The news that a teacher at the school has had “a long-term relationship with a pupil” and “is now suspended while the matter is investigated” quickly reaches the local paper. At first the comments section is cautious, but soon the questions start: “Do you think this is a coincidence, then?? First that coach, and now a teacher??” No one says “woman,” no one says “homosexual.” Everyone says “people like that,” “like them.” Someone writes, “And you’re not allowed to complain either, because then you’re made out to be the bad guy! But surely we have to be allowed to react, for the sake of the children? What sort of town do want to live in? Why do we have to be some sort of experiment for everything?”
Most of them don’t even mention Benji. That makes it easier. But a picture appears. The first time it is published is from an anonymous online account, no one remembers where, and as soon as it starts to spread, the account is deleted. No one asks where the picture came from; rumors spread out in all directions, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what the picture shows.
It’s a hockey helmet. It looks as though it’s been photographed on a bench in a locker room, and on the side is a picture of the bear, the logo of Beartown Hockey. A rainbow has been painted around it. Someone writes, anonymously, “I think it looks great! I don’t even like hockey, but I think we should take the opportunity to do something symbolic with the whole club to show our support! Like a political gesture, hand in hand with hockey!”
Then the picture spreads beyond Beartown, and a newspaper in a big city posts it on its website with the caption, “Hockey player comes out as gay—this is his club’s admirable response!”
* * *
By the time the reactions start to appear, Richard Theo has already closed his laptop. He’s closed the window after letting out the last of the flies; it’s cold out there, and they’ll soon freeze to death. But they’ve had their summer, served their purpose.
As Richard Theo is leaving his office, someone is already writing online, “Beartown isn’t going to become some bullshit rainbow town, and Beartown Ice Hockey isn’t going to become some bullshit rainbow team! The Pack will never allow that to happen!”
* * *
When the image turns out to be a fake, manipulated using a common computer program, reporters from all over the country start calling the general manager of Beartown Ice Hockey, asking, “Why don’t you want to show support for homosexual players? Why have you distanced yourselves from those helmets with the rainbow flag on them?”
Peter Andersson tries to explain, without knowing what he really wants to say. Everything is going so fast. In the end he doesn’t dare answer his phone anymore.
* * *
But when the reporter from the local paper calls Richard Theo and asks what he thinks of all the “turbulence” surrounding Beartown Ice Hockey, naturally Theo has a very simple answer: “I don’t think we should mix hockey and politics. Just let the guys play.”
* * *
That will be heard more and more often in coming days. “Just let the guys play!” It will mean different things to different people.
* * *
Maya gets home to a house where the only sound is the gentle tapping of a computer mouse and keyboard. Leo is sitting in his room, so close to the screen that the world disappears, as usual. Maya is envious of his escape route.
“What are you doing?” she asks, ridiculously.
“Playing a game,” he replies.
She stands in the doorway for a few moments, opens her mouth as if to ask something, but nothing comes out. So she shuts the door and walks toward the kitchen. Perhaps he can hear from her footsteps that something’s wrong, unless little brothers just know things that other people miss, because without taking his eyes from the computer he calls, “Do you want to play?”
32
Then He Takes the Shotgun and Goes Out into the Forest
Hockey is the simplest sport in the world, if you’re sitting in the stands. It’s always so easy to say what everyone should have done when you know that what they actually did didn’t work.
* * *
Peter heads to the rink with tunnel vision. His phone is still ringing, but he’s stopped answering. He tries calling Benji, but Benji doesn’t answer. He opens his email. It’s an avalanche.
He slumps forward, blinded by a migraine, unable to breathe. For a few minutes he worries that he’s having a stroke. He can still remember the terrible emails and text messages that appeared after Maya reported Kevin to the police. It’s starting again. It’s all happening again.
Most of them don’t use the word itself, they use words such as “distraction” and “politics” instead. “We just don’t want any distractions or politics in the club so close to the game against Hed, Peter!” Everyone means well, obviously. No one has anything against Benji, of course. “But for the boy’s own sake, perhaps it’s best if he has . . . a little break? You know how sensitive . . . some people . . . not us, but there are others who might react negatively, Peter! We’re only thinking of the boy’s best!” Naturally. “Just let the guys play!” several correspondents urge.
* * *
Just not all the guys.
* * *
But one of the emails is different. It comes from one of the parents of the little league players, and there’s a picture attached, taken in the A-team’s locker room, but it’s not of Benji. It shows Elisabeth Zackell, who appears to be leaning forward and examining Bobo’s genitals. It may have been a harmless joke when it happened, but someone on the A-team took a photograph. No one knows how the picture spread, but there’s another email containing the same picture. Then another one appears. “First teachers sleeping with their pupils, then teachers training their pupils to fight, and now THIS??!!!”
The emails that follow stick to the usual progression: First worried emails. Then hate-filled emails. Then threatening emails. Finally an anonymous email: “If that bitch and that queer take part in one more Beartown training session, you’re going to be in serious trouble!!!”
* * *
It’s so easy to be wise in hindsight; hockey is so simple from the stands. If Peter hadn’t had a daughter who had been depicted as the enemy of the entire hockey club back in the spring, he might have reacted better now. Or perhaps worse. But his instincts are heading in all different directions, so in the end he prints out the picture of Zackell and Bobo, finds the coach down on the ice, and shouts, “Zackell! What the h— what’s this?”
Zackell is standing on her own, shooting pucks, and she skates calmly over to the boards and looks at the picture. “That’s me. And that’s Bobo. And that little thing is a penis.”
But you . . . it’s . . . what’s . . . ?”
Zackell taps her stick on the ice. Shrugs. “You know how it is. Hockey teams test the boundaries when they get a new coach. It’s between them and me.”
Peter is clutching his head as if it’s cracked and he’s glued it back together and is waiting for it to dry. “But, Zackell . . . it isn’t between you and them anymore. Someone’s posted the picture online! The whole town is going—”
Zackell examines the tape on her stick. “I’m a hockey coach. I’m not the mayor. The town’s problems are the town’s problems. In here we just play hockey.”
Peter groans. “Society doesn’t work like that, Zackell. People will interpret this as . . . they’re not used to . . . first this business with Benji, and now this, with you and this . . .”
“Penis?” Zackell suggests helpfully.
Peter glares at her. “We’ve received a threat! We have to cancel today’s practice!”
Zackell doesn’t seem to hear him, and asks instead, “What’s happening with Vidar? Our new goalie? Are you going to let him play?”
“Did you hear what I said? We’ve received a threat! Never mind about Vidar! We have to cancel practice!”