Winter 1980
Each year, as February wraps its cold arms around the frozen fields and forests of the valley, Norm McKinnon works hard to keep the shelves of Valley Hardware well stocked, especially the small automotive parts aisle. In snowmobile season he can hardly keep up with demand for spare plugs and foldable shovels. Locals liked to keep their sleds in tip top shape. Norm remembers when he was a young man how he and his neighbour, Eddie, used to tune up their machines in Eddie’s dad’s driving shed. Eddie’s family had two hundred acres on the west side of the valley and Norm and Eddie would clear trails all summer long and into the fall to prepare for snowmobiling season. Norm still has a scar on his left knee from the hatchet Eddie swung too enthusiastically one October afternoon. He doesn’t remember how he got out of the forest that day, only that Eddie dragged him under his armpits through the brush and back at the farmhouse Eddie’s mom wrapped his leg in flannel and drove him to get stitches at the clinic.
“Oh, Eddie! What have you done?” she kept repeating, the whole way to town, staring at the blood on Norm’s leg.
And Eddie? He knew just how to charm his Mom.
“Just having fun, Ma,” he’d say, with a wink. Just having fun.
Norm and Eddie both made the basketball team their junior year. Eddie was tall and lean and could sprint up the court and dunk the ball reliably every time. Norm mostly planted himself in front of the opposing team’s best players and cleared room for Eddie’s breakaways. Some enthusiastic cheerleader combined Norman and Edward and started calling out “NORWARD! NORWARD! NORWARD!” whenever their team gained possession. It was the dumbest thing Norm ever heard but Eddie grinned every time he glided past the girls. Norm had been going steady with Lois since grade nine, so he didn’t pay much attention. Maybe it was okay to be noticed, but really he just wanted to win so they’d have a chance at the championships. Who wouldn’t want a few days off school to go to Ottawa?
Towards the end of the season, they’d had a huge snowstorm that took the county plows two days to clear. Norm and Eddie rode their sleds all over the place on fresh powder. They stayed out so long Norm could feel his nose growing white at the tips.
“Eddie. I’ve got frostbite,” he said. He didn’t want to wimp out and go home, there was nothing like making fresh tracks. Still, what happened if his nose fell off his face? He didn’t consider himself a particularly handsome guy to begin with. He made an effort for Lois because he suspected she could do so much better.
“Follow me,” Eddie said, veering onto a narrow trail. “I know a place we can warm up on the next concession.”
Norm wasn’t so sure. Eddie almost always had more energy than he did. “Drive no faster than your lights” was the rule, but Eddie knew the way and Norm kept up. That’s how it always was between them. Before long, they crested a hill and there was a Quonset hut with smoke coming out the chimney. The air smelled like French fries. He was suddenly starving. There couldn’t possibly be French fries all the way out here…
They parked their machines beside a pick-up truck and Norm spotted a few other Ski-Doos near the entrance.
“Welcome to Chez Joe’s,” Eddie said with a theatrical wave of his arm. “Après nous.”
Norm didn’t correct Eddie’s French, he just walked through the door into the warmth of the hut. There were four or five picnic tables around a wood burning fireplace, and a red-faced man at the bar watching the Habs beating the Leafs.
“Hi, Joe,” Eddie said.
The cook pulled his eyeballs away from the television for a moment and smiled. “Hiya, kiddo. What are you doing way out here on a school night?”
“My friend here needs some of your poo-teen before we freeze to death.”
Norm can still taste the salty gravy and cheese curds, and the burning sensation of his nose coming back to life. They were both grounded for coming home so late, but because of the big game, their punishment was set to begin after the qualifiers. Maybe their parents should have been tougher. So many what ifs.
The team played the qualifying match at home. The whole school was there in the stands, with Norm’s parents and Lois in front row seats. Because Norm and Eddie stayed out late the night before, it showed in their performance. Eddie wasn’t running as fast and Norm felt like his arms were made of lead. But, as far as Norm was concerned, it was worth it. He’d rather be outside on a snowy trail than indoors under bright fluorescent lights any day. Coach Saunders’ bushy red moustache twitched in irritation as he watched them flounder. He whistled and called them aside. Norm braced himself for the lecture they deserved, but Coach was decent. He blamed their poor performance on the weather, the cold, the other team’s fine forwards. Eddie crossed his eyes. In the locker room Eddie complained that Coach spent too much time “building self-esteem” instead of “talkin’ straight”.
