Bryan Gruley - Starvation lake

Inside, the office reeked of stale hops and pepperoni and the lingering sweetness of marijuana. I snatched a dusty page off one of the chest-high stacks of paper on Soupy’s desk. It was a summons ordering Soupy to court at 9:30 a.m. on Friday, January twenty-fourth.

“Way to go, Soup,” I murmured.

I recalled that he and I had gone ice fishing that morning; he hadn’t said anything about a court date as he polished off a six-pack before 10:00 a.m. Two unmarked file folders rested alone next to the stacks of papers. I flipped one open. Inside was a two-page letter, dated four days earlier, from Arthur Fleming, Boynton’s lawyer. It proposed a “joint venture” in which Boynton Realty would take a 25-percent interest in Soupy’s marina and, in return, Soupy would get 1 percent of the Pines at Starvation Lake and an immediate cash payment of thirty thousand dollars. The venture would continue to operate Soupy’s marina “so long as it is deemed fiscally prudent,” and the cash would help Soupy “resolve outstanding litigation.” In return, Soupy would drop his opposition to Boynton’s marina at Monday’s zoning board meeting. It wasn’t a bad deal. The cash would come in handy, and the stake in Boynton’s marina might be worth a lot someday. But it wouldn’t take long for Boynton to decide it was no longer “fiscally prudent” to keep Soupy’s marina alive.

I picked up the other folder, but before I could open it, I heard a metallic groan in the dry-dock area, where boats reclined in tall steel racks like sleeping birds. I sidled over to the window to the dry dock and saw the huge steel door at the other end rumbling upward. Light spilled in beneath it, revealing a pair of boots and legs in silhouette. Tatch, Soupy’s right-hand man, was starting work. I ducked down and scurried for the back door. Taking a quick step outside, I swung the door closed behind me and immediately flopped up in the air and onto my rump. “What the hell?” I said.

I sat up, wincing, and saw at my feet a pile of slimy carp and sucker trout, barely alive, puckering their mouths. I scrambled to my feet, disgusted. “Fucking fish?” I said, kicking at a carp. “How the hell did you get here?” Fish blood and guts were slopped across the snow; some of the fish had been slit open. I looked around but saw no one. “Not funny,” I said, as if someone could hear. “Not funny at all.” I hustled down the river walk, brushing snow and fish scales off my butt and wondering if anyone had seen me in the marina. The dying fish I left for Soupy.

At my apartment I hung my coat, stinking of fish, on the stair rail outside. I hauled out my hockey bag and zipped it open on the living room floor. The smell wasn’t much better than my coat. My gear felt clammy as I laid it out to dry. Leg pads, arm pads, chest protector, pants. Catching glove, blocking glove, protective cup. Skates, mask, a stiffened towel, a canvas pouch holding tape, laces, Bengay. I wished I had unpacked it after the game Thursday night. Now it would feel heavy when I played that night, and I’d be a hair less agile or, worse, I’d think I was. Thinking was everything. If you didn’t think you were going to stop every single shot, you wouldn’t. If you lost that focus for a sliver of an instant, the puck would be behind you. Even on one of your off nights, after you’d given up four or five goals, you had to keep thinking you could stop them all, or just like that there’d be seven or eight behind you, and Coach would pull you and you’d have to skate off the ice while everyone on your bench and the other team’s bench and in the stands watched with scorn or pity or both.

I sat down in the recliner with my favorite piece of gear, the blocking glove I wore on my right hand, the one that held my goalie stick. I unwrapped the shiny black electrical tape wound around the thumb. With its wide rectangular shield, the glove looked like a big waffle. I had considered it my lucky waffle-or, as Soupy nicknamed it, Eggo-since the day the dogs got to it.

I was thirteen then. I’d been watching television one afternoon-the Three Stooges, I think-when I heard growling from Mom’s laundry room, where my hockey stuff was airing out. I hurried in to find our two mutts, Fats and Blinky, in a snarling tug-of-war with the waffle. “Damn dogs!” I yelled. But it was my fault. I’d forgotten to close the laundry room door. I ripped the glove away and swung it halfheartedly at the dogs. As they scampered away, their toenails clicking on the linoleum, I noticed a tatter of leather jutting from Blinky’s mouth. My heart sank. I turned the waffle over. The thumb was gone.

We had a regional playoff game that night. I couldn’t play with a bare thumb sticking out of my glove. I cornered Blinky and traded her a dog biscuit for the thumb. Mom was out shopping, so I took the waffle and the chewed-off thumb next door. Darlene was doing geography homework at her kitchen table. “You’re such an idiot, Gus,” she said, but I could tell she was glad I’d brought my problem to her. We showed the glove to her mother, who worked part-time at a shoe repair and had once mended a tear in one of my leg pads. After inspecting the glove, she cast a disapproving look at me.

“This cost your mother a fortune, Gus.”

“Yes ma’am, Mrs. B.”

“And you need it by six?” She shook her head and handed the glove and thumb back to me. “I’m sorry. It’s euchre night, Darlene’s father will be home any minute, and I have dinner to get.”

I looked helplessly at Darlene. She grabbed her mother’s hand and pulled her into the hallway off the kitchen. I heard them whispering. When they returned, Darlene was smiling. “You children,” her mother said, snatching the glove back. “It might not be fixable, you know.”

I thanked Darlene at the door. “I just hope Daddy doesn’t mind pancakes for dinner,” she said. “It’s all I know how to make.”

I wore the glove that night. Just to be safe, I wrapped black electrical tape around the fresh leather stitching on the thumb. For some reason I liked the way it looked. Our opponents were a bunch of fast kids from Grand Rapids. But I had the shiny black tape. I stopped all but one of their forty-eight shots and we won, 3–1.

In the twenty-one years since, I’d replaced every piece of my goalie gear, except for Eggo. Before every game-I never missed once-I applied fresh tape to the stitching, always the shiny black stuff, wrapping it exactly as I had that night when I was thirteen. All the tape really held was my confidence.

It made no sense, of course, but superstitions are as much a part of hockey as elbows to the nose. We had to put our pads on a certain way, tape our sticks a certain way, line up the water bottles on the bench a certain way. Stevie Reneau had to take a cold shower right before games. Wilf had to puke, and kept a bottle of ipecac in his bag to induce if his butterflies weren’t going to do it. Zilchy refused to sit next to a goalie in the dressing room, nor would he speak a word until the opening face-off.

Soupy had more superstitions than a witch doctor. He had to sit directly to my left. I had to be sitting there when he sat down; he couldn’t sit first. No one could touch his equipment while he was dressing; if someone accidentally did, Soupy had to strip down and start all over again. Just before we went out to the ice, he had to reach around my head and smack me on the right shoulder and give me a last word of encouragement. “Tonight, you’re a brick wall,” he would tell me, or, “Tonight, you’re a giant sponge, sucking in everything and spitting it back out.” In his last couple of years with the Rats, he started wearing skates four sizes too small for his feet; he insisted he couldn’t skate his fastest unless his toes were jammed in so hard that they hurt. That was especially weird, I thought, but that was Soupy. Some nights he would sit for half an hour after the game massaging feeling back into his arches and toes. Even now, in his thirties, he kept wearing skates he could barely get on.