8. Goldie
EIGHT
GOLDIE
The clock on the wall seemed to tick slower and slower as the day went on, to the point where I found myself teetering on the corner of my desk to replace the battery. I sighed and compared the time on the wall to the time on my phone, and my computer. It was three o’clock on every device. My advisor Roger said that he was going to get back to me by the end of the day.
I picked up the phone and dialed Mel. She answered on the second ring. I could hear the traffic and her heels clicking on the sidewalk.
“Have you got a minute?” I asked.
“Sure. What’s up?” She sounded out of breath. A horn honked in the background and she let out a yelp.
“I’ll call you later. I don’t want to be the reason you’re squished into the streetcar rails.”
Mel’s laugh rang through the phone. “It’s all right. I can walk and talk.”
“Yeah, but do your eyes work at the same time?”
“Ha. Ha.” Another horn sounded. “Ouch. Watch where you’re going!” Mel shouted.
“What is going on?” I asked.
“I hit that guy’s hood with my hand. It hurt.”
I shook my head, but realized that she couldn’t see me. “What does ‘end of the day’ mean to you?” I asked.
“Like end-of-days, apocalypse style?” An espresso machine whirred in the background and I breathed easier as a chair scraping on the floor told me my friend had left the dangers of the city streets and was getting her afternoon fix in the safety of a coffee shop.
“No. Like, if someone says they’re going to get back to you by the end of the day, what does that mean to you?”
Her laugh told me that I wasn’t going to get a straight answer. “Well, that depends. As someone who works in real estate, I’d say midnight. I think for normal people it’s around five o’clock.”
She must have heard my sigh as I watched the clock tick to 3:02. “Okay.”
“Why? What’s so important? What’s going on?” The phone was muffled as she placed her order.
Was I going to jinx it if I told her? I shook my head and reminded myself that a scientist, like myself, doesn’t believe in that stuff. “I have a potential team for my study. I’m just waiting to hear back from my advisor for approval.”
“Oh. The Tigers? Did that come through?” she asked.
I paused. How the hell did she know? “Maybe. I don’t want to confirm anything before it’s in writing. How did you know?” Mel was well aware that I did not want to use my father’s players.
“Um. Just a guess.” The barista called out her name and her coffee order, Mel’s usual, a misto, and a black dark roast with cinnamon.
“Who are you meeting?” I asked.
“Sorry, Goldie Girl. Meeting a client. Gotta go. You’ll have your answer by five, I’m sure of it. When you do, we can go out and celebrate.”
The line went dead and I was left staring at the black screen of my phone. I checked the time once more for good measure, and was met with my screensaver, a shot of Morton standing in the shallow water at the beach.
I sat on my threadbare office chair, watching the clock tick while repeatedly wiping my clammy hands on my jeans, knowing it wasn’t going to make the answer come any faster. I shoved my computer and the leather-covered notebook that I’d carried since I was fifteen years old into my messenger bag. A walk with Morton was the best way to pass the time. I exhaled, trying to stop the excitement from building in my body. I needed to set my expectations low. I had to be prepared for the possibility that working with the Tigers might not be approved.
An old-school phone ring interrupted me before I could leave. I stared at the pile of papers on my desk where the sound seemed to be coming from. It took me another couple of rings to realize that someone was calling my office line, something I often forgot existed. I wasn’t going to answer it, but I couldn’t risk missing a call about my study.
“Hello?” I was ready to decline a duct-cleaning offer.
“Goldie!” The voice at the other end of the line was faint, and the connection filled with crackles, but there was no mistaking it, the mystery caller was not a duct cleaning scammer; it was none other than Fern Lauper. My mom.
Her real name was Jane Swanson, but when she left my dad and fully embraced her hippie lifestyle, she decided to change her name. “I’m like a fiddlehead fern, unfurling to the world,” she’d explained to me. She had undulated her body and spread her arms, wiggling her fingers, each of them heavy with turquoise rings.
When I’d questioned her about Lauper, she’d shrugged like it was an afterthought. She said she liked Cyndi Lauper, the singer. I was surprised she didn’t launch into a rendition of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” while pulling out some more Deadhead dance moves.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You’re a grown woman, Marigold. Call me Fern.” I was grateful she hadn’t embraced facetime technology or else she’d have witnessed my giant eye roll.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Goldie Swanson.”
I unzipped my coat. My mom knew things that she couldn’t possibly know. She called it clairvoyance. I would’ve called it bullshit, except the fact that most of the time she was right. When I closed my eyes, I saw that she was wearing a poncho and had her hair tied into two long braids. If I squeezed hard enough, I could get the imagery to go away. I wasn’t like my mom and there was no such thing as clairvoyance, or clairsentience, or whatever. The only “clair” I believed in was the classical Clair de Lune.
