Interference Page 9

  winter

  * * *

  To: puckbunnybrady@pik.com

  From: puckbunnybrady@pik.com

  Subject: Robbery!

  Hey Ice Kats!

  Yes, as you can tell from the subject line, we’ve had our first locker room robbery of the season. Someone’s purse was stolen from room 4 last Wednesday night, January 10th. I know what you are thinking: “You told us not to bring our purses into the room so it’s the fault of the girl who brought her purse in.” But think about this for a minute — a robbery committed against one of our teammates means a robbery committed against us all. If we, as a team, don’t feel safe in the locker room, where can we feel safe?

  If anyone knows anything about this or if you saw anyone leaving locker room 4 last Wednesday night when the team was on the ice, please let me know. From now on keep your valuables in your car and LOCK your car. You wouldn’t believe how many times I have to say that to people in this town — lock your house doors, your car, your bicycle too. Parkville may be a small place, but we still have thieves. Of course you’ll have to bring your car keys into the locker room but how about taking them to the bench with you? I know some of you moms bring your cell phones to the bench too, just in case your kids wake in the night. What I’m saying is: do everything you can to protect your valuables.

  Get yer game on!

  Tina Brady

  Parkville Ice Kats

  Co-ordinator Extraordinaire

  6

  There are three males watching this game. One fat guy who keeps jumping up and doing the wave. One quiet guy, head down, over in the corner on his BlackBerry, thumbing in a message to work, the mistress or the kids. And then Jude.

  The fat guy does the wave, the BlackBerry guy endlessly texts, and Jude buries his head in the hood of his jacket to keep warm, his hands in the pockets, the zipper done up to his chin. He sinks down into his seat and rests his wide feet on the back of the seat in front of him. His legs are gangly, his body growing so rapidly it even surprises him. At times he catches himself knocking into things, whapping things with his long arms, tripping on things with his long legs. It’s all he can do not to fall. Some days his knees look twice as big as his thighs. Other days he feels proportioned. It is cold in the arena. The ceiling heaters aren’t on. Jude supposes that the heaters are saved for paying customers, not husbands or boyfriends, not the teenage kid in the stands.

  Jude watches the action on the ice. His eyes peer out darkly from under his hood. His teeth chatter. His nose feels wet and cold. Like a dog’s. The women on the ice are beginning to improve. Jude is impressed. When he first started coming to these games in the fall it was like watching kids out there, large kids who couldn’t skate fast or pass the puck. It was like watching that game Jude used to play in elementary school, hot potato. Each time the puck came at one of the women she would flick it quickly away, as if it burned her stick. Now, though, he is suitably content with their game. He feels like he’s watching something now, something more important, not just a game. He has to hold in his breath so that he doesn’t shout when things are going well.

  Hot potato, dodge ball, who’s got the bone. Jude has distinct memories of each of these games, of how he felt playing them, of how they made him feel. Telephone — when everyone sat in a circle and passed the message around until it became so wildly skewed that it had no connection to the original.

  It’s the white team he cheers for. It’s the white team he watches. There are three players who have obviously never played before and he likes to be there to silently cheer them on. They are awkward and funny, often having as much trouble skating as playing the game.

  At the beginning he watched the grey team, but now it’s the white team he’s taken with. There’s something about their hair under their helmets, the way it comes mostly past their shoulders and is all different — curling or straight, ponytail or loose. Their hair is nice to watch, but he also likes their laughter. Peeling. Ringing. High-pitched laughter. Their camaraderie. The way they high-five each other, or pat each other with their sticks. Jude loses himself in these nights, forgets all the things he wants to forget, concentrates on the ice.

  Late in the fall Jude was walking out from the rink one night on his way home. He had been sullenly watching the grey team — they weren’t impressing him. Too competitive, too angry. But then he heard the laughter coming from the change room and he stopped and listened. Like bells. A few gruff snorts. Cackles. That’s when he decided to watch the white team. To forget about the grey team and focus instead on the white. When their laughter rang around him and sent a shiver up his spine. They sounded like they were having so much fun and Jude wanted to be a part of it — in some way — he wanted to share in the laughter. So he checked their schedule on the internet and he hasn’t missed a game since.

  Now Jude’s watching the game and he feels as if he can smell them out there on the ice. He can smell their femaleness, their sour, fishy smell, like his sister in the morning when she comes down for breakfast, her hair sticking up, her breath reeking. He can smell their shampoos and deodorants and perfumes. And he swears to himself that he can smell the white over the red team. He sighs and lowers deeper into the seat. The seat in front of him bangs open — his foot has slipped — and bangs shut again. A white player looks up. Jude turns his head away from her quickly.

  Sometimes he wonders if there is something wrong with him. Sometimes he wonders if he’s normal. He is never quite sure. Jude knows, though, that none of his friends spend Wednesday nights watching women’s hockey. He is certain of this. So if this makes him different, then he is different. Not good different or bad different, just different.

