Heroes, Page 4

  “Has anybody heard when Larry LaSalle’s coming back?”

  My voice surprises me, suddenly strong and clear, without the hoarseness. Arthur’s eyes are upon me, curious and suspicious. He studies me for a moment, then turns away, raising his glass:

  “To Larry LaSalle,” he calls out, “the patron saint of the Wreck Center.”

  I wonder if he is making a joke or being sarcastic but he nods meaningfully at me, holding his glass high.

  “And to the kids who were lucky to know him,” adds Joe LaFontaine, raising his own glass.

  Everyone joins in and I am surprised to see the Old Strangler pour himself a glass of red wine. I have never seen him drink before.

  “To the Silver Star and the men who wear it,” he growls. “And to Larry LaSalle, the best of the best …”

  “Hey, Strangler, still got the scrapbook?” Arthur asks.

  The Strangler sets down his glass, reaches under the bar and pulls out a big black leather book. Glancing at me, he says: “They’re all in here.” The cover reads FRENCHTOWN WARRIORS in white block letters. He riffles through pages of newspaper clippings and pictures of men and women, all in uniform.

  He holds the scrapbook up at a double page, with headlines, articles and pictures of Larry LaSalle. The biggest headline at the top of one page proclaims: LT. LASALLE EARNS SILVER STAR.

  “There are lots of medals,” the big bartender croaks, “for outstanding service, but only the Silver Star is for heroism.” His old voice is suddenly formal and dignified. “For gallantry.”

  Another headline halfway down the page reads:

  LASALLE CAPTURES ENEMY,

  SAVES FELLOW MARINES

  “The dancer becomes a hero,” Arthur says. Then pauses and turns to me. Leaning close, he says: “That voice when you asked about Larry LaSalle. Now I know it. You’re Francis Cassavant.” Final recognition in his eyes. “You used to—”

  “Shag balls during the games at Cartier’s Field,” I say, voice low, afraid that my days of being anonymous are over.

  His eyes widen, and he declares: “You have your own Silver Star. You’re in the Strangler’s book, too.”

  As he turns to announce my identity, I touch his shoulder. “Don’t make a fuss, Arthur. Let me stay like this.” Indicating the scarf and the bandage.

  “You deserve to be recognized, Francis,” he whispers. “You’re a goddamn hero.” Shaking his head in disbelief. “Little Francis Cassavant. Falls on a grenade and saves—how many men did you save, Francis? How many men were you willing to die for?”

  Lifting the scarf, I sip the beer, doing something to avoid answering his question.

  A long moment passes. “Okay, you have my respect. If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t either.” Slapping me on the back. I look away from the admiration in his eyes. “And I’ll keep your secret.”

  The Strangler places the book back under the counter and he swipes at the top of the bar with a damp rag.

  “It’s good that I don’t have to keep adding to the book anymore,” he says. Then looking at me and answering my question: “Nobody knows when he’s coming back. But they all come back to Frenchtown sooner or later.”

  Arthur nudges me. Still whispering, he says: “The Wreck Center. Ping-Pong! You were the champ there at Ping-Pong, right?”

  “Table tennis,” I correct him.

  I correct him gently, remembering Larry LaSalle and my brief moment as the table tennis champion at the Wreck Center.

  “What’s the matter?” Larry LaSalle asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  He found me sitting alone on the back steps of the Wreck Center, looking at nothing in particular. There was nothing in my world that was worth looking at. Inside, the chorus was rehearsing for the Follies and Fancies production, singing “Happy Days Are Here Again,” the words like a mockery in my ears. I was aware of other kids busy at the craft tables.

  “It must be something,” Larry LaSalle said, dropping onto the step beside me.

  “I’m rotten at everything,” I confessed. “I can’t sing. I can’t dance. I’m no good at baseball.” And I can’t even get up the nerve to hold a normal conversation with Nicole Renard, I added silently.

  Avoiding his eyes, I was suddenly angry at my self-pity. Snap out of it, I told myself.

