October 9, 2001
"So any news on your end?" Julie asked, searching the keys to her dorm as they talked.
Her phone in one hand, she dug through her purse with the other, eager to fish her keys out so she could get a break from the cold.
"Not really. I walked today, but that was about it."
"That's cool.
.
Winter had arrived unexpectedly that afternoon, making the sweater she'd thrown on before class inadequate. A bitter wind cut through the wool, leaving her with little room to think about anything other than getting inside.
As she searched in vain for her keys, the words Adam was saying at the other end of the line were irrelevant; he could have told her that Tupac had moved in next door, and her primary concern would have been finding the pesky dorm key at the bottom of her bag.
Still, as her fingers stumbled across the cool metal, those last words started to sink in.
.
"Wait. What?"
"Yeah. I mean, like not really." Adam clarified, now resting back at his apartment. "There was a physical therapist holding me up. And I still managed to fall on my face...which is actually kind of an accomplishment, now that I think about it. But still."
"What? No. That's amazing!"
"Heh, it'd be more amazing if I could figure out how to do that without anybody having to hold me up." He reminded her, the indignity of the moment still fresh in his mind. "Also, if I could figure out how to fix that whole 'falling on my face' part..."
"If there's anyone who could do it, it would be you."
Adam just laughed.
He knew what she meant, of course. But it still felt like an absurd statement.
"I think most people figure out how to walk. Like, toddlers do it all the time, and it's not really considered a big deal."
"Whatever. You know what I meant. Dork."
"Yeah, thanks."
"So how was it?" Julie asked, still incredulous at the news. Still incredulous at how well he was doing; his life inching back to a normalcy that hadn't seemed possible six months earlier.
"How was walking?"
"Yeah..."
"I mean, I'm pretty sure you've done it before." He reminded her, smiling.
.
It was nice. Nicer than he cared to admit, since that would mean delving into how hard life had been since the accident. And that wasn't that kind of thing he talked about.
There was no nice way to tell people how badly he wanted to die most days.
They all had enough to worry about without knowing that.
.
But yes, the world looked a lot better from six feet off the ground than it did from his wheelchair.
.
"Yeah, but like you know."
"Okay, yeah, it was pretty good." He agreed, looking down at the bruise from where he'd landed on his thumb. "But I think the regular kind, where you don't have to have anybody hold you up is better. Like, I mean, the physical therapist wasn't bad looking and all, but I'm still pretty sure I preferred the old way."
"Come on now." She laughed. "You might as well milk that for all it's worth. Just like, hire a bunch of supermodels to follow you around everywhere and hold you up!"
.
As she said it, she thought life back in Minnesota before everything happened.
Even though it was very much not the same, she couldn't help but remember the way that the Eden Hall cheerleaders never could keep their hands off him; the running joke amongst them to see who could touch him in the least appropriate ways. Had the tables been turned, it probably would have been considered sexual assault, but as it was, the only person who never seemed to find it hilarious was Adam.
And even he mostly tolerated it, just giving a bored shrug when Brittany Laws decided to lift his shirt up in class, or when Tricia Micek "fell" into his lap and decided to stay there.
.
"Yeah, I always wondered what they do between fashion shows and stuff." He smiled. "That's probably it. They just walk around holding guys up."
"Sounds logical to me."
"Was I like, the only one who didn't realize we were all poor?" Charlie joked, the conversation about the Duncans continuing as everybody lounged in the living room, picking at their plates of brunch. "Like, I knew my family was poor, but I didn't realize everyone was poor."
"Sure as shit knew I was poor."
"Same."
Still relegated to his spot on the floor beside Russ and Dwayne, Averman shook his head.
.
"I was never sure if we were poor, or if my aunt and uncle were just really rich." He replied. "All I knew was that my cousin always had way better Christmases than I did."
"Trent?"
"Yeah."
"I feel like Trent had legitimately good Christmases."
"That is true. But my parents also set a low bar."
"Yeah. Coming from Mr. My Parents Owned A House And Had Actual Jobs." Fulton joked.