My thoughts returned to my study. If I got turned down, maybe I could propose a new area of study, debunking all the “clair” stuff. There had to be a scientific reason for all the stuff my mom got right.
“Where are you?” I wasn’t about to call my mom Fern. I just couldn’t do it. “How did you get my office number?”
“Oh, I have my ways. You tell me where I am.”
I didn’t hide my sigh. My mom was always trying to get me to “nurture” my gift. I didn’t play along. “I don’t know.”
“Yes. You do.”
I closed my eyes. My mom was standing at a phone booth. The sun was high overhead and it looked to be about noon where she was. A palm tree swayed above her head and waves crashed in the background. My guess was that she was somewhere in California. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of playing her game. My mom loved to surf and there were waves in the background. It didn’t take a brain scientist to figure it out. “Maine,” I replied.
A seagull cawed. “Be serious, Goldie.”
For someone who was the antithesis of serious, it was pretty damn funny. “How are you?” I steered the conversation away from her psychic game.
“I’m great. The weather here in Lodi is perfect. How are things in Canada?”
The wind outside my office building howled, whipping the dormant branches of the maple tree against the window. Sleet started to pelt the glass. “It’s beautiful here. I love the winter.”
“Brrrr. I suppose that’s why you need that big coat.”
I was starting to sweat in my down parka. “I was just on my way to take Morton for a walk.”
“Oh, Mortie. I can’t wait to squeeze him.”
Mom hadn’t seen Morton since he was a puppy. “What do you mean, squeeze him?”
“I’m heading your way. It’s been so long since we’ve spent time together. I want to see you.”
I loved my mom, but she had done this before. I knew better than to get excited for her visit. If you looked up flake in the dictionary, Fern Lauper’s photo would be next to the description. The past two times she’d been on her way to see me, something had presented itself to her, either in the form of angel numbers or an animal, and she had felt compelled to follow that trail. I was used to coming second to 11:11 or a random crow.
“I’m excited to see you too, Mom. I hope you make it this time.”
“Oh, sweetie. I’ll be there. I had this dream last night—”
My cell phone buzzed in my messenger bag. I squeezed the office phone between my ear and my shoulder as I rummaged around to find it. “Mom, I’ve got to go. It’s my advisor.”
“Okay, Marigold. I’ll see you soon. I love you, and you’re going to get the approval.” The line went dead and the dial tone buzzed loudly into my ear. A lot of my mom’s “visions” could be written off as coincidences, but that one… I shook my head. I didn’t have time to think about it. I dropped into the creaky office chair and accepted the call from Roger.
Dad’s SUV was in the driveway when I got home from my walk with Morton. “Dad?” I opened the door and shouted his name. It was not like him to be home so early. Morton nudged the door open and I stepped inside the house.
“Goldie?” Dad shouted from the basement. “I’m down here.”
I unclipped Morton and he followed me down the narrow basement stairs. The old house cost my dad well over three million dollars and I could barely stand up in the basement. The TV flickered, casting a glow onto the overstuffed L-shaped sofa where my father was sitting. He had a notebook on his lap and a pen tucked behind his ear.
“What are you doing home so early?” He had been running evening practices throughout the week and would usually watch game tapes at his office, not in the mancave on Neville Park Avenue.
“I cancelled practice tonight.” His eyes were glued to the action on the screen. “The team seems to be getting worse with all the extra sessions. Maybe they need a break.”
It was then that I noticed the dark circles under my father’s blue eyes. He was only forty-four years old, and usually could pass for late thirties, but today he looked—I gulped—old. The team was killing him. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a break.” I sat next to him and put my feet on the comfy ottoman. Morton wedged himself between us and rested his head on my dad’s leg.
“Hi, buddy.” He patted Morton’s head. “Don’t worry, Goldie. I’ll get a break soon enough. I’m pretty sure that they’re going to fire me, and I don’t blame them.”
My parents were throwing me all the curveballs. First, Mom pops up out of nowhere, and now my usually upbeat and positive father was downtrodden, hiding from the world. It wasn’t uncommon for coaches to get fired, but my dad had the best track record in the league. They’d be crazy to fire him, but I didn’t want to tell him that. After all, hockey management wasn’t always known for being rational. “What are you watching?”
Dad unpaused the game on the screen. “What do you see?”
I pulled the wool blanket from the back of the sofa and curled my legs under me. Growing up, I had spent hours like this, cuddled up next to my dad, watching players do their thing. It took me a few minutes, but I figured out what my dad was looking at—the big player. “Number eight, he’s everywhere. He’s watching everyone. It’s like he knows where every player is at every minute of the game.” I hadn’t ever seen anything like it. The player passed the puck to the defensemen behind him, who was ready and wound up to raise the puck, just enough to rocket it through the goalie’s five hole. “Nice.” I nodded in appreciation.