  “I’ve been watching you, Francis. During calisthenics. You have outstanding reflexes. You have a natural athletic gait.” He spelled out the word. “G-a-i-t. I think I have the perfect sport for you.”

  In spite of my doubts, my interest quickened. Larry LaSalle’s opinion could never be dismissed.

  “Look, today is Tuesday. The center’s closed for renovations for a couple of days to bring in new equipment. Be here Friday afternoon. You’re going to be a champion.”

  “I’ll be here,” I promised. Where else would I be?

  When I arrived at the center three days later, I was surprised to see that the place had been entirely rearranged. A small stage had been built at the far end of the hall and two spotlights installed. “For the musical shows,” he explained. A vending machine stood near the entrance. Two Ping-Pong tables occupied spaces near the side windows, looking out on Third Street.

  Leading me to the nearest table, he picked up the white plastic ball and bounced it a few times.

  “Ping-Pong,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray my disappointment.

  “Table tennis,” he said. “Ping-Pong is a game, table tennis is a sport. Known around the world. It’s a sport you’re going to dominate with your quickness and your reflexes.”

  Pointing to two paddles on the table, he said: “Let’s get going.”

  He showed me how to stand: alert, leaning forward, knees bent slightly, paddle in my right hand, level with my belt. Going to the opposite side of the table, he hit the ball to me. I swung the paddle, struck the ball with a satisfying plop, and watched it sail cleanly over the net. The ball returned. I hit it again. Bounce on his side and return to mine. Bounce and return again. Suddenly the ball arrived, but squirted crazily to my right. Instantly alert, I reached, managed to hit it with the paddle, saw it fly just as crazily across the net.

  “Beautiful,” Larry LaSalle called. “You returned the spin.”

  We played for almost an hour, as kids gathered to watch this new sport. Sweat pasted my shirt to my body and glued the racket to my hand. I missed some shots, particularly the balls with spin, which made them go wildly askew, but returned most of them. The crowd often cheered Larry LaSalle and once or twice a cheer went up when I made a lunging return.

  Nobody had ever cheered me before.

  Finally, he threw down the paddle, called a halt, and led me to the new vending machine, where he bought me a Coke. “Congratulations, Francis,” he said, raising his bottle in a toast. “You’re a natural. Besides the reflexes, you have what I call sweet anticipation. It’s what natural athletes have, anticipating where the ball will land, whether it’s baseball, football or table tennis.”

  I stood spellbound by his words.

  “You also have a great return. That’s the key, Francis. Let the other players make the moves, put on the spin, kill the ball. You just keep returning it, good and steady. Your opponent will get frustrated, careless, make a mistake.” He gulped down his Coke in one long swallow. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you the chop on defense and the spin on offense.”

  Just as he had lured awkward girls into ballet classes and ballplayers and bullies into being singers and dancers, so did he bring a sudden importance to table tennis. He gave lessons tirelessly, arranged contests, encouraged girls to take up the sport.

  I spent hours at the tables, playing game after game, sharpening my chops and spins but focusing mostly on returns, trying to stay loose, flowing with the ball. My opponents often became frustrated as Larry LaSalle had predicted, their faces turning scarlet with anger while I stayed calm and composed, waiting for a mistake to be made. I didn’t develop a spectacular kill shot like Joey LeBl
anc. My spins were not as sharp as those of Louis Arabelle, who played with a smoothness that was deceptive: He stroked the balls almost lazily but they took unpredictable trajectories, never landing where they were expected. Yet I won my share of games and sometimes rang up a string of victories.

  I often searched for Nicole among the spectators, especially if I was having a fine game. But she was seldom present. One afternoon, as I defeated Joey LeBlanc with five successive points that left him speechless for once, I turned to find her eyes on me. She brought her hand to her lips and flung it away. Astonished, I wondered: Did she actually blow me a kiss? Impossible. Or was it? The paddle slipped from my hand and dropped to the table. When I looked up again, she was gone.