"Whatever."
"You were still richer than we all were."
Guy sat back laughing, happy to stay out of the discussion himself. His own parents' struggles had been of the variety that a person does all they can to forget.
Apparently not in on the memo, Goldberg nudged Guy, laughing.
"Someone had that stripper money coming in."
"Okay, yeah.
Guy's cheeks burned with shame as he shook his head; trying to act like this wasn't a big deal.
Like it wasn't something that had followed him for the last thirty years, always there to remind him that he wasn't the same as everyone else.
"In good families, you get cool shit when Dad brings home his Christmas bonus. Our big jackpot years were the time a 90 year old decided my mom was hot, and the time my dad got hit by a bus."
"Making it up to the big leagues..."
"I know, right?"
"Goldberg's just jealous because his mom looks like him."
"Very true."
Over on the main sofa, Adam sat with Julie curled up in his lap; the justification that there "weren't enough places to sit" giving them both a free pass to cuddle as much as they liked...a free pass that they took full advantage of.
.
He remembered the time sophomore year when Mr. Germaine drunkenly stumbled into the street, getting run over by a city bus. He was Guy's roommate at the time. He sent flowers to the hospital, figuring that it was the right thing to do. Mr. Germaine later called to thank him-apparently he was the only person who sent flowers.
.
He also remembered that he had a titanium rod running the length of his own thigh, courtesy of passing out behind the wheel of his Lexus.
There had been a few days where the doctors considered his internal injuries pretty touch and go; enough so that Laura had prepared the talk with all three kids about how daddy might not be coming home. He could still feel the scar tissue inside him every time he tried to sit up.
He didn't really appreciate how bad it was until later, when the kids were finally able to visit.
Caroline didn't recognize him, and Tucker sat by the bed, crying. He hadn't even realized that his eldest son could still cry until then; the diminutive thug of prep school hockey at once too old and too young to look so scared.
Now with Julie in his lap, he also really remembered the hardware in his thigh; Julie picking that leg to rest all of her weight against.
.
Doing his best to shift them both into a more comfortable position, he couldn't help but admit that his own penchant for self-destruction was enough to give Mr. Germaine some competition.
.
"I don't know." He shook his head, his arm still wrapped around Julie's waist as he tried to shift her to a less excruciating position. "The older I get, the more I'm starting to think your dad might have been an underrated genius-I mean, I screw up all the time, and the city never writes me a check. It just costs me money."
"Yeah." Guy agreed. "That's why if you're going to pass out drunk in the street, you need to do it in a poor area. You do that in Edina, and all you get is frostbite."
Adam nodded, Julie taking full advantage of his pillow-y qualities.
"Wisdom we can all hope to pass down to our kids one day..."
November 19, 2001
"Can I just like, not go see my family?" Julie whined, resting her head against the passenger window of Ashley's Mazda.
.
Over the past year, the saga of Julie's nose ring had indeed been dwarfed by mounting rumors of Jeff's homosexuality, and Tim deciding that college wasn't for him.
.
Between one son who appeared to prefer the company of males, and another who worked at the bowling alley alongside his on-again off-again girlfriend, the Gaffneys' relative run of luck amongst their offspring had come to an end. Mrs. Gaffney's tenuous grasp on Bangor respectability was slipping away right before her very eyes.
.
"Your parents are nice." Ashley reminded her.
"They're ridiculous."
"All parents are ridiculous."
Julie shook her head.
"Are your mom and dad arguing about whether canned meat is an acceptable dinner?"
Ashley's face scrunched with horror; canned meat hardly the sort of thing anybody in the Handretti family would ever dream of consuming.
"Meat comes in a can?"
"Meat and bread can both be bought in a can."
"Okay, yeah, that's just horrific." She agreed, suddenly realizing that Maine's reputation might have been well-earned, after all.
"Okay, so what do you even do?"
Dwayne sat down on the floor, scrunched between Averman and Jesse as the popular kids held court above. His long legs sprawled across the carpet, Connie and Guy seated directly above him.