  He isn’t interested in them sexually. He doesn’t want them or lust after them or think about them in any way like that. Jude is interested in them mainly because they fill something that is empty inside of him. When he’s here, in the arena, he feels full. When he goes home, he feels empty. But when he leaves the rink on Wednesday nights he doesn’t think about them again until the next Wednesday. They don’t come into his dreams. If Jude were to run into them on the street he wouldn’t even recognize them or make the connection. When he’s here, though, on Wednesday night, his mind and body feel satiated.

  “What do you mean you didn’t get the files?” The BlackBerry man is frantic on his phone, holding it up to his ear to talk and then thumbing as quickly as possible in his lap.

  Another fat-assed wave from the other guy. Jude smiles to himself. He’s pretty funny. The women on the ice laugh when they see him bounce up and down.

  The one Jude’s watching tonight, and it always changes, is the newest player, the one who obviously knows nothing about hockey. She is tiny and has long blond hair. She shouts, “Shit,” when she falls. Fiery, he thinks. Energetic. She looks younger than she probably is — he cannot guess anymore how old women are. Anywhere from thirty to fifty. As old as his mother or younger or older. And how old is his mother? Nowadays she looks older than she is. She used to look young. Women are such mysteries to Jude. But he knows this woman has a young baby — he has heard her mention it when he passes by her in the parking lot — and so he thinks she must be closer to thirty than to fifty.

  Every Wednesday Jude concentrates on one particular woman on the team. He stares hard at that one, willing her not to get hurt, willing her to have fun, willing her to smile. Most of the time he’s satisfied. Sometimes his woman will fall. No one has ever been hurt.

  Jude shifts in his seat again, careful not to bang the plastic seat in front of him. His legs ache. Sometimes it drives him mad. His mom calls them growing pains. Sometimes Jude feels as if his legs have been sliced in half and there are maggots worming their way through his wounds. Sometimes it hurts to stand up. At night he tosses and turns in bed. He feels as if he has to run. He lies there in agony, trying to still his running legs.

  Jude is growing while his
mother is shrinking. He is growing bigger and stronger while she is getting weaker and smaller. She lost her hair, but his hair seems to grow so fast he can’t keep up with it. And then the hair on his arms, his legs, his chest, his face. There’s hair everywhere now. And nowhere. Bodies, Jude thinks, interfere with everything — they mess things up as they grow and change and morph and fail.

  But she’s only weak for now. The radiation will have worked. The chemotherapy. The operation. Everything will work. Jude is sure of it. How could it not work? How could his mom not be around anymore? That’s not something that is even in the realm of possibility. Even though he’s aware this could happen, she could die, there is nothing about this fact that makes any sense or even seems to penetrate his brain. Not. Possible.

  One of the larger women scores a goal. Everyone shouts. The white team on the bench bang their sticks against the boards. “Woo hoo,” shouts a woman, and this sound makes Jude’s head ache until the rest of the team laughs and the bell-like sounds wash over him. Jude’s woman skates hard, playing right wing, and crashes into the boards but she doesn’t fall. She rubs her shoulder as she skates back, though, and he immediately thinks about the bruise that must be forming on it. It is blue and purple; it is darker around the edges. It is a small bruise, the size of a coin.

  And then he shakes his head and focuses on the game again. The BlackBerry man looks up from his device, straight at Jude, as if he knows what Jude is thinking, and he nods. Jude hides his face further into his hood and nods back.

  Most of the time he doesn’t think about his mother. Or about women. Or even about girls. When he’s alone he barely registers anyone but himself. But when he’s near the hockey team, or when someone looks at him straight on, he is always startled to feel the emotion well up in him. His need for her, his mother. His ache.

  Another cheer, more banging of the boards, and then the game, as quickly as it began, is over. The women shake hands with the other team, bump fists, “nice game, nice game,” and skate off, talking. The woman he is watching tonight is the last to leave the ice. She looks reluctant, as if she doesn’t want to go home, as if she doesn’t want the game to be over. He knows what she is feeling.

  Jude lingers at the pop machine in the hallway and imagines them in the change room, peeling off their sweaty equipment, laughing. He tries to imagine their faces mostly, because he can’t see them behind the cages of their masks. He thinks about their eyes and what colours there are. Multiple colours in the change room. Blues and greens and browns. Hazels and greys. So many eyes. Red lips, pink lips, pale lips. Freckles and pimples and birthmarks and scars. Scars. They have scars, each of them, all the women on the white team. He is sure of it. Scars on their faces, on their legs and arms and stomachs, on their asses. Bruises. Purple and black and red. Like his mother, they aren’t completely healthy. They aren’t perfect.

  Jude straightens a little and watches the women start to leave the change room. The fat man who was doing the wave, jolly in a stereotypical way, picks up the bag for a woman and puts his arm over her shoulder. The BlackBerry man says, “Good game,” to a petite blond and helps her manoeuvre her hockey bag out the doors. He doesn’t offer to carry it. His BlackBerry is in one hand, her hockey stick in the other. She looks annoyed with him, her little mouth sucked in. She is chewing on her lower lip.

