and the clash of hockey sticks almost put me in sensory overload. I discovered that I could actually follow the puck, and by the time the Canes played the whole game, went into overtime, then won in a shootout, I had yelled myself hoarse and was thoroughly hooked.
This year, we had squeezed tickets for twelve games out of our budget, and tonight the Carolina Hurricanes were going up against the Florida Panthers. As soon as our most pressing chores were done, Cal put on his own red sweatshirt with the autographs on the shoulder, and the three of us headed back out to the truck. Dwight does not wear any shirts or sweaters with messages—“I got enough of that in the Army,” he says—and he only allows one tiny Hurricanes bumper sticker on his truck. As a concession to us, though, he did let Cal clamp our red flags to the windows and we flapped our way over to Raleigh.
At the RBC Center, we munched on burgers and fries and watched the Storm Squad—skimpily dressed cheerleaders in fur-trimmed red Santa hats—pump up the crowd.
I couldn’t help flashing on Mallory Johnson, who would never again cheer a team to victory. Dead at eighteen. At least Joy Medlin had limped away from the crash that killed her boyfriend. Even if she couldn’t do the moves, she could still be part of the squad, contribute choreography and moral support.
While the Storm Squad urged the crowd to roars of welcome as the players skated onto the ice, I said a prayer to whoever might be listening to please, please keep my nieces and nephews safe in their cars; then I too was swept up in the excitement.
The game was another nail-biter. Our team scored in the first period and fended off the Panthers till the third period, when they got off a strong shot that goalie Cam Ward stopped. Unfortunately, he then slid back into the net with the puck, and the score was tied 1–1 at the end of regulation play. After an agonizing four minutes into overtime, Joe Corvo slapped a high backhander over their goalie and into the net.
Hurricanes 2, Panthers 1!
All evening, Dwight and I had avoided talking about Mallory Johnson’s death in front of Cal, but when Cal fell asleep against my shoulder on the way home, I kept my voice low and asked, “Were you and Malcolm Johnson in the same class?”
“No, he was a year behind me. Jeff, too.”
“I’d almost forgotten about Jeff Barefoot,” I admitted. “What was he like?”
Dwight shrugged. “Nice guy. Good free-throw shooter.”
“Y’all played ball together?”
“Yeah. Or rather Malcolm and I did. Jeff was second-string.” He flashed the oncoming driver a reminder to dim the lights as he looked for words to describe the two friends. “The thing was, Malcolm worked harder, but Jeff probably had more natural talent. Easygoing. Better-looking, too. Guess that’s how he wound up getting Sarah.”
“Isabel said it was because he got her pregnant.”
“Yeah, I did hear that.”
“Were you surprised when she married Malcolm so quickly after Jeff died?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isabel told me that Jeff died the Christmas after they were married and that Sarah remarried only eight months later. You don’t remember?”
“I was in the Army then,” he reminded me. “Down in Panama. Waiting for you to grow up. And it wasn’t like I was real close to them. Mama or somebody probably mentioned it the next time I was home on leave, but by then it was old news and I guess I wasn’t paying much attention. Besides, the way she played those two boys against each other all through school? Once Malcolm went off to college, Jeff probably had the inside track with her. She was a cheerleader, too, you know.”
“Yeah, I was a freshman then and there was a lot of talk before she finally admitted she was pregnant and had to quit the squad.”
He turned off the paved road onto our long dirt and gravel driveway and eased the truck wheels over the low dikes so as not to wake Cal. “I do remember thinking it was ironic that a roofer would break his neck falling off his own roof.”
“Not his neck,” I said, as we parked by the back door and I gently unbuckled Cal’s seat belt. “His head. He hit his head on a rock when he fell.”
“Whatever,” Dwight said and carried our sleeping boy into the house.
CHAPTER 5
Friday dawned cold and dreary with a raw, bone-chilling dampness in the air. The sky was gray and heavy with wet clouds. Instead of depressing our spirits, though, the weather seemed to heighten the holiday mood.
“Maybe it’ll snow,” Cal said hopefully when he and Dwight left to meet the school bus.
Up in Shaysville, at the edge of the Virginia mountains, there had been snow on the ground for most of his Christmases. I myself could remember only two or three late December snowfalls here in eastern North Carolina, so he wasn’t likely to get his wish, but at least it was cold enough to keep the seasonal pictures of icicles and reindeer and fur-wrapped elves from looking too totally illogical.
Not that Cal was the true believer he’d been last year. More wink-wink/nudge-nudgers in third grade than second, not to mention what he must hear on the bus. Ever since Thanksgiving, he had made so many elliptical remarks about the Santa myth that I was not surprised when he looked up from his breakfast cereal this morning and came out with it bluntly.
“Mary Pat says you guys are Santa Claus.”
“Me?” Dwight managed to look astonished. “You see any reindeer out back? You think my truck can fly?”
