"Close your eyes," I said, "left then right. Good night, starlight." I pressed my lips together, surprised at how easily it had come back to me, the saying my mother had used when putting me to bed.
Patrick rolled onto his tummy. While I rubbed his back, I thought about the things he had said and their connections to the past. Something strange was going on in this house. I wasn't a person who believed in ghosts or devils; traveling with my father, I had seen enough to convince me that human beings alone were sufficient to account for the frightening and evil things that happened in the world. Still, the coincidences of the last few days were spooking me.
There was a meanness at Mason's Choice, a quiet kind of menace that lived below the level of petty quarrels. Whether it originated from household members, one of whom might be preying on Patrick, planting ideas that would frighten him, or from something far less tangible, I didn't know. I was sure of only one thing: The source of Patrick's fear was dangerous-dangerous and sly.
Saturday morning Patrick rose rested and eager to go to the hockey game. I wondered if he remembered the events of last night, but I was reluctant to mention Ashley by name, not wanting to reintroduce fears that sleep may have erased. While we painted a sign saying GO, SAM! I told Patrick that I had had a strange dream last night, giving him a chance to talk about whatever he might remember.
"Do you think Sam will see my sign?" was his response. "Maybe we should make it bigger."
Apparently, ice hockey was the only thing on his mind today.
We arrived late at the game, which began at noon. The high school team played at Chase College's athletic center, with the college's JV and varsity teams scheduled later in the day. Either ice hockey was big in this small town or there was nothing else to do in Wisteria in early March; the place was packed with teens, adults, and bands of little boys and girls in hockey garb. Patrick wanted to sit close to the rink and team bench. I had forgotten about the American love for cheerleaders and watched with fascination as the girls bounced around in the aisles. One of them thought Patrick was cute and told him that Sam was her favorite player too.
Even without Patrick screeching in my ear, I could have picked out Number 23 of the white jerseys. Most of the guys looked the same with their huge pads and helmets, but 23 was clearly manic. When his team scored, he punched the air and any teammate available with such ferocity that he'd knock down his own players. When a sub was put in and he was supposed to be resting on the bench, he was up and dancing, screaming at the players and the officials. I saw the referee giving him the eye when he hollered at a call he didn't like.
"Icing? Icing!" Sam cried out. "Did you forget your glasses, ref? If thirty-three had moved his big butt, he'd have had that!"
Whenever Sam took a penalty shot, a one-on-one situation with the goalie, the crowd would chant, "Sam, Sam, Sam's the man!" He was good, much better than the other players-even I could tell that. And though I didn't know the sport, I was very familiar with his style. I knew that sooner or later emotion would get the better of Sam, and then he'd look at the offending party with disbelief, even hurt. If he didn't quickly get a grip on his emotions, the passion that made him so good would work against him. I'd seen that happen repeatedly with my father.
"Tripping?" Sam screamed at the referee, as his opponent went flying headfirst across the ice.
The official struck his leg with his hand, which must have been a signal for the penalty call.
"But I touched the puck! I touched it first."
The referee jerked his head toward the penalty box. From the look of utter disbelief on Sam's face, you would have thought he'd been accused of playing with four arms. He skated over to the box, then stewed in there for two minutes.
"Stupid ref," Patrick said.
"A penalty is a penalty," I replied.
After three long periods of athletics and theatrics, Sam and his teammates won. They spent a lot of time hugging one another.
I want to get Sam's autograph," Patrick said.
"You have two already."
I want him to autograph my sign," he explained. "Let's go. I know where the players come out. Please, Kate. It's the last game."
For a moment I didn't reply. "It is?"
"The announcer just said so."
I quickly turned my back to the rink and snatched up our coats. "All right."
"Can we get tickets to the play-offs?" Patrick asked.
"I thought you said it was the last game."
"Before the play-offs. Didn't you hear the announcement?"
A moment ago? No, I hadn't heard a word, for Sam had taken off his helmet and gloves, and I had stood like a moron staring at him, attracted again by his strong hands. I had gotten a strange feeling inside, one that I quelled fast. A tough jock with damp curly hair, which made him seem childlike, muscle and sweat, but a badly bruised hand-maybe that was it, the mix of macho and vulnerability. I had turned away, but it was a second too late. He had caught me gazing at him, and worse, had gazed back with the dark eyes that were unsafe to look into.
I was relieved to find a large group of people outside the players' dressing room, waiting to congratulate their team. I took a seat some distance away, where a group of adults were waiting, keeping my eye on Patrick as he bobbed around the teens and kids gathering by the players' entrance. I counted on this group of admirers to keep Sam from being too cold to Patrick.
The woman next to me saw Patrick waving to me and gesturing with his sign. "Are you a fan of Sam's?" she asked.
"Hardly."
She tilted her head, and I realized that my response sounded rude. "What I mean is that I'm not much of a hockey fan, but that little boy is. He thinks Sam Koscinski is the greatest thing since the Queen's hats."
The woman laughed, a silvery laugh that seemed to go with her prematurely silver hair. She had beautiful skin, and dark eyes with a touch of merriness.
The players started coming out and were surrounded by friends and fans. Sam got swallowed up. I watched Patrick hopping like a bunny, trying to get his hero's attention. If I helped him I'd have to fight my way into the group, which had a rather high percentage of cute girls. I glanced down at my jeans, then my heavy boots, which were still coated with mud from yesterday's trek to the pond. I felt like a sheep farmer. Patrick was on his own.
Sam's group moved slowly in our direction. He hugged everyone on the way-girls, guys, parents, somebody's grandmother. Patrick trailed behind. I was probably going to have to do something.
"Hey, Mom!" Sam called. "We're number one!"
"Hey, Sam," replied the woman next to me, the one who had asked me if I was a fan. "Good job."
1 turned to look at her and she smiled a little.
"There's a short guy behind the other kids, Sam," she added, "who would really like your attention."
Sam craned his head to see Patrick, then glanced back at me.
"No, she's not a fan," his mother said, laughing as she had when I'd told her 'Hardly.' "Don't let the short guy down, Sam."
I wondered if Mrs. Koscinski already knew who Patrick was and how Sam had responded to him yesterday. Did she know I drove on the wrong side of the road?
"Thank you for helping Sam pick out my bracelet," she said to me, jingling the silver chain on her wrist. "It's beautiful."
A guy who talked to his mother-I would never have guessed it. A guy who remembered his mother's birthday-not his girlfriend's-not that it meant he didn't have a girlfriend, and not that it mattered, of course.
Sam was surveying Patrick's sign. Patrick was thrilled, chattering away. Sam listened and responded, acting much nicer to him than before.