  Jude waits awhile for the woman he was watching tonight. When she finally emerges from the change room she is with a friend. This is disappointing. The two women walk together out the door, into the night, talking and smiling, the larger woman laughing loudly. Jude thinks he knows the other woman, but he can’t figure it out. He follows behind. Like a dog. He didn’t see his woman’s eye colour because she was looking down when she passed him, but he will see it eventually. He knows this like he knows many things, like he knows that his mother will survive. Next week Jude will have another woman to focus on, and then another week another woman. Jude follows the hockey players out to their car and then, when they get in and turn on the ignition, he moves sideways and he tilts his long legs, his arms, his torso, his gangly body around a corner and he disappears into the night.

  To: dayton22@hotmail.com

  From: johnnyman@cresscompany.com

  Subject: Bitch

  Dayton,

  You stole my daughter. I found you. It was pretty easy. I know where you are, where you live, what you have done. You stole my money too. I’m so fucking mad you wouldn’t believe. How do you think it felt for me to come home from work and you were gone? Carrie was gone. Her toys, your passports, our fucking money in the bank, everything was gone. But you used a credit card to buy your plane tickets. You’re such a moron. How many times have I told you to watch some TV? If you had bothered to watch TV or movies instead of always reading your goddamn books, you would know that you can be traced by using your credit cards. So I know where you are. I’ve put a stop to all your credit cards, but you’ve figured that out already I assume. When are you coming back? Are you coming back? Do I care? You really piss me off. Like I’m so mad I feel like I’m going to explode. How could you do this to me? Do you know what this looks like for me? What will my friends think? I know it’s taken me a couple months to write to you, but I was so mad before that I couldn’t think straight. Now I can. Now I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to get Carrie back. I don’t want you back, Dayton, but I’m going to take Carrie away from you. You’ve hurt me so now I’m going to hurt you.

  John

  ...

  To: johnnyman@cresscompany.com

  From: dayton22@hotmal.com

  Subject: Re: Bitch

  John, please don’t act rash. Think it over. I will be in touch with you through my lawyer. You should note that I am keeping all threatening emails or correspondence. Carrie is fine. Please wait until we can figure something out legally.

  Dayton

  ...

  To: dayton22@hotmail.com

  From: cresscompanysecurity@cresscompany.com

  Subject: Re: johnnyman@cresscompany.com

  Your email has been returned to you. The person you are trying to contact no longer works at Cress Company. Please change your files accordingly.

  Cress Company Finances

  California, USA

  7

  They meet for the first time at the grocery store and have no idea that they have so much in common. Claire lets Dayton take her spot in line because Dayton’s baby is grumpy and whining, sitting in the front of the cart with her legs dangling down, kicking her mother over and over. Shouting. Claire says, “You go first,” and helps push the cart into the lane, both women avoiding the slushy, kicking winter boots.

  Claire remembers those times — not fondly. If someone had let her go ahead, just once, it would have made a difference. Jude would kick her; Caroline would be pulling things off the shelf. Claire would end up buying them candy to shut them up, or cookies, or chips, or something awful.

  “Thank you.” Dayton stands in the lane, staring down at the groceries in her cart. “You would think they could have devised a better way to do this.”

  “Pardon?” Claire itches her head. The wig is horribly scratchy.

  “Grocery shopping. Seriously, think about it.” Dayton starts unloading her cart but continues talking. Her daughter keeps kicking and Claire keeps her distance. The line behind them gets longer.

  “First you take the groceries from the shelf,” Dayton says. “Then you put them in your cart. Then you take them from your cart and put them up on the checkout thingee here,” Dayton signals the conveyor as it moves slowly carrying her canned tuna with it. “Then you put your stuff in a bag. Then take the bag to your car. Then carry the bag into your house. Then unload your groceries into your fridge and cupboards. What is that?”

  “What is what?” Claire says. This woman is attractive in a thin, awkward way. Her long, blond hair swoops in front of her
face. She talks with her hands. Waving the oranges around, boxes of granola bars. She pauses all the time, between words, as if she’s trying to remember what it is she wants to say.

  “That’s six times.”

  “Six times?”

  “Six times that you hold whatever you buy and transfer it from one place to the other. Six times.”

  Claire says, “I never thought about it that way.” But she’s right. This woman is absolutely right. It’s ridiculous. Like most things in life.

  “Think about it.” Dayton stops and turns towards Claire. The man behind them in line sighs and rolls his eyes. The checkout woman calls for a price check on the oranges. “If someone would invent something. Say . . .” Dayton thinks. “Say a little do-hickey that might scan the item. No, wait. What about if we had a do-hickey —”

  “A scanner?” Claire is watching Dayton’s hands as she mimes what she means. It’s like playing Pictionary. Claire thinks, I haven’t played Pictionary in a long time. She wonders if Jude and Caroline would want to play sometime or maybe they are too old now. There is a small amount of time, between the age of this little baby in the cart and Jude and Caroline’s age, a tiny time where your kids want to do things with you, where they actually enjoy your company.

  “Yes. That’s right. If we had a scanner, each of us,” Dayton waves her hands around the store. “And maybe there is only one of each item on the shelf. So you’d save retail space too. The stores could charge less for the products —”

  “And then we scan it.”