I had waited until I was driving along the lake’s north bluff, seconds from the Haskell house, and called her from my truck, figuring her son, Taylor, would be at school and hoping her husband would be with his attorney, drawing up their strategy for dealing with the feds, plotting whatever form of extortion they planned to present to the town council. I’d told Felicia Haskell that I had been moved by the bouquet she’d sent my mother. Could I drop by for just a minute?
Of course, she’d said. Maybe she felt sorry for me.
“Please forgive the smell,” she said. “We had a little chimney fire last night. I’ve been telling Laird to get a sweep out here but he’s been so busy with the rink and everything.”
I remembered the flashers moving behind the tree line the night before. “Everybody OK?” I said.
“Yes, everyone’s fine. It just-you know, scares the heck out of you.”
“Police come?”
“They did. Didn’t get much sleep. They were here till almost three.”
“The cops, too?”
“Whoever. I was with Taylor in his room. We’ll be fine. Just can’t use the fireplace for a while.” She gave the wine in her glass a swirl. “Now, haven’t I seen you at the rink? Aren’t you a hockey player?”
“Yeah. Not much of one. But it keeps me sane.”
“Nice for you. I have to say it makes me insane. Driving here, driving there, practice, workouts, chalk talks, games. It never seems to end.”
“I remember.”
“I’ll bet.” She couldn’t have weighed 110 pounds, her fake boobs accounting for everything over 100. She wore a red sweater with the tails dangling over black tights that ended in a pair of fur-lined boots. Her silver hair was pulled back in a black leather catch, bringing the angles of her cheekbones and slender nose into sharp relief. Again, I thought she looked older than she was. She still had the bandage on her left wrist.
“Thanks for letting me drop by, Mrs. Haskell-”
“Felicia.”
“Felicia. I was just thinking that no one has asked your-”
“Excuse me, I’m sorry.” She produced a cell phone from under the island. “Hi, Tay,” she said, without turning away. She listened. “No. No. Yes, I understand, honey, but you have balance training after… No, maybe this weekend… Taylor… No… No, you need to get your rest.”
I heard the boy’s voice grow louder, though not loud enough for me to make out what he was saying. “Yes, I understand, honey,” she said. “You can talk to your father, but that’s the way it is until the season’s over.”
She set the phone down and blew out a long sigh. “Gus,” she said, “did you ever think you would play in the NHL?”
The question caught me off guard. I chuckled. “No.”
“Why do you laugh?”
“Well, I just… my mom. I mean, she was fine with me playing and all, came to most of the games, though she said she thought the game was dumb and she couldn’t bear to watch me. I play-I played goalie. Like your son.”
“I see.”
“After games, my mom would make cocoa for me-she makes great cocoa from scratch, with the unsweetened stuff-and we’d sit in the kitchen and replay the game a little. And she’d always say, ‘How come all the other parents have Gordie Howes and I don’t?’ ”
Felicia furrowed her brows.
“Sorry,” I said. “He was a big star for the Red Wings back then.”
“Oh. That seems a little mean.”
“She didn’t mean it that way. It was our little joke about the parents and how they all thought their kid was going to the pros, but me and Mom, we had our heads on straight.”
“That’s funny. You did.”
She set her glass down and walked over to the wall next to the fireplace. I sneaked a look at her cell phone. The area code was 248: suburban Detroit, where she and Haskell had come from. She fiddled with some knobs on a console built into the wall. Piano music filled the room.
“Do you know this?” Felicia said.
“Can’t say I do. It’s pretty.”
“Horowitz. Playing Chopin. Vladimir Horowitz.”
“Ah.”
She turned the music down and came back to the island. “I wish I could interest my son in that Russian.”
It took me a few seconds, but I got it. “Ah, he must like those Russkies on the Wings, eh? Larionov. Fedorov. Kozlov. Fetisov.”
“His father certainly likes them.”
“What about Osgood?”
“Who?”
“The Wings’ goalie.” Osgood let in a softie every now and then. “Does Taylor like him?”
“Gosh. I have no idea.”
“Does he like playing goalie, Felicia?”
She looked momentarily baffled. “Who?”
“Taylor.”
“Oh. Of course.” She looked into her glass, carried it to the sink, poured the wine out. “It keeps him busy.”
“Yes, but does he like playing goalie?”
“I don’t know what else he would do here except get in trouble.”
She didn’t sound too convincing. I decided to change the subject.
“You’ve certainly had your hands full, with the new rink and the fire and… did you by chance see the Free Press today?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” She was awfully cool for a woman with fire trucks and cops and the IRS on her doorstep. “That’s why I’m glad you called.”
“Really?”
“The man I read about in the papers, Gus, is not the man I know.”
“No?”
I probably shouldn’t have challenged her. I couldn’t help but think of what Jason had told me about the happy Haskell household. She backed away from the island now, sizing me up.
“No,” she said. “I realize Laird’s not an easy man to get to know. I realize a successful attorney is going to make some enemies. But he’s not just a collection of jury verdicts and bank accounts.”
“It is hard to get to know someone who won’t talk to you.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“If you say so.”
“I know, I know. For all of his many talents, my husband hasn’t handled things so well of late. I mean, why not just tell your story? Tell the truth, you have nothing to hide. Why let the critics and the naysayers get all the ink?”
“I’m all ears.”
“I know what you think. You know Laird Haskell the plaintiff’s attorney, the guy who makes the tear-jerker speech to the jury, who gets up at the press conference and works up the crowd. But you know what? When he’s not on stage, he’s actually quite shy. He doesn’t talk about the good things he quietly does for people less fortunate than him. I’m reading in your paper about how he doesn’t have the money to build the rink and I’m looking at our checkbook and seeing thousands of dollars going to charities. Especially for women.”
Especially for women. She wanted me to know that. Why? I was feeling good about my hunch about Felicia Haskell. When I had seen the bouquet at Mom’s, I’d had a gut feeling that she felt somehow guilty, maybe because she knew Gracie had been turned down for that job at the new rink. Or maybe not. But Felicia Haskell had reached out, and when people reach out, they want to be heard. So I was there to give her a chance. But women? Laird