  • • •

  In the dance classes, Nicole was the most talented of all, her slender body dipping and turning without effort, as if her bones were elastic. Jealousy streaked through me as Larry LaSalle tossed her in the air, letting her fly, defying gravity for a breathless moment, then caught her, pressing her close, their faces almost touching, their lips only an inch or so from a kiss before he allowed her to slip down against his body. He applauded her, his eyes looking deeply into hers, as she lay at his feet.

  For the December production, he built an entire number around her and a song called “Dancing in the Dark.” She glided in and out of shadows as the music played on a phonograph, and Larry LaSalle manipulated a spotlight he had installed especially for her performance.

  He continued to give me extra lessons at the table, and we played countless games against each other. His eyes shone with admiration when I made an unusual shot. “My ambition for you, Francis,” he said, “is to have you beat me.” But he always won, with an array of attacks and returns that seemed effortless but always found their mark.

  As the first weekend of December approached, excitement ran high through the Wreck Center when Larry LaSalle announced a “doubleheader”—a table tennis tournament on Saturday to be followed by the musical show Follies and Fancies on Sunday.

  “Nicole’s the star on Sunday and I want you to be the star on Saturday,” Larry LaSalle said. “I’m not supposed to play favorites, Francis, but you and Nicole are special to me.” I wondered if he suspected my secret love for her.

  When I arrived at the Wreck Center on Saturday, kids had gathered around a silver trophy shaped like a player poised to serve the ball. I pictured Nicole handing me the trophy while I accepted it with the modesty of a true champion.

  I was not scheduled to play until the afternoon through an elaborate system Larry LaSalle had devised to allow the ordinary players to eliminate themselves. The better players, like Louis Arabelle, Joey LeBlanc and me, were reserved to take on the morning’s winners.

  As the center echoed with the sound of bouncing balls and the whoops and applause of the spectators, I became restless and nervous. Suppose my spins and chops deserted me? What if my returns veered off the table?

  Staring out the window, I sensed a presence nearby, a sudden disturbance in the air, and at the same time the drift of a delicate scent that I associated with Nicole Renard.

  “Good luck, Francis.”

  I turned to find her there.

  Speechless as always in her company, I managed a stupid smile.

  “I love to watch you dance.” I blurted out the words, surprising myself with my ability to say such a thing.

  “And I love to watch you play,” she said.

  “You do?” Disbelief cracked my voice.

  “You play table tennis like a dancer dances. The way you move. The way you hit the ball. Sometimes I hum a song, watching you play. It’s like you’re dancing to that song.”

  For the first time in my life, a tide of confidence swept through me.

  “I’m having a party after the show tomorrow afternoon at my house. Larry says that’s what people in show business do. Will you come, Francis?”

  Her words filled me with both delight and agony, delight at her invitation and the instant agony of jealousy, the way she had casually said his name—not Larry LaSalle or Mr. LaSalle, as all the kids referred to him, but Larry, spoken offhand as if they were more than teacher and pupil.

  Our conversation was interrupted by the announcement that the semifinal contests were about to begin. Nicole touched my shoulder, her hand both tender and caressing, and my flesh burned with the echo of her touch. “Good luck,” she said.

  Two hours later, I had survived more games than I could count, time passing in a blur as the ball zoomed back and forth across the table. Serve and return. Spin and chop. The kill shot, and the soft shot. My opponents went down in rapid succession. Finally, Joey LeBlanc, who was having a bad day with his serves, lost by a wide margin, 21–12, and went off muttering to himself.

  Never before had I known such a sense of destiny. I felt invincible, impossible to defeat, the ball always under my control. The spectators often cheered, gasped at a spectacular shot, either by me or by an opponent, and fell silent when the outcome of a contest seemed in doubt. But I knew no doubt. Between games, my eyes sought Nicole and often spotted her, smiling encouragement. The center seemed vacant when I looked and did not see her.

