The Most Dangerous Thing - Laura Lippman [71]
The parade stretches out, heading down Pickwick toward the more picturesque heart of the village, wending its way toward the banks of the Gwynns Falls. Tim wonders if it’s too early to have a beer. It’s a holiday, isn’t it? The usual rules don’t apply. He goes back into the house and grabs a Schaefer. It is, as the song says, the one beer to have when you’re having more than one and Tim definitely plans to have more than one today.
A young mother, one of the ones who’s shadowing the buggy brigade, shoots him a dirty look. Hey, he put it in a Styrofoam koozie. No one can see the can. It’s a holiday, dammit.
Then he sees Go-Go, coming out the front door. Shit. He’s dressed as one of the U.S. Olympic hockey players. Not a bad idea, actually, for a display of patriotism. He’s more on the money than those little girls with their baby carriages. But the kid has to be dying inside all that gear. Because he’s not just any hockey player, he’s the goalie, Jim Craig, complete with pads and face mask. Although the pants are nothing but red sweatpants with duct tape and white paper stars along the sides, the rest of the costume looks authentic. Tim wonders where Doris got the scratch for it, if she’s one of those women who squirrels away money behind his back. She better not be. Shit, did Go-Go steal the stuff?
All those concerns are overshadowed by the fact that the kid is wearing actual skates. Sure, he’s got rubber covers on the blades, but he’s walking in skates. Short and rinky-dink as the Dickeyville parade is, there’s no way Go-Go is going to make it to the end in that outfit, brandishing a hockey stick.
Tim goes up to him. “Great costume, buddy.”
Go-Go nods his thanks, his entire being focused on what he has to do—the sweater, those skates. He’s almost vibrating inside all that gear. At least he has the good sense to wear the mask up on his head.
“But, buddy, you’ll never be able to walk in that getup. Even if you took off the skates—”
“I won’t,” Go-Go says. “The skates are the best part. I’m Jim Craig.”
“I got that, buddy.”
“I turned away thirty-six of the Soviets’ thirty-nine attempts on goal.”
“Yeah, in February, at Lake Placid. But it’s July in Baltimore. You’ll die. I mean, literally, Go-Go. You could die from the heat.”
Doris comes up, wringing her hands. “You can’t walk in that outfit, Go-Go. You’ll get sick.”
Funny, but Doris taking his side makes Tim want to find another one. He isn’t going to be like her, the enemy of fun, the worrywart.
“Look,” he says, “how about if I walk with you? Maybe bring some water. That way, if you get thirsty or something—”
Go-Go has been mincing forward all this time, slowly but surely, the gap between him and the parade growing larger and larger.
“You mean, like a bodyguard?”
“Sure,” his father says. “Like a bodyguard. I bet Jim Craig had a bodyguard when he went home to”—where was Jim Craig from?—“Philadelphia and all his friends came out to see him.”
“Jim Craig,” Go-Go says, every word, every step, a concentrated effort, “is from Massachusetts. Like Father Andrew.”
“Massachusetts, Pennsylvania. I always get them confused.”
Tim has Doris fill an old thermos with ice water, reluctantly trades it for his beer, then falls in behind Go-Go. Still, they’re losing ground with every labored step. Pretty soon, they can barely see the little girls with their baby carriages.
“You know, Jim Craig was a big hero in that game.”
“I know,” Go-Go says.
“And sometimes, when someone is a big hero, people carry him on their shoulders.”
Go-Go doesn’t break stride. If you could call those tiny, painful steps strides. “Did they do that with Jim Craig, though?”
“They did, I think, when he went home. To Massachusetts. I’m pretty sure when he went back to his hometown, that’s exactly what they did.”
He hoists his son to his shoulders. He’s ten and wearing all that gear. It’s no small thing. And it’s so damn hot. Still, Tim makes better time than Go-Go ever could have. With each lumbering step,