Free Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway Page A

Because of the late hour and because of the liquor in my milk, I fell asleep right there on our front steps in the middle of winter, snug under the protection of two one-armed men. I suppose someone eventually took me inside, because the next thing I remember is waking up with a sore throat and a runny nose.
    Whenever I was sick, I spent my time with Louise. If you needed to rest calmly but didn’t want to be bored, Louise was your girl. That day, though, she was nowhere to be found. I asked my father where she was; he didn’t know. I asked my mother and she told me that Louise had gone out early that morning with a friend.
    Louise had never had a friend before. None of the girls in her class seemed to want to have much to do with her and Louise, generally speaking, didn’t like boys. I was intrigued.
    Over the next week, the last week of winter vacation, Louise continued her disappearing act. When she did return she was tight-lipped about where she’d been.
    My father started to spend a lot of time with Mr. Palagopolis, or Pal, as he insisted we call him. Besides their missing arms, they had other things in common. Pal also enjoyed
National Geographics
and he was easily my father’s equal when it came to eccentricity. Pal was in his late 50s though, and was prone to bronchitis, so they refrained from sitting on the back deck during the winter months. This was especially hard on my mother, who, while trying to rest, was repeatedly awakened by the two of them arguing about some minor point of starfish anatomy, the lactose content in cheese or whether volcanoes are more dangerous than earthquakes. My mother would ask them to keep their noise to a minimum and they would try their best, but sooner or later they would be yelling at the top of their lungs and my mother would have to ask them to settle down. Several times she even threatened to kick the two of them out of the house, but I don’t think she really meant it.
    It was good to see my father enjoying himself again. After what he’d done to the garage, we had begun to think he was going a bit nuts. I’m not sure why we thought that hanging around with Pal precluded that possibility, but we did, so we were all a little happier.
    I found their conversations fascinating if somewhat perplexing. Although I would rather have been out playing hockey with Finnie, listening to my father and Pal argue was a welcome alternative.

    By mid-January of 1982, any remaining doubts regarding the greatness of Wayne Gretzky were cast aside. He had scored 50 goals in the first 39 games, shattering Maurice “the Rocket” Richard’s record. Gretzky would go on to score 92 goals and 120 assists that season, setting a record that many think will never be broken. Peter Stastny had 139 points that year, his second in the league. Gretzky and Stastny were playing the best hockey of theircareers, but both the Edmonton Oilers and the Quebec Nordiques were eventually eliminated in the playoffs.
    I had been following the progress of both teams since the start of the season and in early January it still looked as though they would be contenders for the playoffs. Meanwhile, Finnie was still avoiding me.
    Then, one afternoon in the second week of January, I was on the driveway practising my stickhandling when I turned around and saw Finnie.
    “Come on,” he said, “I have something important to show you.”
    He led me through the snow-covered streets toward the sawmill. I tried to get him to tell me what was up, but he wouldn’t even give me a hint. When we got to the sawmill and turned up the path, I knew where we were going. I was so surprised to see Louise at the reservoir that I didn’t notice what they had done. “What are
you
doing here?” I said testily.
    She just smiled.
    Then I saw it. The large cement slab was now coated by a sheet of ice. At the edges, boards stamped with the Walsh logo had been placed perpendicular to the ice. A net stood at either end. “Did you do this?” I