The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 7

Bobby sat in Frida’s living room. She lived only a few blocks from the Coliseum, on Yale Street in a hundred-year-old wooden three-story house that overlooked the harbour with the North Shore Mountains climbing out of the water right up to the clouds.

“You’ve got a great view,” he said as she disappeared into the kitchen to boil water for tea. Bobby counted seven docked freighters and four others that were being pushed by harbor tugs.

“This was my mother’s house,” Frida said from the kitchen. “I moved in five years ago when she died.”

Bobby looked around the room. There were a lot of creepy-looking paintings, full of dark, foreboding images.

“Those are her paintings on the walls,” said Frida, still busy in the other room. “Her work is not to everyone’s taste.”

“I like them,” said Bobby and he wasn’t lying.

Frida reappeared, carrying a tray with teapot, cups, milk, sugar and honey.

“They fit my mood,” said Bobby as he studied a painting that seemed to depict the stealing of a dark-skinned child by a white person.

“That’s called Cultural Genocide,” Frida said. “None of her paintings inspire good cheer. It’s sort of weird, because she was full of life.”

“I remember her,” said Bobby. “She seemed different.”

“That wasn’t hard in Moose Jaw in the mid sixties,” said Frida. “She was a beatnik. An anarchist. I guess by the time you met her she was in her counter culture phase.”

“She was nice to me, I remember that,” said Bobby.

“If you heard what she said when you weren’t around,” Frida said, pouring the tea. “She was very upset that I was seeing a hockey player. She thought it was my way of rebelling against a hippie mother. And then when I got pregnant…”

“I can imagine.”

Frida handed him a cup. Bobby put his hand on top of hers as it held the tea.

“Before anything else, I want to say I’m sorry.”

She pulled her hand away as Bobby took the cup.

“You and my son Mike are the very biggest regrets in a life filled with regret,” he said. “I have barely been able to think of anything else since I realized that it was you.”

Frida looked at him with her sad, green Maggie Moo eyes. She seemed all knowing and he felt a strange mixture of embarrassment, heartache and contentment as they sat in silence for a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours — it was hard to tell which.

Finally Frida spoke. “Why did you come to me?”

“A friend recommended you,” said Bobby, truthfully.

“You honestly didn’t recognize me?”

“Doctor Rodriguez, she said. A really good psychologist, she said. I didn’t recognize the name.”

“From my ex-husband,” said Frida.

“You looked familiar,” said Bobby. “I felt like I knew you, but I couldn’t remember from where. Your hair is different.”

Bobby stared at her, trying to think of something more profound to say. But that was it. “Your hair is different.” Was he really that shallow?

“Thirty-four years is a long time,” was the best he could come up with. “I’ve been through a lot of people.”

“Thirty-four years is a very long time,” she said.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” said Bobby, pleading.

“I got over you a long, long time ago,” said Frida.

This is the first person I really feel like being with since … He couldn’t remember the last time he had the urge to spend time with another person.

Mostly people are intrusions. Women especially are always trying to get into your life. Strangely this time he hoped that was true.

“I’m glad you called me,” he said.

“I called because I was worried. I was a little late for the game and was just walking down to my seat when … when you had your accident.”

He felt no shame, only elation because she had gone to the game.

“Then the TV and the papers — they can be so cruel.”

“It goes with the territory,” he said and immediately regretted it because he didn’t have a clue what it meant.

“It made me remember our first date,” said Frida. “You threw up then too. Remember?”

He didn’t.

“You were a bundle of nerves in your billet’s basement rec room. We kissed. I put my tongue in your mouth and then you threw up and I cleaned you up and then we made love.”

It was true, thought Bobby as the memory reappeared, that’s what happened. How could he have forgotten?

“Puking is my response to anxiety,” he said.

“You were pretty anxious last night,” she said.

Her words made Bobby smile. “I got Max, the trainer, with a direct hit.”

Frida smiled too. The silence that followed felt more comfortable.

“You were worried about your team?” said Frida.

“I promised always to tell you the truth,” said Bobby.

“That was when you were my patient,” said Frida.

“It’s probably a good policy anyway,” said Bobby.

“Probably,” said Frida.

“I was thinking about you. I was thinking about calling you and then I panicked over the thought that you might not want to see me.”

Bobby felt ridiculous, but Frida’s gentle gaze immediately relieved his anxiety.

