys might’ve made the NHL. Just a matter of luck, that’s all.” He turned his attention to the action on the ice. “There! Look! You see that?” He was pointing at a player who had just tried to break through the defence, only to be bodychecked to the ice. “Did you see that hip check, Brian? He just waited until the last second, then threw the hip into him.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” Brian answered as he rejoined Billy in filling his face with french fries.
Stanton was gratified to see both boys taking time between mouthfuls to lean forward and concentrate on watching for more examples of moves that almost made the NHL. “Watch the old guys. They don’t have the legs anymore, so they’ve got to use their heads — slow the play down, set their own pace. Mind you, there’s some dirty sons-a-guns out there, too; guys who think it’s fun to smash a fella’s face with a stick. They’re out there, boys, and if you let them cross-check you in the shoulder and get away with it, the next time it’ll be a cross-check to the face. That’s why there’s a rule — always hit back.”
Billy was eating, listening, and watching, trying to spot some of this life-threatening violence the coach was talking about. It did look pretty rugged out there, especially in the corners. He watched one player get his face rubbed along the wire mesh behind the net, then chase his tormenter out front and give him a two-hander across the ankles. But the coach wasn’t totally correct. There was one player who seemed to have free passage, along the boards and in the corners. “Look at that guy, Coach; number eleven. Nobody touches him. Must be ’cause he’s so small, eh?”
Stanton turned to Billy with a wry grin. “You mean for our team? Number eleven?”
“Yeah, eleven,” Billy mumbled as he focused on digging the last of his fries from the box.
Stanton laughed. “Campbell, you gotta be the most naive kid I ever met. Watch a little longer and you’ll see why nobody messes with number eleven. And pay attention how he carries his stick. Notice anything different about it?”
Billy finished swallowing before he leaned forward and scrutinized the stick in question. “It’s got a big knob of tape, a few inches from the end of the handle, and . . .” he looked at the coach for confirmation, “and he holds it funny, like it’s too long for him.”
Stanton nodded. “That’s right, and for a good reason. That’s Butch Seager, the toughest hockey player in three counties. Keep your eye on him, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Billy’s eyes widened with surprise. “But I’ve been watching him for the whole shift, and I haven’t seen anything.”
The coach smiled again. “It’s early yet. These guys had a brutal game last time they met, and we got the worst of it. This is only our second year in the league, and we’re pretty much the doormat for towns like Alexandria and Hawkesbury. That’s why the guys talked Butch into coming out of retirement this week. He’s thirty-six years old — hasn’t played in two years. Anyways, right now they’re just sizing each other up, waiting to see who’s going to make the first move. Pretty soon, I’ll bet you, the coach will put Butch on against Hawkesbury’s checking line. Their dirtiest player is on that line, Foster. See him, at the end of the bench? Big guy, almost bald?”
Brian spotted him first. “That big, ugly guy? Oh, yeah; he looks mean.”
“Last week he smashed up Pete McLeod’s face with his stick.”
“You mean Pete McLeod from Lancaster?”
“You should see the mess Foster made of his face. Broken jaw; out for a month, at least.”
Brian nodded. “He looks like he’s in the mood to do it to someone else.”
Stanton laughed. “He’s new in the league. Doesn’t know Butch Seager.”
Sure enough, a couple of shifts later Butch Seager lined up on right wing, against the big man from Hawkesbury. As the referee got set to drop the puck, Seager looked up and greeted Foster with a gap-toothed smile and a tap on the shin pad. He was answered with an angry scowl and a hack to the ankle.
Play got under way and the dance began. Every time the puck went near Seager, the big guy would try to hit him. A couple of times he was able to bang him against the boards. The third time he caught Seager from behind and smashed him to the ice. Seager got up like nothing had happened. But everyone in the arena knew he was staring at Foster’s back for a reason.
Stanton was doing the play-by-play for the boys. “Look at him, watching the guy. Waiting, waiting, like he’s stalking a bloody moose.”
The boys looked at each other, wondering if maybe the coach was wrong. Maybe Seager was actually afraid of Foster — they wouldn’t blame him.
The play went up and down the ice a few times and still nothing happened. Then Hawkesbury dumped the puck into the corner and Seager went after it, at half speed, with a quick glance behind him. The arena grew quiet. It seemed as though everyone in the building was focused on the stranger from Hawkesbury, wanting to warn him, mean as he was, not to follow Butch Seager into that corner. But Foster, sure of his size and his strength, kept coming, picking up speed at the same time as Seager was slowing down, making himself an easy target against the boards. Faster and faster, the big man kept coming — until he was so close there was no stopping, not on his own accord. With Foster a second away, Seager raised his stick waist-high, jammed the blade into the boards, and slid his hand down the shaft.
