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The cottages were built in pairs, sharing a common wall, which unfortunately leaves little to the imagination. Another sound, that of the toilet flushing, makes me yearn for ear plugs. I make a mental note to include disposable ones in the welcome basked for guests.
The thought of Turner entertaining someone piques my curiosity, however. This is usually quite easy to accomplish, but until this moment I hadn’t had the time nor the wifi available to pursue that lead.
With his sparkling personality, I can’t imagine him trying to pick someone up. Nope, it has to be in a way he doesn’t have to speak and consequently scare the poor guy off. He’s probably on Grindr. Yep, he seems like the lazy sort. Swipe and go would be his style.
Grabbing my laptop, I Google search Jake Turner hockey player and what comes up has my jaw dropping and a current of awareness riding up my back.
Holy Swedish meatballs…Jake Turner is famous. And not just famous, he’s an actual superstar.
Hundreds of pictures populate the screen. Of Turner scoring, of him jumping over the penalty box railing, of him hoisting the Stanley Cup…and smiling. Oh my God, Turner is capable of smiling. And he has teeth. Nice teeth.
His words come back to me, “I’m alright.” Alright, my ass. MVP this, biggest contract in the NHL that. That lying sack.
Another picture catches my attention. The one below it. The one of an overturned, crumpled black Jeep smashed against a copse of trees. I click on it and an article pops up. The headline reads…
MIKE BRESLER, CAPTAIN OF THE STANLEY CUP WINNING TEAM, THE BOSTON BEARS, DEAD AT 36. JAKE TURNER, LEAGUE MVP, IN STABLE CONDITION.
Sitting up abruptly, I open every article about the accident and minimize the pages. Then I begin to read, my eyes devouring article after article, trying to glean as many actual facts as possible.
The speculations I find in most of them are nauseating and quickly tossed aside, but the facts remain that Bresler and Turner, long time friends, were driving in a remote area of Oregon, headed to Bresler’s fishing camp the day after their Stanley Cup win.
The police report states that Turner was driving late at night when a deer crossed the road. The Jeep, which was traveling at 75 mph, flipped multiple times when Turner swerved to avoid it. The two weren’t reported missing by Bresler’s wife until the next day. By then, Bresler was found dead, thrown from the car, and Turner was clinging to life with internal injuries.
There’s a lot of blame levied at Turner. A lot of talk about him being extremely drunk and possibly high when they left for the airport. Apparently they chartered a flight to Oregon that same night and picked up Bresler’s Jeep at the private airport. Though nothing was proven and the police report doesn’t indicate any foul play. Still, scrolling through some Twitter stories, it’s clear a large swath of NHL fans believed he was responsible for Bresler’s death.
My heart is racing and all I can do is stare at the white wall that separates the Austen from the Hemingway. It all makes sense now.
I scan the article for a date. The accident happened in June, the day after they hoisted the Stanley Cup, four years ago…which works out to be exactly one month before my story broke.
Chapter 7
I was ten when my mother decided to leave us for a woman and move to New York City without explanation. Word spread fast and had two very dramatic effects.
One, my father was suddenly very popular with every divorcée and widow in town, all of them desperate to play therapist slash lover. Which inevitably made Jackie and me targets of a lot of unwanted attention. Jackie had no problem icing everyone out; nobody does bitch better than Jackie. In contrast, I fell prey to every kid’s mom who invited me over for after school playtime. Even when their child hated me and told me so repeatedly.
The second effect was that kids being kids, tortured me. My father having to explain that a woman can love another women and live as a family is something I’ll never forget. It was mind boggling to me, taking me forever to reconcile. Jackie tried in her own way to explain it to me, but all I did was argue with her that it couldn’t be true because I’d never seen a family with two moms. In my ten-year-old head, Zelda had my dad. What could she possibly need another woman for?
That year pretty much set the stage for the next seven. Kids started to exclude me from birthday parties and after school events. And before long I was eating lunch at school by myself.
All that changed in the eighth grade, when Gina Polizzi moved into town. Originally from Staten Island, her big Italian family had moved here to open a pizza shop. None of my classmates made any effort to get to know her. But having been raised with four brothers, Gina had no boundaries and no problem taking a seat at my table without invitation. We hit it off immediately.