“I’m a real mess of a human being right now,” said Bobby. “I’m not saying that as a patient, but as someone who needs a friend.”

This was something he had never, ever said before. A friend? A woman?

Frida picked up his right hand and placed it between her two hands. She appeared to consider her words carefully. “You put a hole in my life that I spent a long time dealing with, but even when I blamed you for my pain, I still wanted to be your friend.”

For the first time in years, Bobby felt a small piece of contentment. He knew the emotion would not last, too many parts of his life were screwed up, but he intended to enjoy it.

He smiled. Frida smiled.

They sort of held hands.

 ***

It was good. For a few hours anyway while they talked about the previous 34 years, catching up on non-contentious subjects like former relationships.

Frida had married a Chilean refugee while she was going to school in Toronto, but the union only lasted two years. She had wanted children but her husband had not. The marriage had been the only significant relationship in her life. She had had boyfriends, but no one recently. Except for a short while at the beginning of her marriage Frida had focused on her career.

They talked about their careers. Frida had lots to say about her work, which pleased Bobby, because he was more comfortable talking about someone else’s life. He didn’t want to break down in front of her again. Frida had earned a Ph.D. in psychology from the University of Toronto, then had moved back to Vancouver to teach at UBC and open a clinical practice. Her specialty had been treating torture victims, an area she had cultivated because of her husband. For the past few years, especially since her mother had died, Frida had cut back on her teaching and on her clinical practice in order to spend more time writing. She had begun and then set aside four different books on psychology and one novel. She talked about how difficult and lonely she found the task of writing.

Bobby was absolutely fascinated by her words. For the first time in his life he was having a real conversation with a woman, a feminist even. And he actually found her stories interesting. There was no need to pretend. But then Bobby had to spoil the moment.

It was almost an involuntary act. A simple movement of his hand as they sat beside each other on the couch. If Bobby had thought about it he would have stopped himself. It was too soon. He was not ready. Any fool could have predicted that.

But he was not just any fool. He was the grandest fool of all.

The funny thing about his screw-up was that lust was not a motivation. Oh sure, desire was present, but only in the background. The foreground was, in fact, filled with the sort of pleasant, good feelings that Bobby imagined people with family must experience at Christmas or birthdays or anniversaries.

Frida was laughing while telling a story about a time her mother had taken the family to Mexico City. Bobby had his arm around her shoulder as she showed him a picture album when his right hand moved from the hardness of Frida’s shoulder to the softness of her breast. It was really only his index finger that brushed near her nipple, but the movement was enough for her to stop laughing. She stared at him for a moment, but then looked away.

Embarrassed?

The silence hurt, but Bobby knew anything he said, even “I’m sorry,” would only complicate things further. So instead he sat, silent, trying to figure out how to move forward.

Could they be friends? Their backgrounds were so different. He was a jock. A dinosaur from the world of hockey and she was a modern woman who was political and said things like “women’s liberation” and meant it as a good thing. How could they be friends? Could they be more than friends? Does love require the freshness and passion that only youth possesses? When love is lost is it gone forever? Can someone live more than half his life alone and then still find a way to safely allow another person into the maze of personality and habit that has been built up over the years?

These were the questions that Bobby considered and he was pretty sure Frida was doing the same.

But then she did something he did not expect. She leaned towards him and pressed her breasts against his chest. She kissed him hard, passionately, aggressively.

He froze. Butterflies swarmed Bobby from the inside.

She wants me. She wants me to have sex. Undoing buttons on my shirt. Sex. This is not what I had in mind. Sex. I can’t. Not now, here. Not ready. Ready? It won’t get hard.

If you think about it, it will never happen. That’s what Hard-On Hayward always said. Just be the erection. Hard-On lived by his code but Bobby had never quite understood what he meant.

Sex. I can’t. No way. Am I go to puke again?

Frida quickly pulled away, sensing his discomfort. She looked embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

No, I’m sorry, thought Bobby, but the words were prematurely buried by an avalanche of torment.

I can’t even do this. Can’t get it up. The ultimate humiliation. Why ultimate? There could be many more even worse embarrassments to come. This discomforting thought was followed by the realization that Frida looked more devastated than he felt. He could see the profile of a profoundly sad beautiful face.

“It’s not you,” he finally managed a few inadequate words. “It’s me.”

As her head turned, sad eyes revealed disbelief.

I’ve hurt her. Everything I touch turns to shit.

Next Chapter: Friday

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