Foster screamed in agony as the stick buried itself in his belly. The blade broke off against the boards and hit the ice just a shade sooner than he did. Seager dropped the splintered shaft and stepped over the crumpled heap on the ice. He was skating calmly up the rink before the Hawkesbury players reached their fallen comrade. The man moaned as they rolled him on to his back. The crowd, dead silent till then, began to buzz.
“Holy shit,” Billy exclaimed, “he coulda killed him.”
“That was pretty bad,” Stanton responded in a quiet voice. This was a little more reality than he had counted on. “They’ll need a stretcher. Probably something’s busted, inside.”
“Holy jeez, Coach,” Billy asked with eyes still wide, “how could somebody do that? To another guy?”
“I told you. Seager is heartless, cold as ice. Of course, Pete McLeod looked just as bad, worse even. Took half an hour to scrape all the blood off the ice. That’s what I’m telling you, though: there’s guys like Foster and Seager out there. You have to learn to watch for them. Look at that, Seager’s acting like nothing happened.”
The referee had caught up to Seager and was pointing to the penalty box. Some of the Hawkesbury players threatened him as he headed there, but only from a safe distance. He had another stick in his hand by this time. He waved it at the contingent of Hawkesbury fans, the ones who were screaming for his blood.
“Jeez,” Brian yelled over the noise, “he’s grinning at them.”
Billy laughed. “Shit, Weir. I’ve seen you do that.”
“Yeah, but I could never hurt somebody like that. Not on purpose.”
“He’s tough, all right,” Stanton said. “The older folks say he’s worse than Sprague Cleghorn. You know, he played professional in the ’20s. They say he caused more players to be carried off the ice than any other player before or since. Even Eddie Shore, and he nearly killed Ace Bailey.”
“Yeah, I heard about him,” Brian nodded. “But damn, Coach, Seager did that on purpose. That’s just plain dirty hockey.”
Stanton shook his head. “You say that, Brian, but go down to the hardware store on Monday and have a look at Pete McLeod’s face. Besides, Seager wasn’t always like that. I went to school with him. Off the ice, he’s a real nice guy.” Then Stanton paused and looked Billy in the eye as he continued in a confidential tone. “He used to be a nice guy on the ice, too. But the same thing happened to him as Gordie Howe. You know what happened to Gordie Howe, don’t you?”
Billy wasn’t sure, but he nodded in the affirmative and the coach continued, his voice softer now that the crowd was settling down. “Butch made it into junior hockey, even though he was small for his age. And he was doing okay, getting some goals, until one night somebody smashed him into the boards and nearly killed him. They thought he’d never play again. Bad head injury — some people say he’s got a steel plate in his head. He would never say; just does something crazy every so often, keeps everyone guessing.”
The referee blew the whistle to restart the game, and Stanton took time out to light up a fresh cigar. He took a few puffs as he studied Billy’s face for signs that the message was sinking in. The boys weren’t paying much attention to the game anymore. They seemed fixated on the man in the penalty box. Stanton decided he was getting somewhere, and renewed his plea. “You see, a little guy like Butch has to keep people guessing, or else he’d get killed out there. Now, Billy, if you take after your parents, you’ll probably grow out at over six feet, weigh two hundred plus. You already weigh over one-twenty, right?” When Billy nodded, he continued. “So you could hit as hard as anybody when it comes to bodychecks, if you wanted to. But that’s still not enough. The other guy has to know that if he pushes you too hard, you’re not afraid to do whatever it takes to defend yourself. You see what I mean, kid?”
Billy nodded slowly, still a bit stunned by what he had just seen, still not sure why the coach was so intent on this business of getting even. “I don’t think I could ever do something like that, Coach. I mean, I been in a few fist fights, eh? But if I happen to get in a good punch, I always stop and ask the guy if he’s all right, in case I hurt him too bad.”
Stanton shook his head, and Brian smiled. “That’s true, Mr. Stanton. I seen him do it.”
Stanton was still shaking his head. “Well, if you do that in a real fight, you’re going to get hurt.”
Brian nodded. “I tried to tell him that, Coach, that he has to learn to fight if he wants to move up in hockey.”
Stanton focused on Billy. “Do you want to do that, Billy? Move up?”
Billy nodded slowly. “I guess so.”
Brian could see Billy was feeling pressured. “Do you think we can make Junior A, Mr. Stanton?”
