Saving Wolfgang, page 4
I did exactly what he said, still amazed that I hadn’t crash-landed.
“Now,” he continued, “I want you to take really small steps and just try to slide as you go.”
Again I did exactly what he said. And once again I stayed upright. Wobbly but upright.
“Good,” Grandpa said. “Good. Now keep your steps nice and short, and don’t go too quickly…that’s it…that’s it!”
I was shuffling forward slowly, oh so slowly. But I was doing it!
It was cold, and still pretty dark, but feeling the ice glide under my feet and the stick in my hand was the most amazing experience—even better than scoring in floor hockey or stopping one of Jimmy’s slap shots in his backyard. I was skating! Barely skating, it’s true. Still, it made me happy. I didn’t think about how long it would take me to improve and get as good as my friends, if I ever could. All I cared about was that I could skate, even if I was extremely slow and exceptionally shaky.
“Attaboy!” Grandpa laughed as he skated backward around the tennis courts. “Pretty soon you’ll be skatin’ circles around me, son!”
Grandpa was either lying or crazy. I was barely moving. After a few minutes I started to take longer strides and quickly forgot Grandpa’s advice. So it happened—I fell backward onto the ice. But with no one there other than Grandpa to see, I wasn’t embarrassed. I got straight back up and started inching along again.
After a while I noticed Grandpa wasn’t watching me anymore. I stopped skating to look for him and saw him taking long, graceful strides on the far side of the ice. He was floating effortlessly, with what little hair he had blowing behind his ears in the breeze. All of a sudden he looked younger. So much younger! And it seemed like he was flying. It was so beautiful! He looked nothing like the old man who had to get up slowly from his La-Z-Boy and limp to the kitchen. In the dim light and the distance, the lines in his face and the slight stoop in his back were invisible. All I saw was an agile athlete flying through the night. He looked exactly the same as I felt right then—full of joy.
Fifteen
November 11, 1985
Dear Papa,
Today the old Grandpa was back.
I noticed something was different about him as soon as I woke up. Being as it was Remembrance Day, there was no school. But I woke up before seven just like every other morning. When I came into the kitchen to get myself a bowl of cereal, Grandpa didn’t say anything. He just stood at the kitchen sink with his back turned to me and stared out the window without saying a word. I said good morning a few times, but after the third or fourth try I realized he could hear me. He just didn’t want to talk. So I left him alone and went down into the basement to shoot a tennis ball against the wall with a hockey stick. It’s not as fun as actually playing a game, but for some reason taking shots against a wall really calms me down. I could do it for hours.
I’d probably been downstairs for a couple of hours when Jimmy rang the front doorbell to ask if I wanted to come out to play. We went over to his house and took shots inside his garage, since snow was still piled up on the driveway. But we’d only played a few minutes when Dr. Sweeney pulled up in his big blue Oldsmobile and hopped out in a hurry, leaving the engine running.
“Come on, Jimmy! We’ll be late for the Remembrance Day ceremony!” He paused for a second before going in the kitchen door. “I’d take you too, Winston, but I just presumed you’d be going with your grandpa.”
My cheeks went red at the realization that I hadn’t asked Grandpa about Remembrance Day. I know what Remembrance Day is, and I certainly know it’s a day off school, but it had never occurred to me that he and I would do something to mark the occasion. As soon as I realized, I felt like an idiot. After all, Grandpa fought in World War Ii. Mama even said he saw people die.
“I Guess We’ll Have to Play Later,” Jimmy yelled from the back of the big car as his sisters and parents piled in and slammed the door.
Dr. Sweeney started backing out of the driveway but stopped so Mrs. Sweeney could roll down her window and call out to me.
“Maybe we’ll see you at the ceremony, Winston,” she said with a wave. I ran around the fence and through our front door, slamming it behind me.
“Cripes almighty!” Grandpa yelled from somewhere beyond the living room. “Don’t slam the bloody door!”
