Chapter 184: Patty XIX—Thoughts of Red
Colors were such a tangible, ever present force in Patrick’s dreams, in the way he remembered things and sometimes in how he chose to feel about them. He dreamt once of pale whites and blues, splashed with pink kisses and cold once when he was a boy. It was a dream of freezing and unable to move, there was not even warm flesh. As a result he was wary of colorless shades and the promise of cold. He chose to look at things from passions perspective and avoid the things that didn’t respond.
The girl was responding. If she had cried softly and pushed him away, if she had been meek yet solid, if she had shown those signs of cold, marble arrogance initially, then he would indeed have had to admit that there was defeat in store for him. She had done none of that.
Her flesh had flushed pink under his fingers, he had seen the intense trembling wracking her slender frame, and her lips had parted, had deepened to a vibrant crimson hue. She was Red.
Her eyes were flashing emerald, and they shivered with anger. Anger was also red. It was an attraction, it was an invitation. She was indeed a passionate girl and she was in love, love was also red. Patrick, upon thinking about this, also realized that she was not aware of who she truly was in love with.
It wasn’t Danny. She was enamored with the boy and that was not the same thing as love. She was more in love with the idea of being in love, in being free from her past, her sheltered existence. If she loved Danny so much than she would have proven it to him by now. She would have made a choice between her mother and the boy.
God? She seemed to hold that as her stability. She declared herself to be in love with God, like a good nun would, like a good little convent girl. That’s what she was. It was a rare breed these days, a pure convent girl. They were spoon fed the Bible, teachings, rules, order, God until they were certain that it was indeed God that they were madly in love with.
God was a white light.
She had trembled to red.
If she truly was a pale marble statue, a snow colored little ice queen like he had feared initially, then she would not have let him go so easy. She could have screamed, attacked him, done everything possible to insure that he never touch her again. She did none of that and she had not even told him, “Never come near me again.” No, the girl was red, the girl had red blood in her veins and not snowy water. She was filled with heat, with frustration, with anger, with desire.
“Patrick she is a rosebud!”
Patrick half-smiled and glanced at Foote who was staring pensively at a game of Solitaire spread out on the bed in front of him. Patrick pressed the phone closer to his ear and glanced at his watch. They would have to be leaving soon to prepare for the game tonight.
“A what?” he asked in French.
“Dammit!” Foote barked as he swept the cards into a pile on the bed. “I can’t ever win lately! Stupid cards!”
“A rosebud,” Michele replied, her voice light and thin through the phone lines, “I couldn’t help but think that as I watched her the other day. She is not the same frigid creature her mother has become. She is this little red rose bud, waiting to just poof slide her petals open for the first one that tickles her just so. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Patrick laughed. “And you can’t wait for me to try?”
“Ooo but gently yes?” Michele giggled. “No reason to break her?”
Michele was a different color, Patrick knew. She was not red she had soothing, quiet colors underneath with the fire on top. She radiated colors like a kaleidoscope dropped and shattered, scattering pin points of lighted stained glass and silver. He didn’t understand her yet, he knew he never would. He pressed his hand against his pocket, against the treasure he had slipped inside it.
“Mimi I have to go, we will be leaving soon.”
“Of course, of course, will talk to you tomorrow yes?”
“I give up!” Adam exclaimed as Patrick hung up the phone.
Patrick looked at his roommate and the cards he had tossed onto the floor. “It’s still not working for you?”
Adam shook his head, blinking with wide, almost innocent looking eyes. “So where were you all morning, aye Patty?”
Patrick looked away, “I was out, spending the rest of this week’s paycheck.”
Adam laughed and Patrick smiled as he looked back at him. “Damn,” Adam snickered. “Were you at the hockey card place again? Mimi’s gonna kill you.”
Patrick nodded. “I suppose she would, if she knew.”
“Know what,” Adam said with a thoughtful expression, “You should buy whatever the hell you want it’s your money, but then get her something pretty and sparkly, then she’ll forget what you’ve spent money on.”
“At that rate,” Patrick said staring at the ceiling, “A card worth three hundred dollars but bought for two hundred, is actually one thousand dollars when the necklace to go with it is bought to appease the wife.”
“Yup,” Foote answered. “Sounds about right.”
Patrick grinned. “That is a bargain, quite a bargain.”
The noise was deafening, the crowd inside the arena vibrated and pulsed, they roared with anticipation. He saw the absolute sea of red jerseys behind the glass, understood that there were expectations to be met and a show to be played. There was a darkening of the lights and then the anthem that was sung. Patrick sighed, he bounced back and forth on his skates, counted each breath he took. The lights glared as they were turned on again and Patrick wasted no time as he skated to the center of the ice and he bent over, staring at the net, at his posts. They were sleeping.
Wake up.
Fuck off.
Patrick felt something of a twinge in his gut, uncertainty.