Stanton looked at Brian and smiled. “You always get right to the point, don’t you, Weir?” He was considering his answer when the horn sounded to end the period. The crowd headed for the lobby, but the two boys didn’t seem to notice. The coach finally had their full attention. He lit his cigar up again and puffed on it a few times before he spoke. “This is only your first year in midget,” he started with, and then hesitated again as he pretended to focus on the crew coming out to scrape the ice. Finally, he twisted in his seat to face the two boys. “I guess both of you got a good chance, but for different reasons. You, Brian, you’re a real solid skater and a checker, but you’ll have to work on your speed. No reason why you can’t, though, if you keep in shape, no extra pounds.” He smiled, “Not like me.” Then he added, “Of course, you’ll have to play it tough. Use your size. That’s the ticket.”
Brian nodded. He was thinking about those Cokes and fries he loved so much.
Stanton continued. “And you, Campbell, you’re a horse of a different colour. You’ve got speed to burn and all the skill with the puck you’ll ever need. You’ve just got to learn that it’s more than a game. Junior is the bottom rung of the hockey business, with a lot of tough guys trying to knock you off that rung before you ever get started. Nearly everybody out there, coaches included, is competing to move up the ladder and into the pros. You’ll be up against guys who are just as fast as you and twice as mean. And you can’t count on big Brian to scare them off.”
Both boys blushed at the truth in that statement, but Billy had an answer. “I know what you mean, Coach. And I’ve been thinking, since we had that talk last week.”
“That’s good, that’s a start. What did you come up with?”
“Well, I think I know what to do, now.”
“You do?” Stanton wondered where this was going.
“Yeah,” Billy nodded, “you must’ve seen it this last game. I just have to make sure I don’t stop, is all.”
Stanton stifled a grin. “How would that work, Billy? I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Well, the McKrimmon brothers got me because I slowed down to watch the puck. You know, after I took the shot. So what I gotta do is keep moving all the time; never let them pin me down.”
Stanton felt his frustration rising. “That’s hard to do, Billy.”
“I know, but if I just skate harder all the time, and keep moving — like when they try to catch me on the boards, I’ll have to pass on the go and keep skating hard, around the end boards. Or maybe surprise them, and cut back into the middle before they’re ready.” He looked up with a big grin, like he’d solved all his problems. “You know what they say, Coach: you can’t hit a moving target.”
Stanton forced a laugh. “Well, I can’t say there aren’t guys who made it with that strategy — there’s probably a few in the NHL, right now. But I’ll bet you there’s a lot more who tried, and got their bell rung once too often.”
When Brian saw that familiar flash of stubbornness in Billy’s eyes, he interceded once again. “Yeah, but Coach, do you really think we can make it all the way to the NHL?”
“Jeez, Brian,” Stanton reacted, “why do you think I’ve been talking to you about this stuff? But your friend, here, he has to make up his mind that he really wants it. What do you say, kid?”
“Jeez, I dunno, Mr. Stanton.” Billy squirmed in his seat, afraid this was leading to more lectures about his lack of toughness. He finally risked an answer. “I guess I’d like to keep playing, all right, junior at least. But do you really think I could make it to the NHL?”
“Kid, if I had your talent I know where I’d be right now, and it wouldn’t be freezing my butt off in the Munro Mills Arena. Can you make the NHL? The real question is, do you want it badly enough?”
Billy smiled self-consciously, but Brian was already making plans. “Okay, Coach. What do we have to do first?”
Stanton laughed. “Well, first you have to make sure you stay in good shape and keep adding muscle, not fat.” He patted his ample belly. “And as for Billy, here, his dad and I have a special program in mind.”
Billy was perplexed. “A program?”
“Yep. We want you to start working in the co-op, for Mr. Labelle.”
“Doing what?”
Stanton laughed. “Not keeping the books, that’s for sure.” He slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be working, lad. Hauling bags of feed and seed, loading trucks, unpacking boxes. Building your muscles up. You get the picture?”
“Uh, I guess so.” Billy scratched his head. “Will I get paid?”
“Nope, not even chicken feed.” Stanton laughed at his own joke and added, “Actually, Mr. Labelle said you might be worth a salary at some point. In the spring, maybe when he normally has to add some help.”
“After school and on Saturdays?” Billy wondered out loud. “What about the garage?”
“Well, your father’s ready to let you go, if it’s going to toughen you up.”
“Jeez, that means I’d be doing homework every darn night.”
“That’s right,” Stanton responded. “Not much time for television.”
Brian laughed. “Or girls.”
Billy elbowed his friend, and then scratched his head again. “Did my dad say I have to? Or can I think about it?”
“Sure,” the coach answered, “but I wouldn’t — ”
Brian interrupted, “I’ll take the job, if he doesn’t want it.”
