FICTION
Stay Busy Line
/ Dallas Hudgens
06.27.09
Serge’s mother bought the piano for him when he was seventeen; a Wurlitzer Spinet upright. She was generous to everyone, but to no one more than him. Calendars, pianos, video games, a slightly used truck, clothes and lawyers and bail money on three occasions.
Not long before she died, after Serge had moved a hospital bed into the living room, his mother told him how, when he was very little, she and his father had taken a weekend trip to Winnipeg for a getaway. His father was playing semi-pro hockey in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, and she was teaching 2nd grade in Selkirk, and things were not great with his father away eight or nine months a year, still trying to make a living playing hockey.
“You weren’t a bad baby,” she said, “but you sure didn’t need much sleep. Your father was home after the season, and his back was hurting him and he was mostly pissed off about everything. And we thought we needed a break from you. So we got a reservation at the Fort Garry Hotel. Your father had stayed there once when he got a call-up from the Jets.”
Her face was bloated from steroids the doctor had given her near the end of the brain cancer. It actually made her look healthier than she’d ever been. She’d had medical problems as far back as Serge could remember. She’d even suffered congestive heart failure during her pregnancy with him.
“It was a beautiful hotel,” she said. “Looked a little like the Plaza in New York. We go there, get dressed up and head downstairs to the restaurant and sit down, and there we are all by ourselves, not a care in the world, and what do you think we spend the next two hours talking about? You, of all things.”
She had brought Serge a wood carving of a Wendigo monster from that trip, had set it on the dresser with the diapers and baby powder. In an old photo, he could be seen teething on the head of the monster.
“I started calling you ‘the cannibal’ after that,” his mother said. “It was funny, but your father didn’t like it. You know, they called him the ‘Brampton Butcher’ after that fight in Oshawa. He was really sensitive about that, and he didn’t want you being called a cannibal. He was a good player, you know. He wanted to make a real contribution. But the coaches just made up their minds that he was an enforcer, that he had to fight other people’s fights. And God, could he fight. That was all his father’s fault.”
Not long before she died, after Serge had moved a hospital bed into the living room, his mother told him how, when he was very little, she and his father had taken a weekend trip to Winnipeg for a getaway. His father was playing semi-pro hockey in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, and she was teaching 2nd grade in Selkirk, and things were not great with his father away eight or nine months a year, still trying to make a living playing hockey.
“You weren’t a bad baby,” she said, “but you sure didn’t need much sleep. Your father was home after the season, and his back was hurting him and he was mostly pissed off about everything. And we thought we needed a break from you. So we got a reservation at the Fort Garry Hotel. Your father had stayed there once when he got a call-up from the Jets.”
Her face was bloated from steroids the doctor had given her near the end of the brain cancer. It actually made her look healthier than she’d ever been. She’d had medical problems as far back as Serge could remember. She’d even suffered congestive heart failure during her pregnancy with him.
“It was a beautiful hotel,” she said. “Looked a little like the Plaza in New York. We go there, get dressed up and head downstairs to the restaurant and sit down, and there we are all by ourselves, not a care in the world, and what do you think we spend the next two hours talking about? You, of all things.”
She had brought Serge a wood carving of a Wendigo monster from that trip, had set it on the dresser with the diapers and baby powder. In an old photo, he could be seen teething on the head of the monster.
“I started calling you ‘the cannibal’ after that,” his mother said. “It was funny, but your father didn’t like it. You know, they called him the ‘Brampton Butcher’ after that fight in Oshawa. He was really sensitive about that, and he didn’t want you being called a cannibal. He was a good player, you know. He wanted to make a real contribution. But the coaches just made up their minds that he was an enforcer, that he had to fight other people’s fights. And God, could he fight. That was all his father’s fault.”