“It’s good, Coach,” Eddie jumped in. “We were fooling around last night and we’re draggin’ our butts today. We’ll pull up our socks, right Norm?”
Norm stared blankly at his friend. Where did he think he was going to summon up the energy from?
Eddie just smiled and mouthed Ot-ta-wa.
So, Norm pulled up his socks. In the next quarter, they went on the offensive and tied up the game. And then, they kept going, and, to the raucous cheers of the hometown crowd, they landed a spot in the championships.
“We’re going to Ottawa!” Eddie cheered, as his teammates lifted him above their heads.
Norm’s mom came over and congratulated them. She was still pissed off about their shenanigans and had bags under her eyes, but she ruffled Norm’s hair. “Go on.”
“Does this mean I’m not grounded?” Norm asked. For some reason, he didn’t want to be un-grounded, as much as he knew there was going to be an amazing afterparty that night near the falls. He was actually ready for his own bed. Not that he’d ever admit that to his mother, or Eddie. He watched her walk out of the gymnasium with his dad, and he turned to find his friends. She waved her hand over her head nonchalantly as if to say, we’ll talk later, and Norm went home with Eddie and Lois.
They rode on two Ski-Doos to the party. The only thing Norm liked better than crossing the valley under the stars was riding with Lois. He liked the way she held on tight and knew how to lean into the turns properly. Some girls just had the right instincts when it came to machines, and he respected that. Lois’ family liked motorbikes, so she was no dummy. If he ever had kids, he’d teach them how to be a good passenger on a bike, or a snowmobile. There were certain skills people had to know. Maybe he should make a list someday.
The other nice thing about snowmobiling is you can’t really talk. In the car, Lois always broke the silence and asked him what he was thinking. Imagine having to tell her he was thinking of writing down things to teach his kids—their kids! She’d run away fast as she could. He was grateful for the low hum of the engine, the clean scent of pine trees and the pure feeling of being young and free.
You never know what the best day of your life will be. This is something Norm McKinnon thinks about now, when he has a quiet minute alone in his store putting away replacement parts for snowmobile engines. You’d think it might be your wedding day, or the birth of your first (and in his case, only) child, but Norm has had so many good days, it seems unfair to rank them. He enjoys simple things, like coffee in the morning with Lois, and the moment his daughter comes into the store after school and dumps her backpack behind the till and tells him about her day. No, the best days can turn into years. But the worst day? You never know when that’ll sneak up on you.
The field party was near the falls, far off the beaten track. They took the roads instead of the fields because there was still good snow cover and they’d make better time. When they arrived there was a huge bonfire that cast shadows on the hundreds of teenagers gathered around. There were the usual adults, too. Norm always felt weird drinking with his friends’ parents. His folks socialized with adults, but he couldn’t imagine them at a bush party, now or ever. Lois went to find her pals and Norm walked around looking for a bottle opener. When he found one, he walked back to his Ski-Doo expecting to find Eddie, but he was gone. Norm looked around. It wasn’t like Eddie to go off without him. He drank the first beer by himself, feeling like an old man drinking alone at a bar when the waitress just wants to go home.
“You going to join me at the fire?” Lois said, coming to check on him a half hour later.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said. He was tired, the beer was too cold and he felt abandoned. He and Eddie always cut trails together. Why would Eddie ditch him now?
“Okay. You know where to find me,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek and he immediately felt better.
“I’m going for a quick spin,” he said.
She gave him a thumbs up and sauntered back to the crew milling around the fire. He revved the engine and tried to follow the tracks across the field. It was cloudy and he couldn’t make out the path without squinting. For a brief moment, he wondered whether there was a pond on the property. His mother made him promise never to take the machine out on the bay, even if the ice was thick enough for trucks and fishing huts, she was terrified of snowmobiles falling into icy water, or hitting a pressure crack at full speed.