I froze. Why was he so angry? Was it because of Remembrance Day? I just vaguely remember him acting like this back when he visited Victoria when I was younger. Grandpa loud and boastful before he left the house to go golfing. Grandpa slurring his words and laughing too loudly inside the restaurant he took us to for dinner. Grandpa yelling and swearing at Mama later that night.
“Sorry, Grandpa,” I called out shyly before tiptoeing through the living room to find him.
I saw him standing in his den, on the other side of the glass doors at the far end of the living room. He was standing with his side to me, but even with only half of his face visible, I could see he looked both sad and annoyed as he stared down at something he was holding. Then he tossed whatever it was onto his desk with a thud and turned to face me. He took in a deep breath, and for a second I thought he was going to yell at me again. But he stayed silent and turned around to look for something in the bookcase behind him.
I wondered if he was mad at me for not saying anything to him about Remembrance Day. So I spun around, pushed on the TV power button and waited for the big gray screen to light up with whatever channel we had left it on. Luckily it was still on Cbc—which had broadcast Hockey Night in Canada Saturday night—because they were showing the Remembrance Day ceremony, from Ottawa, I think. There were lots of old men wearing uniforms and standing out in the cold around a large statue.
I glanced over to the den a few times to see if Grandpa might come and watch with me. But he just stared at the floor in front of the bookcase and stayed silent. I turned the volume up a little, thinking he just hadn’t heard the TV. But he stood there without saying a word. After a while I stopped looking over at him and started paying more attention to what was on the TV screen. When a soldier played “The Last Post” on the trumpet, I started to get goose bumps, even though it was warm inside the house. There was a moment of silence after the trumpet stopped, then a giant bang from a cannon of some kind.
“Turn That Stupid Thing Off!” Grandpa bellowed, loudly enough to make me jump, as he marched up between me and the TV and hammered the power switch off just as the second gun blast echoed through the living room. He kept on marching to the front door without stopping, opened it and slammed it behind him, a lot harder than I had a little while earlier.
I stood there staring at the door, wondering when Grandpa would come back and, when he did, if it would be Nice Grandpa or Angry Grandpa. I waited for a long time but finally got hungry and went into the kitchen to make myself a bologna sandwich. I didn’t sit down the whole time because I was worried Grandpa would storm through the door at any moment, and I didn’t want him to think I was sitting around being lazy. It sounds kind of stupid, I know, but that’s what I thought. After I was finished eating, I looked out the front window to confirm that his car wasn’t back yet. Then I walked into the den and looked at his desk. I saw some old black-and-white photos of young men in army uniforms. There was also a row of medals—four in total—hanging from small colored ribbons. I looked at the medals, but I didn’t dare touch them.
Finally, sometime in the middle of the afternoon, I heard a car park on the street out front, then someone walking down the path and the front door opening and slamming again. Then I heard cupboard doors opening and banging shut. I headed toward the kitchen, and as I walked into the room, I noticed a very specific smell—beer.
“Must have something left in here,” Grandpa muttered to himself before he saw me.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I said tentatively.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” That was all he said. He didn’t even look at me.
Then he went down into the basement, where more cupboard doors slammed. Eventually he came up, muttering all sorts of things I couldn’t quite hear. I definitely heard the front door as it slammed again, though, and Grandpa driving off down the street.
He was back less than an hour later with a big paper shopping bag full of tall bottles that clinked together when he dropped the bag down on the kitchen table. He pulled one out of the bag, unscrewed the top and started pouring a lot of some brown drink into a glass. As I watched him take a long gulp and grimace as he swallowed it down, I wondered if it was the secret ingredient that turned Nice Grandpa into the angry version.
Sixteen
November 15, 1985
Dear Papa,
I’ve figured out that the brown stuff in those bottles (Scotch, it says on the label) is definitely what makes Nice Grandpa disappear. But it isn’t as simple as I first thought, because Angry Grandpa isn’t the only one who takes over. In the last few days I’ve met Sad Grandpa, Confused Grandpa, Goofy Grandpa and Crazy Grandpa too. I wish they’d all go away and only Nice Grandpa would come back. If you’d asked me this morning, I would have told you that losing Nice Grandpa is the third-worst thing that’s ever happened to me—after you dying, Papa, and Mama turning into a sad statue. But tonight something happened to change that. Actually, it’s something amazing!
