Bryan Gruley - The Skeleton Box

“Yeah?” I said into the phone.

“We’re down one-zip after two,” came the voice. It was Poppy. He was yelling. I flattened the phone hard against my ear.

“Excuse me?” I said. “This is Gus Carpenter.”

I could hear the din of the crowd across the ice from Poppy, who was probably standing by our bench, scanning statistics. “I said we’re down by one,” Poppy said, louder. “Dougie had a rough start, and they’ve got Tex all bottled up. But we’re still in it.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

“You what?” Poppy said. “Gus?”

I waited as if listening to someone filling me in about something. I knew I was being a shithead, but I felt I had no choice.

“You there?” Poppy said.

“I understand,” I said into the phone. “Of course.”

“Let me guess-this involves a woman,” Poppy said. He hung up. I stayed on, knitting my brows. Vicky moved closer.

“All right, understood,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I clicked the phone off.

“You have to go?” Vicky said. She looked skeptical.

“Something’s going on with Mom.”

“Is she all right?”

“Well… I’m not sure.”

“Who was that?”

“Somebody at the sheriff’s office.”

“Oh. Your ex, I suppose?”

I decided that by saying nothing I would let her think that.

“I can’t believe she could just throw away a good man like you.”

I stood. “Sorry, Vick. I’ll have to take a rain check.”

“How about tomorrow? Sully’s gone till Saturday.”

I busied myself with folding up the copies and finding pockets for them. I couldn’t look Vicky in the eye anymore. “We’ll see.”

“No. We won’t, will we?”

“Come on, Vicky. It’s my mom.”

“Oh, of course. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes. Thank you so much.”

“I’m so glad. What are you waiting for?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry all right. Just leave.”

I should have felt worse than I did, but I was too busy thinking. As I walked to my truck through fluttering snowflakes, it struck me that if Breck was connected to Nilus and to Mrs. B, he might also be linked, in some way I couldn’t fathom at the moment, to my mother.

When I slipped into the rink through a door near the Zamboni shed, the game clock said eight minutes, seventeen seconds to go with the River Rats trailing Mic-Mac, 1–0. I peered down the boards to the Rats’ bench. They had a chance. It was only one goal. The Mic-Mac goaltender might’ve been playing the game of his life, but he still had a weak glove and he kicked rebounds right back out in front of the net. One little bounce, a deflection, a mishandled rebound, and the Rats could be back in the game.

But the disconsolate way they were sitting told me they were bracing for a loss. I’d seen it before, the heads down, the barely discernible slump to the shoulders, the eyes straying to the clock. Poppy had called a time-out and was barking orders at the skaters gathered around him. He wouldn’t have called a time-out with so much time left if the Rats weren’t struggling. Tex had his right glove off and was examining the blister he’d gotten digging at Tatch’s camp. I looked into the stands. Tatch usually sat one row beneath the press box at center ice, where he could easily see his nephew at either end of the rink. But Tatch was not there.

I watched from a corner of the arena where there were no fans and I was breathing Zamboni oil and gas. The rink was as packed as I had seen it since I’d played net for the Rats on our failed title run. The bleachers were dressed in Rats blue and the throng swayed along with gold banners blaring “Welcome to Starvation-we’re hungrier than you!” I saw Soupy and Wilf and Zilchy and Stevie Reneau, wearing their old, frayed, too-tight Rats jerseys and passing around a water bottle. In the past it would’ve been filled with Beam and Coke, but Soupy couldn’t afford the good stuff anymore, so it was probably cut with Ten High or worse.

Instead of joining Poppy at the bench, I decided to stay where I was. Poppy didn’t need me now, and I preferred not to be seen by someone who might tell Vicky I was there. And if Darlene called, I wanted to be able to exit without being noticed.

It quickly became obvious to me what the Rats’ problem was. They couldn’t get the puck to Tex. And if Tex didn’t get the puck, the Rats had trouble scoring. It was a team of grinders and muckers who were good at keeping the other squad off the scoreboard and, usually, finding ways to put the puck on the stick of our best player.

Mic-Mac had that figured out. Every time Tex touched the ice, Pinky Holcomb, number 9, was on him, always within a stick’s length, chirping in his ear between whistles. Before a face-off in my corner, Pinky sidled up next to Tex on the edge of the circle as the ref prepared to drop the puck. They were just a few feet away from me on the other side of the glass. Pinky turned his head sideways and talked into Tex’s ear. Tex fixed his gaze on the players taking the face-off.

“Hey, shit-teeth,” Pinky said. “Maybe I can fuck your mommy when she gets out of jail, huh? She’ll probably need it after licking all that prison pussy, eh?”

Tex turned his head to Pinky. I pushed my face into the gap between two sheets of glass. “Tex, don’t do it,” I said.

Tex glanced back at me, then turned back to the face-off. The ref dropped the puck. “Pussy,” Pinky told Tex.

Little Davey Straub, standing just to Tex’s left, had heard everything. As Pinky chased the puck into the corner, Davey chugged up from behind and pasted him across the boards. “Fuck you,” Davey said as Holcomb went down. Number 22 for Mic-Mac smacked the puck behind the net and around to the opposite corner. Holcomb got to one knee and watched Davey skate away as the refs cleared the zone. Then he jumped up and zeroed in. Coming up from behind Davey, Holcomb swung a vicious hack across the back of his left leg. Davey crumpled. Holcomb flew past, cackling. The slash was risky with a one-goal lead, but the refs didn’t see.

Tex did, though.

The next thing I knew, Tex was standing face-to-face with Holcomb at the near blue line. It was too far away for me to say anything, but I heard Poppy screaming, “No, not now, Tex, no.” Tex wasn’t saying a word. Holcomb was smirking and yammering and did not expect the punch. Tex’s gloved fist hit him square on the chin. He dropped. Tex turned and obediently headed for the penalty box. I looked over at Poppy. He had his eyes closed, shaking his head. Tex had done exactly what he’d been told, but his timing was not good. It looked like the Rats would have to play short-handed for the rest of the game.

But Pinky Holcomb, thank God, had an even nastier temper than Tex.

Pinky bounced up, juked around a ref, and tackled Tex from behind. Tex tried to right himself, but Pinky grabbed the back of his jersey collar and slammed Tex’s helmeted head into the ice, once, twice, again. Tex took it. It took two refs to peel Pinky off. “Straight to the box, Tex,” Poppy was yelling. When Tex got there, I saw him wipe his mouth. He held his hand up for a ref to see the blood.

The officials took a few minutes to sort out the penalties. Tex got two minutes for roughing. Holcomb was assessed a five-minute major because he had drawn blood, a ten-minute misconduct, and a game misconduct. He skated off, still screaming curses at Tex and Poppy and the refs as he disappeared into dressing room 1. Later we would learn that he had turned to one ref and said, “Did the other coach suck your cock before the game?”

Thank you, Pinky. The Rats now would have a power play, five skaters against four, for the last three minutes of the game.