“A thing of beauty.” Dad paused the screen just as the player who earned the assist turned, arms raised in the air. Dark eyes sparkled and the guy had a huge smile on his face. It was Gideon Bailey. Although, it didn’t look like the Gideon Bailey I’d seen. This version was vibrant.
“Now, watch this.” Dad pushed some buttons and fast-forwarded through a different game, Chicago versus Vancouver. I watched intently, knowing that my dad wanted me to see something. Luckily, it was easy to spot.
“That guy. There. He’s doing the exact same thing, but he’s…faster.”
Dad sighed. “That’s Ace Bailey.”
“That’s Ace Bailey?” I took the remote from his hand and reversed the tape. Ace lowered his hands and the puck hurtled backwards towards the defenseman’s raised stick, and then back to Ace’s blade. We watched the play three times, my dad commenting about his edges and the speed he maintained while deking around the other players. Ace knew exactly where his defenseman was without looking. Where Gideon’s tape looked like it had been pulled from a playbook, classic and executed perfectly, Ace’s was scrappier, faster, and more creative. Gideon was going through the motions, but Ace was feeling it.
Goose bumps prickled my forearm and when Ace’s goofy grin filled the screen, a warmth spread across my chest. “He’s better than his brother.”
Dad smiled. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that. If I could get those brothers to play to even half of their ability, we’d be on our way to the playoffs.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I wish I knew, but the animosity between the two of them is killing their passion for the game. They’re poisoning the atmosphere in the dressing room. I still think I need to get rid of one of them.”
Ace was staring at me from the screen. “Which one?”
Blowing air out from between pursed lips, Dad shook his head. “I wish I had the right answer. We spent so much money on them, management is likely going to get rid of me before they drop one of the Bailey brothers.” Dad let the Chicago game play and the comforting voice of the announcers filled the basement. “What do you think? If you were going to get rid of one of them, which one would it be?”
I sat a little taller and bit my lip. The rational answer was to keep Gideon, his record said it all. Ace was more of a wild card. “I’m not sure, Dad. I wouldn’t want to make a call like that without knowing them better.”
The Chicago version of Ace was on a breakaway and the two of us paused our conversation to watch him deke out the goalie and raise the puck for a bar-down shot.
“Goldie, I completely forgot. Enough of this crap.” He turned off the game and the screen glowed with all of the streaming platform logos. “What did your advisor say?”
The whole reason I’d rushed into the house was to tell him the good news. I squeezed the blanket to my chest. “It’s approved. I can use the Toronto Tigers for my study. He recommended that I not tell them about my relationship to the team.”
“Woohoo.” Dad raised his hands above his head. “I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. Are you sure it’s ethical not to disclose your relationship to the coach?”
“You would think so, but Roger said that it would be unethical to tell them, and that it would impact the way they responded to me. It’s all thanks to you, Dad.”
“No. You put together a great proposal. This deserves a celebration. What do you want for dinner? We can go to that steak house that all of the players have been raving about, or we could go to Canoe, or anywhere. You pick.”
Canoe was one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, and so not my style. “Could we order in from Wahlburgers and watch some games?” I used to love watching the games with my dad. He would explain things to me from an insider’s point of view. I hadn’t wanted to watch games lately, but now that I’d be studying the players, it would be a good way to try to get inside their heads. At the suggestion of burgers and game tapes, the sparkle returned to my dad’s eyes.
“You got it, Goldie Girl.” Dad had already hopped off the sofa, ready to place our order.
“That nickname has really stuck.” Up until I lived in Toronto, no one called me Goldie Girl. Now, it seemed like it was catching on with everyone around me, and I kind of liked it. “Shit.” I dropped my hands into my lap. “I told Mel that I’d celebrate with her if I got it.”
Dad was halfway up the stairs, but turned to peek between the steps and the floorboards of the main floor. “The more the merrier. That is, if she eats burgers.”
If all it took was burgers and some old games to change the mood, I was going to do it more often. Morton and I followed my dad upstairs. Once he had placed the order, I asked him the question that had been on my mind all day. The recent game tapes had made it seem even that more pertinent. “Hey, Dad.”
“Yeah?” He handed me a wineglass and started opening a bottle of Brunello, one of the fancy ones from the wine cellar.
“Maybe I could help you with your decision about the Bailey brothers.”
He grinned. “I would love your opinion.”
“I need to get to know them better.”
He took the empty glass from my hand and poured wine into it. “I’ve got you covered, Goldie Girl. Ace and Gideon are on the top of my list for your study. They just don’t know it yet.”
“Oh, Dad. They’ll have to agree to participate.”
A sly grin appeared on his face. “Oh, don’t you worry, they will agree.”