not an elk, Randy.”
“I’m just saying you’re here, she’s here. Old times’ sake and all that. It’s sweet.”
“I’m here because Ben died, not for some shag at the class-reunion weekend.”
“What? You can’t walk and chew gum at the same time?”
The bar is even busier tonight. A Leafs game on the flatscreens, an excuse to get out of the house in the middle of the week for some draft and half-price Burn Your Tongue Off! wings advertised on the paper pyramids on the tables.
Among the customers is Tracey’s boyfriend. A good-looking, dark-haired kid who comes in wearing a Domino’s Pizza jacket to give her a full kiss on the lips. Here’s what you can see rightaway, as surely as you could see it when I kissed Sarah Mulgrave outside the Grimshaw Arena on game nights: these two are in love. And you can see that the Domino’s kid knows how special a young woman Tracey Flanagan is. That he is trying to figure a way to not blow it with her and go all the way, out of Grimshaw and beyond. A whole life with Tracey. That’s what this kid wants, and is right to want.
“That yer fella?” Randy asks after the Domino’s kid has left and Tracey returns to our table. He’s decided to use his Irish accent again.
“Sure is,” she says. “You better watch yourself.”
“No need to be warned about those pizza-delivery guys. They don’t mess about.”
“Gary played for the Guardians too.”
This declaration changes things. And it makes Randy drop the dumb accent.
“What position?”
“Right wing.”
Randy slaps me on the back. “That’s where Trev played! Though that was many moons ago.”
“So my dad tells me.”
“Your Gary, does he have a last name?”
“Pullinger.”
“Rings a bell,” I say.
“Bowl-More Lanes,” Randy says, clicking his fingers. “Didn’t the Pullingers own that place?”
“Gary’s dad. But it burned down about ten years ago.”
“The Bowl-More burned down?” Randy slams his fist onto the table in real outrage. “Had many a birthday party there as a youngster. You remember, Trev?”
“I remember.”
Randy raises his mug. “Here’s to Tracey and Gary. May you find love and happiness.”
“Already have,” she says.
The night goes on to gain a comfortable momentum, buoyed by Bushmills and the Leafs going into the third period with an unlikely two-goal lead over the Red Wings. They will ultimately lose, of course. But for now, Jake’s is a place of hope and mild excitement and we are part of it.
I decide to quit while I’m ahead. I’m feeling pretty good, considering the grim business of the day—not to mention the strange encounter with the boy, and an observer I guessed to be Carl (though now, on the firmer ground of Jake’s, I doubt either was who I thought he was). But much more of what’s making me feel this way will only be pressing my luck. I’m tired. From the long day, from burying a friend, from fighting to keep the Parkinson’s hidden from the world. And tomorrow I have to assume my duties as Ben’s executor. A first-class hangover would make that unpleasant task only doubly so.
I head up to the bar to give Tracey my credit card.
“Wrapping up?”
“Just me,” I say. “I wanted to pick up the tab before my friend and I wrestled over it. Though Randy is usually willing to lose that particular fight.”
She swipes my card and taps the terminal with a pen, waiting for the printed receipt. It gives me a handful of seconds to study her profile up close. No doubt about it: something of Heather Langham lives in this girl.
She looks up at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s rude to stare.”
“Were you staring?”
“Honestly? I was thinking of someone else. Someone you remind me of.”
“A girlfriend?”
“No. Just a person I looked up to.”
“Are you flirting with me?” she says.
“Is that what this sounds like?”
“A little. But then, I don’t really know you. And you’re—”
“An old man. Old as your dad,
“I’m just saying you’re here, she’s here. Old times’ sake and all that. It’s sweet.”
“I’m here because Ben died, not for some shag at the class-reunion weekend.”
“What? You can’t walk and chew gum at the same time?”
The bar is even busier tonight. A Leafs game on the flatscreens, an excuse to get out of the house in the middle of the week for some draft and half-price Burn Your Tongue Off! wings advertised on the paper pyramids on the tables.
Among the customers is Tracey’s boyfriend. A good-looking, dark-haired kid who comes in wearing a Domino’s Pizza jacket to give her a full kiss on the lips. Here’s what you can see rightaway, as surely as you could see it when I kissed Sarah Mulgrave outside the Grimshaw Arena on game nights: these two are in love. And you can see that the Domino’s kid knows how special a young woman Tracey Flanagan is. That he is trying to figure a way to not blow it with her and go all the way, out of Grimshaw and beyond. A whole life with Tracey. That’s what this kid wants, and is right to want.
“That yer fella?” Randy asks after the Domino’s kid has left and Tracey returns to our table. He’s decided to use his Irish accent again.
“Sure is,” she says. “You better watch yourself.”
“No need to be warned about those pizza-delivery guys. They don’t mess about.”
“Gary played for the Guardians too.”
This declaration changes things. And it makes Randy drop the dumb accent.
“What position?”
“Right wing.”
Randy slaps me on the back. “That’s where Trev played! Though that was many moons ago.”
“So my dad tells me.”
“Your Gary, does he have a last name?”
“Pullinger.”
“Rings a bell,” I say.
“Bowl-More Lanes,” Randy says, clicking his fingers. “Didn’t the Pullingers own that place?”
“Gary’s dad. But it burned down about ten years ago.”
“The Bowl-More burned down?” Randy slams his fist onto the table in real outrage. “Had many a birthday party there as a youngster. You remember, Trev?”
“I remember.”
Randy raises his mug. “Here’s to Tracey and Gary. May you find love and happiness.”
“Already have,” she says.
The night goes on to gain a comfortable momentum, buoyed by Bushmills and the Leafs going into the third period with an unlikely two-goal lead over the Red Wings. They will ultimately lose, of course. But for now, Jake’s is a place of hope and mild excitement and we are part of it.
I decide to quit while I’m ahead. I’m feeling pretty good, considering the grim business of the day—not to mention the strange encounter with the boy, and an observer I guessed to be Carl (though now, on the firmer ground of Jake’s, I doubt either was who I thought he was). But much more of what’s making me feel this way will only be pressing my luck. I’m tired. From the long day, from burying a friend, from fighting to keep the Parkinson’s hidden from the world. And tomorrow I have to assume my duties as Ben’s executor. A first-class hangover would make that unpleasant task only doubly so.
I head up to the bar to give Tracey my credit card.
“Wrapping up?”
“Just me,” I say. “I wanted to pick up the tab before my friend and I wrestled over it. Though Randy is usually willing to lose that particular fight.”
She swipes my card and taps the terminal with a pen, waiting for the printed receipt. It gives me a handful of seconds to study her profile up close. No doubt about it: something of Heather Langham lives in this girl.
She looks up at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s rude to stare.”
“Were you staring?”
“Honestly? I was thinking of someone else. Someone you remind me of.”
“A girlfriend?”
“No. Just a person I looked up to.”
“Are you flirting with me?” she says.
“Is that what this sounds like?”
“A little. But then, I don’t really know you. And you’re—”
“An old man. Old as your dad,
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