"Uhh..."
"He works at a hedge fund." Connie answered, the rest of the room squirming as they felt the oxygen being sucked out of the atmosphere.
"I didn't know there were any hedge funds in Minneapolis."
"There are." Connie replied, Adam suddenly very interested in one of the grapes on his plate beside him.
.
He began to study the red skin, prodding at an indentation with his good thumb as the rest of the room sat in silence. A sliver of thumbnail that he hadn't chewed off pierced the outer layer, revealing the celadon mush underneath.
He poked at it, dissecting the innards in two with his atrophied fingers, his pinkie and ring finger curled in awkwardly.
.
"So what do you do?"
Fuck, Dwayne. Adam thought. Why don't I ask you about that old friend of yours on the soccer team? The one you'd have sleepovers with whenever Charlie was gone?
Let's just let this be equally uncomfortable for everybody.
"I uh, work on the sales end of things."
Dwayne nodded, oblivious.
"Sounds nice. I'd have always figured you to be more of a numbers guy, but as long as you're happy."
"It's okay."
"So how do you like it?"
Well I always fucking dreamed that I'd grow up to work for $20 an hour in a strip mall.
"It's uh, it's different. Nice change of pace after everything that happened. And it gives me more free time."
"That's good."
"Yeah."
"You ever think about doing something else?" Dwayne asked, noting that whatever he was doing, it didn't sound like a great use of his talents.
"Uh, I don't know. I probably waited a little late in life to become an astronaut or anything."
"You always knew more about hockey than anyone." Dwayne reminded him, looking right at him and that body that used to dominate on the ice; the current reality one of cruel irony.
.
He could still see the way Adam would cut across the ice; the way that he'd stay behind at the rink after everybody else was gone, getting a few more laps in in just a t-shirt and khakis. He made it look so effortless. Like he hadn't just spent two hours in a practice that could have made the Soviets cry.
.
"Heh, at this point, I'm about as qualified to play hockey as I am to go to the moon." Adam pointed out, himself staring at the mahogany cane beside him; a brass duck forming the handle. "Maybe less so, since the weightlessness might actually do me some good."
"Maybe I could play hockey on the moon...the MHL." He thought to himself, a hint of a smile seeping onto his face as he began to imagine a bunch of guys in space suits shooting a puck across the moon.
He could picture himself able to move with ease again, buoyed by the lack of gravity, sending his shots off into the constellations. He could picture the martians cheering; a world where he was still good at things. Still useful.
A world where people still wanted him.
.
"You could always coach or something. You always knew more than anyone I ever met."
"Pretty sure nobody's lining up to listen to me unless it's about what not to do."
"I don't know. You're a pretty smart guy. I'd listen."
"Dwayne's right..."
November 22, 2001
"No. She is not coming over."
Julie sat the table, sandwiched between Jeff and Shawn. On the other side sat their parents, Mrs. Gaffney shaking her head with disappointment at the whole discussion.
.
The day before, Tim and his off-again girlfriend from the bowling alley had gotten into a shouting match in the Gaffney's front yard, drawing a couple of curious spectators before she marched on back home, wearing nothing but a pair of Tim's sweatpants an old Celtics jersey over her bra.
At the time, she had shouted that they were definitely over for good, and that he needed to give her back her 'damn Eminem CD'.
Unfortunately for Mrs. Gaffney's dreams of her son finding a classier girlfriend, this decision was less final than some might have hoped; the two making up just a few hours later.
.
"But her cousin is staying at her parents' house, and they don't get along." Tim pleaded, taking another bite of green beans while Jeff and Shawn took turns throwing pieces of dinner roll at one another.
"That's her problem. Not ours."
"That's bullshit. I'm 22. You can't tell me who I do and don't get to hang out with."
"This is our house." Mrs. Gaffney reminded him. "If you want to move out, you're welcome to do whatever you'd like. But here, under our roof, we get a say in who comes over."
"Shit's gayer than Jeff."
"Shit's shittier than you, Tim."
