Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway
My mother didn’t have any more “spells;” she was very good about controlling her diet and taking her insulin so she managed to keep the diabetes in check for the rest of her pregnancy. That’s the way she was: steady, unflappable.
It was announced that Louise and I would have to share a bedroom to make room for the baby, a prospect that didn’t really appeal to either of us. Although I think that we got along fairly well compared to other brothers and sisters our age, Louise was a private person and quite protective of her personal space. We both knew this and foresaw trouble.
Louise came up with a solution: she would move into the basement. At first my parents were against the plan, but they slowly came around. My father and Pal spent an afternoon building a makeshift room, a crude construction but, all things considered, a good little space. Louise wouldn’t have cared if it was a cardboard box; she was just happy to have her own place. She moved in as soon as it was finished and her old room was just as quickly filled with cribs and stuffed animals and other baby-related things. It seemed strange to me that something so small could require so much stuff.
While I was a little hesitant about the whole ordeal, Finnie was beside himself with anticipation. “Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?” he asked me.
“I don’t know.”
“I hope it’s a boy.”
“Why?”
“Because then we can show him all the stuff we know, without him having to figure it out for himself.”
“Oh.”
“And there will be no oaths.”
I saw where Finnie was coming from; he hated his brothers and was determined that this child would have the benefit of siblings less homicidal than his own. He liked my family precisely because, without trying, my parents had made Finnie feel like he was one of us.
“Of course, it’s fine if it’s a girl,” Finnie said, “it’ll just make things a little harder.”
“Harder?”
“Well, sure. Girls are harder to understand.”
“Even Louise?”
“Especially Louise.”
He got no argument from me. When Louise had helped Finnie build the rink, I had wondered if it was a sign of things to come. But if Louise had spent a lot of time in the basement before the move, that amount now doubled. She was only seen at meals; from the time she got home from school to the time she went to bed, she was in her room, with the door shut.
I didn’t really have much time to dwell on Louise’s peculiarities, however, because in the middle of April my mother went into labour and gave birth to Sarah Esther Woodward, my younger sister. My mother was one of those rare women who actually give birth on their due dates; Sarah was born exactly on schedule.
It was the 5th of April, a calm, mild day. Finnie and I were having a heated argument on my front steps about whether or not the New York Islanders were going to win their third Stanley Cup in a row in the upcoming playoffs. We both hated the Islanders, but Finnie said that they were going to win for sure, which they eventually did. At the time, however, I was certain that they wouldn’t.
“Come on, Finnie,” I said, “Edmonton’s a way better team.”
“Maybe. Anything can happen in the playoffs, though.”
Our discussion was interrupted by the sound of my mother screaming. We rushed inside and found her in the front hall, leaning heavily against the wall, in obvious pain. My father and Louise arrived seconds later, whereupon my mother announced that she had gone into labour.
“Are you sure?” my father asked.
My mother answered him with a look that could have stripped paint.
“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” Louise said.
“Right. Of course,” my father said.
I wondered if he’d been like this when Louise and I were born.
We all piled into the car, my father and Finnie and I in the front and my mother and Louise in the back. My father hadn’t driven since his accident and with all the excitement he had apparently forgotten that he was the only one who could.
“Let’s go, Robert,” my mother said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think I can. Maybe we should call an ambulance.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? We don’t have time for that. Just drive the car, please, Bob.” I rarely heard my mother use such strong language. Apparently, neither had my father. He turned the key, put the gearshift into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
By the end of the block, however, it was obvious that my father was having a difficult time steered the car and changing gears. There was sweat on his brow and his jaw was clenched. Then, while making a left-hand turn, he narrowly avoided hitting a bright green pickup. Shaken, he pulled the car over. “This isn’t working,” he said. “I’m going to get us all killed.”
Finnie had an idea. “What if I steer?” he said.
My father considered the merits of the suggestion. “Have you ever driven a car before?”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “My brother Pat lets me drive all the time.”
I knew this was a lie; Pat wouldn’t even let Finnie ride in the same car if he could help it.
“You’re positive you can do this?”
“Definitely.”
So, for the rest of the way, my father worked the pedals and the gearshift and Finnie sat sideways on his lap to steer. Finnie was not a small boy, so it was cramped for both of them, but we made it safe and sound. My mother was put into a wheelchair and she and my father were whisked toward the delivery room. Just before they went through the doors, my father turned around. “Good job, Finnie,” he said. He looked at the three of us sternly. “There will be no more driving until you are 16. Understood?”
My mother was in labour for a little over an hour, far less time than it had taken her to have me or Louise. Once Sarah was out of the womb, however, things got complicated. She was born with what appeared to be jaundice, but tests soon revealed that this was not the case. After a wide array of treatments and procedures performed by various doctors, her skin remained yellow. There wasn’t, as far as anyone could tell, anything physically wrong with her. She was just yellow. She was a strange baby who did not laugh or cry; she just lay there and watched. She was so quiet it was easy to forget she was even around.