I was eating cereal for dinner because Grandpa stopped cooking when he started drinking. Before I was finished, Angry Grandpa came into the kitchen looking for more alcohol. But all he found was empty bottles, so he got mad and started opening and shutting cupboard doors. For the most part he just ignored me, and even though I always feel nervous when he gets like that, I am never really scared. Grandpa has never hit me. He just yells and stomps around the house when he’s mad. Anyway, he was getting more angry as he went from cupboard to cupboard. When he found nothing, he lost his temper and pushed a bag full of empty Scotch bottles off the counter and onto the floor. It landed with a Crash as bits of broken glass flew across the floor. I just sat at the table, looking down, saying nothing. The loud crash seemed to have stunned Grandpa, because he was suddenly silent too, staring down at the broken glass around his feet.
But then I heard it—the faint sound of slippers running across the carpet, followed by a loud gasp at the kitchen entry. It was Mama. Mama! It was a miracle!
Her hair was a mess, and she looked like she’d been asleep for months—which basically she had. But her eyes were open wider than I’d ever seen, and she had a look on her face like terror mixed with fury. She stared at Grandpa with silent accusation, looked over at me briefly, then turned back to him.
“Either you stop,” she said to Grandpa in a froggy voice that sounded like it hadn’t been used in months, “or we leave.”
“I…” he said quietly, then stopped and looked back down at the kitchen floor.
“Please, Dad.” She was quieter now too, and she sounded more sympathetic. “I know how hard it is, how hard all of this has been on you. But I need you to stop again.”
Grandpa didn’t say anything. But as I watched him standing there, surrounded by broken glass and a look of shame on his face, something in him seemed to change. Was it his shoulders? Did they droop just a little? Or was it maybe the fact that he was now so quiet just seconds after he’d been so loud? Whatever it was, it made me feel sorry for him. It also made me wonder if maybe—just maybe—Nice Grandpa might come back.
I was still staring at him when I felt arms wrap around me and Mama pulling my head to her chest. She held me tight and pressed her cheek to the top of my head. Then I felt something wet in my hair and realized she was crying. I didn’t move—I didn’t want it to end. I just closed my eyes and felt Mama holding me tight. After a while I realized I was crying too. We stayed there without moving for a long time before I heard the gentle sound of glass clinking and a broom sweeping the floor.
Then Mama did something that surprised me. She let go of me. And even though I didn’t want her to let go, I understood, because she walked over to Grandpa and took the broom carefully out of his hand. Without saying a word, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him just as tightly as she’d held me. I couldn’t stop staring. I felt like I should look away, but I just couldn’t.
Mama held Grandpa that way for a long time, and when she finally pulled away and looked up at him, I realized that he was crying too. He didn’t look up. He just wiped his eyes and his nose and stared at the floor. Then he pulled his hanky out of his pocket, blew his nose and locked eyes with Mama.
“I’ll need to go to a meeting,” he said.
“Okay, Dad,” she said, holding his gaze.
“Best if I go tonight,” he said. “Will you take me, Christie?”
She nodded. “Of course I will, Dad.”
Then Mama turned back to me and held her hand out for me to take. “Come on, Wolfie. We need to give Grandpa a ride.”
I took her hand and stood up to follow her to the front door, still in shock at what had just happened. Mama was awake and talking. She was back! I was so happy I thought I might explode. Then a pang of guilt ran through me because I knew I should also be thinking about Grandpa’s drinking, which wasn’t a happy thing at all. And when I thought of how you weren’t here with us for any of this, and never will be anymore, I wondered if I’ll ever be able to feel plain old happy again.
I kept thinking about that question, over and over again, as we got into the car and drove to a church hall downtown. I looked at Grandpa in the front seat, still smelling like a bottle of Scotch, then over to Mama, who looked like she’d been sleeping for years, and I decided the answer to my question was no. But as Mama steered the car into the church parking lot, and I saw her watching Grandpa head out to his meeting, I decided that was okay. She was back. She is back, and so is Nice Grandpa—and that’s enough for now.