Billy came back quickly. “Hey, it’s supposed to be my job.”
Stanton laughed, not sure if Brian was serious. He looked to Billy. “Well, do you want it?”
Billy shot Brian a suspicious look. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You’ll have to show Mr. Labelle more enthusiasm than that, or you won’t last long.” Stanton decided to change the subject then, while he was ahead. He got to his feet and looked down at them. “Besides, there’s something else you have to do for me, if you want my help to make it to the NHL. You want to hear it?”
“Yeah, sure,” the boys answered, looking up at him with open mouths, like two babes in a bird nest.
“You’ll have to become the best midgets in the league,” he told them, “and win me a cup.” He grinned and stuck his hand out. “Deal?”
They shook on it, and by the end of March the boys had made good on their half of the deal. Whether it was his own strategy, or the extra muscle he picked up in the co-op, Billy started to break away from the pack once more and dominate the play. Stanton decided not to worry about where the extra step of speed came from — they were winning. The team went all the way in the playoffs, and Billy set up the overtime goal that won them the league championship. It was the Lancaster Lions Club who hosted the bean supper that year, but it was the boys from Munro Mills who went home with the hardware. Brian was voted the best defenceman, and Billy won the scoring title. Tony Stanton toasted them with a warning to stay in shape over the summer, and a promise of greater glories to come.
And that left them with the summer to plan. Brian got busy right away, trying to convince Billy they should start cashing in on their growing fame. Billy had just gotten off work at the co-op, and they were sitting in their favourite booth in Shirley’s Restaurant when Brian proposed their first big move. He slid gently into the subject. “You finish catching up on all the work you missed during the playoffs?”
“Huh?” Billy was sitting by the window, staring out at the familiar scene along Main Street — cars moving through town, people, most of whom he knew, going about their business on a Friday evening, taking advantage of a long day in June. Billy stirred himself to answer, “Yeah, just about.”
“So, can you go out again?”
“Sure, why?”
“Just wondering.” Brian bent to slurp some Coke, and then asked over the top of the glass, “You going to the dance next week?”
“Dance?” Billy puzzled.
“It’s the last one this year.” He put the glass down.
“So?”
“A lotta guys from the team will be there. Why don’t we go?”
“You know I can’t dance.”
“You don’t have to dance. We’ll go stag.”
“Stag? What about the girls?” Billy asked. “Won’t they mind?”
“What girls?”
“The girls we take to the dance, you big maroon!”
Brian knew that meant he was a moron, but chose to ignore the slur. “Who said anything about girls?”
“But I thought . . . what about Susan and Elaine?”
“Jeez, Campbell, keep your voice down.” Brian was getting nervous. Talk like this in a small-town restaurant could get them in trouble. “You can’t take girls to a dance and not dance with them.”
“But you said all’s we had to do was hang around.”
“I know, I know, but you can’t just hang around with the girls. They’ll wanna dance.”
“Tell me again why we’re going.” Billy wasn’t convinced that Brian had gotten this dance business straight.
“I told you already: we’ll go stag and just hang around with the guys, and check out the girls. You know, play it cool.”
Billy slumped back against the padded bench. “Okay, I’ll go if you want, but it doesn’t sound coo-ool to me. Sounds more like dumb.”
Then, as if he had been challenged to go one better, Brian added, “Of course we’ll have to make sure we let Elaine and Susan know that we’re going.”
Billy sighed. “Whatever you say, Weir-d. Anything for a friend who’s lost his marbles.” He was sure Brian had things backwards, but decided it was best to keep his reservations about the subject of girls to himself. He still liked them, but it seemed to him he was falling behind somehow; that the girls he knew had become more mysterious and less attainable. Maybe they were growing up faster than he was, he thought.
He still liked Elaine. He admired the neatness of her trim figure, the way she looked — so soft and feminine, whether she was wearing a starched cotton dress to Sunday Mass, or hanging around her front porch in blue jeans and a blouse. He liked that crisp cleanness she had about her, that smell of freshness that made her nice to be near. Her features were fine and balanced, like a doll’s, he used to think. Her mother was a war bride from Holland, and Elaine had inherited her light-blue eyes and fair complexion, something that made her stand out among the darker Scots and French Canadians of Munro Mills. She liked to laugh a lot, too, and Billy enjoyed that. Most of the time.
Lately, though, Elaine and her friends kind of put him off, the way they were always huddled together, whispering and giggling about the weirdest things. He couldn’t understand why they were always talking about movie stars and singers, or some especially handsome older boy from Lancaster or Alexandria. One day Elaine told him her new kitten’s name was Elvis, and then got mad when he told her it was a dumb name for a boy — even one who jumped around like he had ants in his pants.