"Get bent."
"Dumbass."
"Fag."
"Tard."
"Queer."
"Dipshit."
"Fag."
"Get a thesaurus."
"Get fucked."
"Loser."
"Moron."
The argument raging on, Julie excused herself from the table and went back to her room, wishing she could just lock herself in there until it was time to return to New Hampshire. Even from down the hallway, she could hear the two; her own frustration mounting at her brothers' inability to grow up, and her parents' enabling of this extended adolescence.
"Fuckin' shithead."
"Fudge packer."
Turning on the television, she upped the volume until they were drowned out by a Bruins game; those fights more tolerable since they didn't involve throwing bread, and didn't take place in the Gaffney dining room.
Settling in with her pillow and comforter, she looked over at the navy pullover Adam had left behind the summer before, still hanging from her bedpost. It took all of the self-control she had not to pick up her phone and tell him that she missed him; that life in the Gaffney house wasn't the same without her favorite skinny dipping partner. Instead, she curled up with his jacket, watching as the Bruins defeated the Maple Leafs.
It still smells like him.
"They took me out of their Hall of Fame." Adam reminded Charlie, still picking at the celadon mush on his plate. "Like, they didn't just move one or two things to less obvious places the way Minnesota did. They literally removed all evidence that I ever existed. They erased everything I ever did."
.
As Dwayne talked, the wheels started turning in Charlie's head.
There definitely were people who would listen to Adam, and he suspected he knew just the place. A place that they were all very familiar with.
.
Of course, Adam also had a valid point...
.
There was no need to tell him how thoroughly his friend's legacy had been erased.
He'd been glad to see it at the time: His entire career had been spent under Adam's shadow. With every loss, every run-in with the alumni board; with every divorce or bankruptcy or fight with Josh, Adam's senior picture was right there in the trophy case to look down on him. His old friend, forever immortalized as a smiling 18 year old with gelled hair and an expression that said 'I'm better than you'.
There had even been a nice big plaque on the wall going into the rink, detailing how Adam was practically Hockey Jesus; a prophet who'd risen from the tomb to achieve all of the things Eden Hall men should strive for.
There was no nuance to it. No mention that for all of his good qualities, he was also a drug addict, or that he'd once stood outside his wife's window with a loaded gun, screaming about how she'd ruined his life. There was no mention that even at his best-long before things had begun to unravel-he could be an exceptionally harsh teammate; that his locker rattled with pill bottles, and that he'd drink fifths of vodka at parties.
No, this version of Adam was a perfect human being who'd overcome tragedy to excel at their blue-blooded vision of manhood.
On his third divorce at the time, it felt nice to watch Hockey Jesus fall. To finally be viewed as the more upstanding of the two.
But now, it had been nearly six years, and Hockey Jesus had paid dearly.
Plus, complicated friendship aside, Hockey Jesus was still Hockey Jesus-he knew hockey, and he knew how to keep WASP money flowing.
Two things Charlie could use...
.
Charlie shrugged.
"There are already people lobbying to have you added back."
"There are?"
"It's Edina." He shook his head. "You could go on a killing spree, and within a month, people would go back to reminiscing about how you 'always sounded so nice' in the old newspaper interviews."
"Touching."
"Yeah, well, you're talking to the guy who was never on the right side of that." Charlie reminded him, smiling. "If I saved a bunch of orphans from a burning building, all of the normal people would be happy, but your neighbors would be complaining that I 'Really should have done more to save the building, you know. It's historic'."
"Heh, yeah. Actual orphans don't do much for property values, but attractive buildings? Those are good for resale."
"Asshole."
"Nah." Adam shrugged. "Just house poor."
"A term used solely by people who aren't actually poor."
"Whatever. I got a good deal on the house."
Plus, I had to live somewhere after the bank took the house in Eden Prairie...
"Yeah yeah yeah. We all know it's full of cake."
"I mean, every house should be. Funfetti is awesome."
"Loser."
"You're just saying that because you have a distinct lack of cake in this house."