Seventeen
November 20, 1985
Dear Papa,
Grandpa hasn’t had any alcohol for almost a week now. Not since Mama stormed into the kitchen and brought us all back to our senses. She looks much better now. Her clothes and hair are clean, and she’s been cooking dinners too, which is nice because I was getting pretty tired of steak and pork chops. Two months ago I never would have believed I’d say this, but I actually like vegetables. Now Mama makes a salad every night. So things are better than they were a week ago. But there’s no denying the fact that all three of us are sad deep down.
Mama looks like she wants to cry most of the time, and Grandpa hardly ever looks me in the eye. When he does, it seems like he wants to apologize, but he doesn’t say anything. Seeing them both struggle like this makes me sad. And thinking of you, of course.
But at least there’s hockey. I’m still a pretty weak skater, but I’m getting better every day. I wake up every morning before seven, have a quick bowl of cereal, then run down the hill to the ice rink with my skates and my stick. I’m usually the only one out there, and even when other people do show up to skate, I manage to keep to myself. I either move over to the other hockey rink or skate down the icy path back to the frozen tennis courts.
I also play floor hockey at school every day, but sometimes I think playing on the ice by myself is my favorite. I don’t need to worry about how anyone else is feeling, and I’m not worried that people will laugh at the way I skate. Although that’s starting to change because I’m getting a lot steadier—and faster. In fact, I’m so much better that when Jimmy asked me to walk down to the rink with him after school today, I finally said yes.
It was the first time I’d skated with Jimmy and Rolly and some of the other neighborhood kids since that first day when I fell down and accidentally mugged that goon Cory with my hockey stick. I’d sworn to myself I’d never go back, not after school when it was crowded. But things have sure changed in the last few weeks.
“Wow!” Jimmy yelled as I skated onto the ice ahead of him. “You’re a Lot Better Than Last Time!”
It felt good to hear it. I knew I was still slow compared to most of the other kids, but I didn’t care. I was good enough to get out there and play, and I was pretty sure I’d keep improving.
I fired my best slap shot against the boards and skated after the rebound, but Jimmy sped past me and stole the puck in a flash.
“LANNY McDonald STEALS THE PUCK WITH a BURST OF SPEED…HE’S GOT a CLEAR SHOT ON GOAL…HE WINDS UP AND…” Jimmy fired a slap shot between the rusty red goalposts. “HE SCORES! NUMBER 9! LANN-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEY McDonald!”
“Shut up, Jimbo!” The sneering voice came from behind me, and I knew it was Cory before I could see him. He skated past me and tried to steal the puck from Jimmy, but he wasn’t as fast as my friend. Jimmy slipped past him with the puck and started skating toward the other end of the ice to the tune of his own play-by-play.
“McDonald GOING END TO END…HE’S INTO THE NEUTRAL ZONE…”
“What are you smiling at, loser?” Cory turned his attention to me, but I just ignored him and skated away.
Jimmy was skating laps around the net at the far end of the ice. He stopped as I crossed the blue line and stared at me with an intense gaze that somehow let me know he was going to pass it right to me. So I put my stick down and skated directly to the net. When the crisp pass came from behind the net, it hit the tape on my stick perfectly. I took two more strides, then fired a wrist shot straight into the net. It wasn’t the best shot in the world, but at least it went where it was supposed to go and I didn’t embarrass myself.
“He Scores!” Jimmy screamed. “Jim Peplinski Put the Puck in the Net AFTER AN ABSOLUTE GIFT FROM LANNY McDonald! AND THE FLAMES TAKE AN EARLY LEAD!”
“I shoulda known you’re a Flames fan,” Cory mocked as he skated up behind Jimmy. “I knew a loser like you would cheer for a loser team like them.”
“They’re Not Losers!” Jimmy snapped. It was the first time I’d seen anyone really irritate him. He stopped short and looked straight at Cory. “They Just Haven’t Matured Yet! Just Wait Another Year or Two!”