So, against his better judgment he went to the dance, and was pleasantly surprised. He knew most of the kids there and enjoyed the yack session with the guys. Elaine was there, too, in a blue, satin gown that matched her eyes. Billy was taken aback. The dress made her look two years older — and made him feel two years younger. After one stilted conversation with her, he retreated to the sidelines, seeking safety in the small knot of younger boys on the fringe of the darkened gym, making sure they had ready access to the well-lit hallway.
More spectators than participants, they tried their best to look serious as they bunched up just inside the main entrance to the gym, talking about sports and cars, and teachers who looked funny dancing. Or they conducted a running commentary on the girls, especially the ones without boyfriends. Their dress ranged from three-piece suits to grey slacks with white shirts, and each one had to run the gauntlet of teasing it inspired. Whether it was cracks about white socks and black oxfords, too-short pants and flood warnings, or ill-fitting blazers borrowed from their fathers’ closets, they accepted it all in good humour, safe in the knowledge that the next guy who showed up with a clip-on tie would get his yanked off, too. After all, it was tough acting grown up for a whole evening, and they could be forgiven for pulling the occasional chair out from under someone, or messing up a ducktail or two.
The most fun came from harassing those boys who were brave enough to make forays across the floor — those long, sweaty marches into the jaws of rejection — to ask one of those unattached girls to dance. It was even more fun when they returned to the pack emptyhanded. Billy and Brian weren’t so amused when it was Susan and Elaine who were being courted, but they were proud of how well they concealed their interest in what went on. As planned, they were cool.
Billy almost broke rank, though, when he heard the band start up a slow song to end the dance portion of the evening. He figured even he could dance to that, given that some couples just stood in one spot and shrugged every once in a while. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or regret he felt when he saw someone else ask Elaine to dance. He didn’t worry about it for long. He could see Mrs. Austen and her helpers were setting up the tables for the lunch, and he nudged Brian to move into the hall where they could get first crack at the good stuff. They had those fancy sandwiches, with the crusts cut off, and all those cakes and cookies that made it so hard to choose. It was all a guy could do to avoid making a pig of himself, as they piled pyramids of food on tipsy paper plates. And as Billy informed Brian, it sure beat the heck out of dancing. Of course, neither one of them had any real dancing experience to compare it to.
The other good thing about the food was that the girls had to eat, too. That gave the boys who were there stag a chance to mingle without being too obvious. Pretty soon Billy and Brian were right back where they had started, trying to have a picnic with Elaine and Susan. It was wonderful the way things worked out. They got so carried away with themselves that they volunteered to walk the girls home — before they remembered it was a good mile from the high school to Susan’s place, in the opposite direction from their end of town.
The first part was fun. After a few blocks, Billy made a clumsy effort to hold Elaine’s hand. When she calmly turned her hand to correct his technique, he realized he’d had a date for the dance after all. His heart beat faster as he began looking forward to the next one. They dropped the girls off at Susan’s house. Billy hung back at the gate but Brian walked Susan to the door, stealing a good night kiss before the two girls disappeared inside. The muffled shriek they heard as the door closed put a smile on their faces.
The walk back home was less impressive. They were underdressed for the cool spring night, and their teeth were rattling before they were halfway home. Billy teased, “Is this what you meant by playing it cool?”
“Aw, get stuffed, Campbell,” Brian muttered, as he jammed his hands deeper in his pockets. “It was your idea to walk them home.”
“Hah, like you didn’t want to.”
That long walk down Main Street made them realize there was a new priority in life — something almost as important as hockey. Before they reached home, they came to a conclusion. “This is nuts,” Billy declared. “We should’ve taken our bicycles.”
“Oh, yeah. That would have been real cool.”
Billy smiled. “We should have asked for a ride, then.”
“Yeah, well, I asked my dad for the car,” Brian responded, “and he told me I could use Shank’s mare.”
“What the heck is that?”
“I dunno; some old farmer’s expression for walking, or something.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard my father say that. They think they’re funny, you know. That’s what really gets me.”
“Yeah, they’re all like that.”
“My dad says that’s why we live in a small town, so we can walk places. But he takes the car everywhere he goes.”
“Exactly,” Brian nodded. “That’s why we need our own car.”
“I’m still hoping,” Billy responded. “I’ll be sixteen in three weeks, and Dave’s been looking at new cars. Maybe he’ll give me his old one.”
Brian laughed. “Yeah, Campbell, I’ve heard that story before.”