  Louis Arabelle also had been winning contest after contest at the other table, drawing his own cheers and applause. We glanced at each other between games and exchanged grins. It seemed inevitable that we would meet in the final contest of the day. Each time I heard a burst of applause for the next table, I knew that Louis had scored another spectacular point.

  Finally, Louis and me. Standing across the table from each other. Both of us undefeated. Louis tall and rangy with long arms and legs, ready to play his deceptive game, never tense, never hurrying. I prepared myself for his soft strokes and dizzying spins and chops.

  Louis took five quick points with his first round of serves, catching me off balance with the casual way he raised his paddle and the ferocity of the ball as it arrowed over the net toward me. A hush fell over the crowd.

  I didn’t panic, told myself to relax: This was a day in which I could not lose. My own five serves sent the game into a tie and after that I simply planted myself six feet from the table and concentrated on the return. Louis lost three points in a row and for the first time I saw him flushed with frustration, trying harder, frowning, and finally, making mistakes.

  I reached twenty-one points to his eighteen by simply playing the game Larry LaSalle had taught me: being patient, remaining cool and composed while Louis pressed harder. As he missed his last remaining shot, which gave me the victory, a shout went up from the crowd, followed by cheers and whistles and the stomping of feet.

  I turned, flushed with triumph, my heart beating furiously, blood pumping joyously in my veins. I saw Larry LaSalle coming through the crowd holding the trophy high above his head, saw Nicole beside him, her eyes on me, shining for me.

  Like a dream coming true, Nicole took the trophy from Larry LaSalle and handed it to me, the radiance of her face mirroring my own.

  The crowd grew silent as I pressed the trophy to my chest, my eyes becoming moist. Was I expected to make a speech?

  “Better watch out, Mister LaSalle,” Joey LeBlanc called out. “Francis has got your number.”

  Cheers and applause greeted his words and I wished I could find a way of gagging Joey LeBlanc and keeping his mouth shut.

  Then a cry rose from the crowd:

  “La-ree … La-ree …”

  Calling him by his first name, finding the courage to do together what no one would do alone.

  “La-ree … La-ree …”

  Cringing inside, my moment of triumph tarnished and trashed. I knew they wanted Larry LaSalle and me to play for the real championship of the Wreck Center.

  Then:

  “Fran-cis … Fran-cis …”

  More applause, shouts and whistles.

  And a voice from the crowd:

  “You can do it, Francis …”

  Larry LaSalle inclined his head toward me, his shoul
ders raised in resignation, as if to say: It’s up to you, Francis, how can we say no to the crowd and disappoint them?

  Suddenly I thought: Maybe I can beat him. My play during the afternoon had been almost flawless; even the game with Louis Arabelle, who was the best of them all, had been an easy win. Like the gamblers in the casinos who go on a winning streak, impossible to lose. Maybe I was on that kind of streak.

  I nodded toward Larry LaSalle and picked up my paddle. Glanced again at Nicole and saw her smile of approval. Planted my feet firmly on the floor and took a practice swing.

  A roar went up from the crowd.

  The game began.

  My serve.

  Paddle met ball. I didn’t try for speed or spin, merely wanted to place the ball in proper position, without risk, and then play my defensive game. My heartbeat was steady, my body poised for action. The ball came back to me. I returned. Came again, and again I returned. Larry LaSalle’s return was placed perfectly, at the edge of the table, almost impossible for me to reach but somehow I reached it, returned it, throwing him off balance. My point. Next point his, then mine again. Then his.

  We were halfway through the game, the score standing at 13–12, my serve, when I realized that he was letting me win, was guiding the game with such skill that no one but me realized what he was doing. He cleverly missed my returns by what seemed like thousandths of an inch, feigning frustration, and placed his returns in seemingly impossible spots but within my reach.

  The noise of the crowd receded, diminished to a hush, broken only by the plopping of the ball on the table, the soft clunk of the ball on the rubber dimples of our paddles. A giant sigh rose from the crowd when an impressive point was made. I dared not take my eyes away from the game to look at Nicole.