The Mistake(46)

16




Logan


June

I’m thirty-three days into my torture stint at Logan and Sons when I have my first run-in with my father. I’ve been waiting for it, in some sick way even looking forward to it, but for the most part, Dad has left me alone since I moved back home.

He hasn’t asked me about school or hockey. Hasn’t given me the usual guilt trips about how I don’t care enough to visit. All he’s done is complain about his leg pain and thrust beers in my direction while pleading, “Have a brewsky with your old man, Johnny.”

Right. Like that’ll ever happen.

I appreciate that he hasn’t been on my case, though. Truth is, I’m too exhausted to fight with him right now. I’ve been following the rigid off-season training program the coaches designed for us, which means getting up at the crack of dawn to work out, toiling in the garage until eight p.m., working out again before bed, and then crashing for the night and doing it all over again the next day.

Once a week I go to Munsen’s crappy arena to work on shooting and skating drills with Vic, one of our assistant coaches who drives over from Briar to make sure I stay sharp. I love him for it, and I look forward to the ice time, but unfortunately, today’s not a rink day.

The customer I’m dealing with at the moment is the foreman of the sole construction crew in town. His name’s Bernie, and he’s a decent guy—well, if you overlook his constant attempts to persuade me to join Munsen’s summer hockey league, which I have no desire to do.

Bernie showed up five minutes ago with a two-inch nail jammed in the front tire of his pickup, gave me the usual spiel about how I need to join the league, and now we’re discussing the options for his repairs.

“Look, I can easily patch you up,” I tell him. “I’ll pull the nail out, plug it up, and fill up the tire. Which is definitely the cheaper and quicker option. But your tires aren’t in the greatest shape, Bern. When was the last time you replaced them?”

He rubs his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. “Five years ago? Maybe six?”

I kneel next to the left front tire and give it another quick examination. “The tread on all four tires is starting to wear. You’re not down to one sixteenth of an inch yet, but it’s getting damn close. A few more months and they might not be safe to drive on anymore.”

“Aw, kid, I don’t have the money to replace them right now. Besides, the crew’s working a big job over in Brockton.” He gives the hood a hearty thump. “I need this baby with me every day this week. Just do the patch for now.”

“You sure? Because you’ll have to come back again when the tread is gone. I recommend doing it now.”

He dismisses the suggestion by waving one meaty hand. “We’ll do it next time.”

I nod without argument. First rule of service? The customer’s always right. Besides, it’s not like his tires are going to explode in the next few hours. It’ll still be a long while before the tread is completely worn.

“All right. I’ll do it now. It should only take about ten minutes, but I’ve gotta finish the alignment on this Jetta first. So more like thirty. You wanna wait in the office?”

“Naw, I’ll walk around and smoke. I have some phone calls to make.” He glares at me. “And for the love of God, we need you on the ice Thursday nights, kid. Think about it, okay?”

I nod again, but we both know what my answer will be. Every year, the Munsen Miners extend an invitation, and every year I turn them down. Honestly, it’s too depressing to even consider. It’s just a reminder that next year I’ll be going from a Division I team to the Munsen Miners. Yup, I’ll be the star player of an amateur league, on a team that’s named after an activity this town isn’t even known for. There are no mines in Munsen and never have been.

Less than a minute after Bernie wanders outside, my father emerges from the office and limps over to me. His hands are blessedly devoid of any alcoholic containers. At least he has better sense than to drink in front of our customers.

“The f*ck was that?” he demands.

So much for shielding the customers—he’s slurring like crazy and swaying on his cane, and suddenly I’m glad he’s been holed up in the office all day, out of sight.

I stifle a sigh. “What are you talking about?”

“Where was the upsell?” His cheeks are flushed in outrage, and even though I’ve been back home for more than a month, I’m still startled by how gaunt he looks. It’s as if all the skin from his face, arms and torso decided to move to his gut, forming an incredibly unflattering beer belly that protrudes beneath his threadbare T-shirt. Other than the paunch, he’s skinny as a rail, and it makes me sad to see him this way.