So it was water that Norm was unconsciously looking for when he saw the fawn lying on its side when he came around the next corner. He slowed down his sled and got off, sinking into the deep, fresh snow. Its eyes were glassy. If it wasn’t dead yet, it would be soon. He listened for the sound of an engine. He smelled the exhaust of another machine nearby. He was instantly freezing cold.
“Eddie!” his voice echoed back to him across the field. He heard another engine but he couldn’t see a thing. “Eddie!” he called out, louder.
For a moment the sky cleared and he spotted snowmobile tracks veering off to the left. He followed them on foot through a clearing. It was rough terrain to make a trail, and Eddie would have known better than to risk scraping his skis on hidden rocks or old wire fencing. It was too dark to see in the woods without a flashlight, but he heard the other machine, and looked to his right. Eddie’s snowmobile had slid somehow, and lying ten feet away from its battered hood, was Eddie.
Norm ran. He sank to his knees beside his friend. There was blood from the fawn on the snow around him, but Eddie looked fine. He looked like he was asleep.
“Eddie! Hey, Eddie. Can you hear me? It’s me, Norm.”
He shook him, forgetting most everything he’d learned from Coach Saunders in First Aid. He laid him back down and listened for a breath. He doesn’t remember how long before he checked his pulse. Eddie’s skin was warm, but Norm couldn’t feel a heartbeat. Not in his neck, not in his wrist. Not anywhere.
An autopsy later revealed that Eddie had been killed instantly. Norm understood that this was a merciful (if perhaps not quite true) thing to write for the living. Somehow, the coroner calculated the speed of the machine whipping around that blind corner and the speed of the deer equalled a freak accident. There was nothing anyone could have done. When Norm shook Eddie’s mother’s hand in the receiving line at the visitation, she pulled him close and said, “oh you boys had so much fun.” He didn’t know what to say. They had had fun, but now he knew they would both speak of fun in the past tense. It was something he had, something he’d done—the stuff of boyhood—and that was behind him now. He made it clear he understood by squeezing Eddie’s mother tight and saying, “he sure loved you, ma’am. Eddie really loved you.” He was telling the truth, but he was also talking in a way he didn’t recognize. He was searching for words to ease her suffering. He sounded like his own dad, and that just made him feel like the whole thing was surreal, which was its own cliché—to go to a funeral and say it felt surreal.
***
When she was starting high school, his daughter Sharanne asked how he’d known Lois was the one. He thinks about that day when Coach Saunders came looking for him in the cafeteria. He invited himself to sit with him and Lois. They had been sharing a plate of fries, but not really talking. Coach asked him, casually, if he’d like to play ball again. Norm hadn’t shown up for tryouts. He had no intentions of playing ball that season.
“No, sir. I didn’t try out,” he said.
“I noticed that, Norman. But we sure could use you—”
Lois cleared her throat. “Coach. If he didn’t show up, it’s because he doesn’t want to play. Leave him alone.”
Norm stared at the bowl of fries. He didn’t want to cry in front of a teacher. Eventually, Coach got up and left, muttering apologies. Norm ate the last of the soggy fries. “Thank you.”
“He should know better,” she said.
Norm didn’t know if he should or shouldn’t play ball. But he knew you didn’t let go of a girl like Lois. Someday, when his own grief wasn’t so overpowering, he hoped he’d be able to stand up for her if she needed him. That’s all you need in the end, someone in your corner when you don’t even recognize yourself anymore. Someone who still sees who you were before and wants to be with who you’ll be after.
Norm is fifty-two years old now. There’s no need to have an automotive aisle in his tiny store. There’s a parts store near the hospital and a sled shop near the butcher’s, but he keeps it despite Lois’ protests that they need the shelf space for housewares and small electronics. He keeps it because once in a while, a snowmobiler will come through needing a new headlamp or waterproof gloves, and it gives Norm a chance to say, while he’s ringing them in, “careful out there. You never know what might jump out of the woods.” Most folks don’t remember the story, don’t know about Eddie and Norm’s friendship, the good times they had together. But people can tell, from the look in Norm’s eyes, that in another life he might have just said have fun.
And they might go off into the woods, and hold back just a little, too.