I didn’t know what to make of her at first. Both Finnie and I were disappointed; we had wanted a boy and we had ended up with a girl, a peculiar girl at that. But Finnie quickly got past this and it wasn’t long before he began to think of Sarah as his own sister. I soon followed suit.
That summer Mr. Walsh hired us to paint the wrought-iron fence that surrounded his estate. For three weeks we covered bar after bar after bar with black metallic paint. It was backbreaking work, but it allowed me to save enough money for the league registration fee. I even had a bit left over for some new skates; my old ones were too small.
After we finished the job, Finnie came over to my house almost every day. My mother was on maternity leave and I soon realized that Finnie was more interested in following her and Sarah around than playing with me. Once again I was left to my own devices.
With the warmth of summer, my father and Pal had taken to the back deck, Pal being safe from bronchitis. They continued their education with wholehearted enthusiasm, debating an infinitesimal number of points. On Thursdays they went to the library; this was a solemn but exciting occasion and children were not invited.
One particular Thursday Finnie was helping my mother with the laundry and I was bored to tears, so I crept down to the basement to see what Louise was doing. The room that my father and Pal had built was by no means impenetrable. There were cracks in the walls that eyes, if so inclined, could easily peer through. As silently as I could, I peeked into Louise’s room.
She was sitting cross-legged in the centre of the floor, surrounded by toys I had assumed had been sold at a garage sale back in September. How she had managed to fool us I had no idea. I remembered what I had been forced to give up, though, an
Before I could even start in on what would have undoubtedly been a heck of a rant, Louise grabbed me and pinned me to the floor, holding me tightly by the throat. “Listen to me, Paul. If you tell anyone about this, you will definitely regret it.”
I was stunned. Never in my life had I seen such a ferocious look. I honestly thought she was going to hurt me. Her calm manner, her assured threat, was very convincing. “All right. Let me up,” I said. Her grip on my neck was tight and I was having trouble breathing.
“Just remember, this is a secret. Don’t tell anyone.”
She let me up and I scrambled out of the room. As I climbed the stairs, I heard her door close softly.
In the laundry room, Finnie was helping my mother fold sheets. When my she saw me, she stopped folding. “Jesus, Paul, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Well, go and eat something. You’re pale.”
Finnie was watching me like a hawk, but he didn’t say anything.
While I was sitting in the kitchen recovering from my ordeal with the help of a couple of cookies and a large glass of lemonade, Finnie came in and sat down next to me. He picked up a cookie and ate it before speaking. “You were spying on Louise?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering how he knew that.
“So you saw the stuff.”
“You knew about it?”
“Sort of. Well, I was pretty sure she’d kept some of it.”
“How come you never told me?”
“I thought you’d be mad at her.”
“I am. I had to give up hockey and she didn’t have to give up anything.”
“You didn’t have to give up hockey. Why do you think she helped me build the rink?”
I was speechless. Later, I went down to the basement to apologize to Louise.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“I really am sorry, Louise. And thanks.”
She looked at me vacantly. “Thanks for what?”
“For building me the rink.”
She laughed. “Oh, right. Sure. Well, you’re welcome.”
I left the room more puzzled than ever about what went on in Louise’s head. I resolved to stick to things that I understood, hockey, for instance.
That fall a young Swedish goaltender named Pelle Lindbergh entered the NHL. He was the first big-name European goaltender. In the 1982–83 season, his rookie season, he had three shutouts and let in an average of only 2.98 goals per game, making him the league’s fourth-best goalie and earning him a spot on the all-star team at the age of 23. Finnie and I saw him play early in the season and, even though neither of us liked his team, the Philadelphia Flyers, we were taken aback by how good he was.
That year, when our hockey season started, we were permitted to choose our own numbers for our sweaters. Finnie chose 31, Lindbergh’s number, and I chose 5, Bill Barilko’s number.
Bashing Bill Barilko was born in Timmins, Ontario, in 1927. He entered the NHL as a defenceman with the Toronto Maple Leafs in the 1946–47 season and gained a reputation as a real grinder who made up for what he lacked in talent with enthusiastic physical play. In the 1951 Stanley Cup finals, in the fifth straight overtime game against the Montreal Canadiens, Bill Barilko fired a desperate shot from high in the slot and scored, winning the Leafs the cup. He had never scored more than seven goals in a single season and he certainly had never been considered for a spot on an all-star team. But that goal in overtime, one of only five he ever scored in the playoffs, was his last. Two months later Barilko was killed in a plane crash. The Leafs, who had won the Stanley Cup five of the previous seven years, wouldn’t win it again until 1962, 11 years later.
Even though I had never seen Barilko play and didn’t like the Leafs more than any other team, I had an unexplainable connection to Bashing Bill. I wore his number proudly and secretly; I told no one but Finnie of its significance.
By the time I celebrated my 13th birthday in September 1985, it had become apparent to everybody but Finnie that Peter Stastny and Wayne Gretzky were not the same calibre of player. The season before, Gretzky had scored 208 points, 73 more than his closest competitor. Peter Stastny had scored only 100 points, half as many as Gretzky and not good enough for a top-10 finish. Finnie remained undaunted; although Stastny was slipping, Finnie stuck by him.