Wake up.
Piss off.
Now feeling somewhat aggravated Patrick skated around the posts, as he skated into his crease he patted them.
“Reveille-toi,” he whispered.
Piss off.
Patrick sighed. It wasn’t that important? Was it? It could never be that important but it always ended up being that way didn’t it?
“We have to take the ice in ten minutes where the fuck is he?” Patrick snapped.
Keaner looked up from the skate he was lacing; his expression was slack mouthed and vacant for a moment before a flickering of understanding went across it. “I doubt he’ll miss the game Patty, calm down.”
Patrick glared at Keaner. “Well we need him on the ice now, stupid whore.”
Keane narrowed his eyes and his cheeks flushed red. “For your sake you stupid ass you better be talking about Vinny.”
Patrick could feel his own cheeks redden and he crossed his arms over his chest, knowing that the entire locker room was looking at them, was waiting to see what would happen.
Isn’t it funny that Mike is as red under his fly as he is on top of his head?
Damn whore, she couldn’t keep her hands off anyone could she?
“The boy is a whore,” Patrick said calmly.
There, he hadn’t given in, no one had been embarrassed. Keaner seemed satisfied as it was with that and he went back to his skates.
Patrick leaned into the bench and glanced at their coach, Mario Tremblay as he rocked on his heels by the locker room door. There it was, at the base of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, the revulsion, a memory of a taste, of touch, of the black darkness in a cramped room, the blue shine of the moon off skin. Mario was glancing at his watch, he rubbed his hands together, he was animated, trembling almost.
Before the last game, Kirk Muller had been late to practice and had been scratched. Muller was a veteran. There was to be no account taken for a veteran then?
Patrick looked back at Mike and nodded. “Yes, it doesn’t matter, Vinny wouldn’t play today even if he came.”
Keaner nodded. “More’nlikely.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “What more than likely?”
Keane shrugged. “Vinny… he’s special aye?” Mike then followed the comment with a wink.
Patrick looked quickly at Mario. Special?
“Perhaps something has happened to him,” Tremblay muttered, smoothing his fingers over his hair and pacing away from the door. “What if something has happened? What would I do?”
Patrick squinted. Didn’t he mean what would we do?
Eleven games unbeaten, eleven, Patrick thought. We don’t need him. He isn’t important, I know what I’m doing, and I know what I can do.
Patrick looked at Keaner who was stretching and yawning. He looked at the C on the front of his jersey, that wasn’t a goaltender’s responsibility, never in his lifetime. It would be unconscionable, to have that allowed as a goaltender’s badge, like giving a woman a spot on the coaching staff. He remembered the woman who initially coached him as a child, why would it be different now?
“Vinny!” Mark Recchi exclaimed causing Patrick to look up at the doorway, to see the prodigal Vincent Damphousse. “There ya are!”
Vinny raised his eyebrows, grinned, and sauntered to his locker. Patrick couldn’t hide the force of his glare at the boy. Vinny returned the glare with a sheepish shrug.
“What can I say my friend,” Vinny said, “Traffic she is like Jacques’ dog eh, a real bitch.”
Patrick smiled, but he could feel no emotion behind it. At least Mario could be useful now, and bench the boy. Patrick looked at Tremblay, he was surprised to see that pale expression on Mario’s face. It was The Look that he could remember on Mario’s face in those dark days, those beginning days. There was helplessness, exultation in that look and it remained on Mario’s face as he walked up to Vinny, ran his hand over the boy’s shoulders, patted him. “Hi there,” Mario said.
He walked away quickly and Patrick couldn’t stop the horror in his face, he knew it was showing. Vinny looked at him and grinned. “He is an easy bitch, what can I say?”
“Hey!” Patrick barked at Mario.
Tremblay looked at him. “What?”
“And you scratch Muller? What is this?” Patrick asked, not bothering to contain the anger in his voice.
“Just forget about it Casseau,” Tremblay said with a sweet dripping voice, “Pay attention to your own game yes? I’m the one who turned this team around from 0 and 5 to the place we are now. I would appreciate it if you would learn your place and start recognizing my importance and that I know what I am doing in my decision making. Is that good Casseau?”
Atmosphere. It was crackling inside the building and Patrick closed his eyes, hearing the anthems, scraping the ice underneath his skates. He hadn’t cast so much as a look at Vinny through the preskate, didn’t look at any of his teammates. He didn’t want to recognize any human being.
O and 5 and he turned them around? That fat bastard that lecherous, squealing sow?
He had looked across the ice at the swirling skaters in Red, the Ailes Rouge de Detroit. The color seemed much brighter to him today, much more vibrant. It was speaking to him was it?
“Reveille-toi,” he whispered to the goalposts as he skated to them. “We have to show them who is in charge in this building yes? We have to show HIM!”
Piss off.
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