Meanwhile, Lindbergh led the Philadelphia Flyers to the Stanley Cup finals and, even though they lost to Gretzky and the Edmonton Oilers in four straight games, Lindbergh earned his second spot on the all-star team and was awarded the Vezina Trophy for the most valuable goaltender. In Finnie’s opinion it was in no way Lindbergh’s fault that the Flyers were swept in the finals; it was the rest of the team who screwed up.
Only a few games into the new season, the Flyers were first in the league and it looked as though Lindbergh would have another banner year.
Things at home were shaping up too. My father was steadily progressing in his quest to read each issue of National Geographic; he had read 624 issues and was almost into the 1930s. Mr. Palagopolis had also taken up the challenge, but he was considerably slower than my father; he was just turning the century. My mother’s diabetes had lessened to the extent that she no longer required insulin injections and she was back at work. Even Louise, now 15, showed signs of abdicating her throne. The phone often rang for her and she even ventured out occasionally on a Friday or Saturday night.
Sarah was three and a half years old and was still yellow. She had been a quiet baby, but as a small child it was all we could do to shut her up. My father and Pal loved it; the more questions she asked of them, the happier they were. She never got tired of their arguing; sometimes one simple question would send the two of them into a discussion that could last half an hour. Sarah just waited, listening to everything they said, and as soon as there was even a tiny lull in the conversation she would pose yet another question, which would lead to yet another discussion. It was as if she was trying to ask the perfect question, the one that would keep my father and Pal talking forever.
Sarah also talked to Finnie for hours on end. He was infinitely patient with her, but with him her task was harder. Finnie tried to give her the most concise answers possible, which meant that she had to have more questions on hand.
Sarah had learned that I rarely knew the answers to her questions. Instead she took it upon herself to share with me the extent of knowledge she had acquired each day, coming into my room before she went to bed to demonstrate what she had learned. On the day that Sarah discovered how to use the light switches, my mother had to take her to bed kicking and screaming. She came into my room and pushed a chair up to the wall, below the switch. Climbing onto the chair, she said to me, very seriously, “Watch.” She flicked the light on and off, over and over again, clapping her hands with delight. To her it was magic. I suppose, for all I know, it might as well be. “I am the sun,” she giggled. “Nighttime.” Flick. “Daytime.” Flick. “Nighttime.”
Unlike Louise, Sarah was a very sociable child. But because of her yellowness, many children were initially reluctant to play with her. Some parents were even worried that she had a contagious disease. She usually won people over, though, in the end. Sarah was impossible to resist.
I had just started my fourth season of hockey in the city league. Every summer I earned money to pay for equipment and league fees by painting Mr. Walsh’s fence. In hindsight it is possible that Roger Walsh paid me more money than was reasonable for the job and it is also possible that the fence didn’t need to be painted each year. But I was grateful for the opportunity; without it, I wouldn’t have been able to play hockey.
I had been steadily improving my game, though I was not a flashy player, or so said Finnie, and had only scored a handful of goals. I could pass the puck up the middle pretty well and opposing players had a hard time getting by me. Still, I had an awful lot to learn and it seemed that everyone else was getting better at a fa
Finnie was becoming a star. He had recorded several shutouts the season before and had been voted our team’s most valuable player. He was, simply put, one hell of a goaltender. He seemed to have conquered his weak glove side and his ability to read plays was fantastic. I had even heard “NHL” whispered occasionally in reference to Finnie.
On November 13, 1985, Finnie’s 13th birthday, we were scheduled to play a game against the team that had beaten us in the league finals the year before. The rivalry was intense, not only between the players, but also between the parents. Both our families were in attendance and I was a lot more nervous than I usually was before a game. In the locker room, I sat quietly off in one corner, collecting my thoughts, waiting for the coach to give his usual pre-game speech.
Coach Hunter was a grizzled man who had reportedly played half a season for the Boston Bruins. Whether that was true or not he would never say for sure. “Doesn’t matter what you’ve tried to do,” he would say, “only matters what you’ve done.” He now worked as a millwright in the Walsh sawmill. I’m not sure it was a job he actually enjoyed. He was an excellent coach, though.
As I laced up my skates, I realized that Finnie wasn’t there yet, which was unusual. At least 45 minutes remained before the opening face-off, but Finnie was usually one of the first players to arrive. It took him a while to put on all his equipment and he liked to be alone before a game started. When it did, he was always the first member of the team to step onto the ice and the last one to step off it.
Fifteen minutes before the game, when Finnie still hadn’t shown up, Coach Hunter began to panic. “Woodward! Where’s Walsh?” he asked me.
“I don’t know, Coach,” I said. I was just as worried as he was. Finnie had been looking forward to this game for weeks. It was his birthday; we were destined to win.
“Jesus Christ, where is that boy?” He looked at Tom Kazakoff, our backup goaltender. “I hope you sharpened your skates, Kazakoff.”