The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “I’ll make sure that he’s told.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Feniak shut the door and started rifling through her purse again. Dark thoughts percolated. Thoughts that Virgil McLeod had come to Ryan’s hotel room expecting to find him alone and, having found his mother with him, came up with some cock-and-bull story about saying hello to some nameless somebody.

  Virgil was almost at the stairs when the door to room 207 burst open and Mrs. Feniak lunged into the hallway. “Who was Ryan supposed to say hello to?”

  Virgil turned and smiled. “Fred Pickle.”

  Mrs. Feniak softened like a stick of butter in the prairie sun. “You know Fred?”

  “I used to know him, yes, ma’am.”

  “I know Fred,” she said more excitedly than intended.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Feniak and Virgil looked at one another, expectantly. There were questions and stories they were eager to explore. But neither of them knew how to start. So Virgil tipped his cap and was gone.

  twelve

  Fred woke up and the sheets around him were wet. For a moment he thought he was back in his hospital bed, unable to move, catheter tube accidentally detached, warm urine spreading everywhere, waiting for the nurse to arrive and discover his discomfort on her own because words were still bubbles that popped as soon as he tried to grab one.

  He raised his left hand to his face. The sight of his soggy sleeve brought a grin of relief. He must have fallen asleep wearing his icy shroud. Now it was morning. There was more work to be done.

  Jack sat at the kitchen table, tapping his pencil on an orange he had been meaning to eat for half an hour. The phone sat tightly against his arm. The little stray cat was purring and wrapping his tail around Jack’s legs. Jack raised an impatient heel and pushed him away.

  Fred came out of his room in his bathrobe, holding his wet clothes. “Um, um, these need to go in the dryer.”

  “The dryer’s in the same place it was yesterday.”

  “Excuse me for living. Grumpystiltskin woke up on the dark side of the moon this morning.” Fred limped down to the basement.

  Jack heard the clothes thump on the floor. “Don’t just leave your clothes there and expect me to do them.”

  Fred stomped back up into the kitchen, his eyes a frothy mix of hurt and anger. “How dare you, don’t you think I have to put them down before I open the dryer door or has your bad mood made you forget that I only have one arm that works?”

  Fred lifted his right arm with his left hand and dropped it for full effect. Jack turned his attention to his orange, aggressively jammed his thumb in one end, caught a spurt of juice in his right eye and had to wait for the stinging to subside before he could peel with both eyes open.

  Fred loaded his wet clothes, put dry clothes on, went outside to close the tap, came back in, grabbed his hose and went back outside to start watering again.

  Jack was not angry at Fred. He was angry about what had happened earlier that morning. He was angry that he now had to call Mrs. Feniak. Jack avoided confrontation like a stray dog avoided cars.

  Jack wondered how tough he should be. The unspoken law was that if you found a dog on your property you had every right to shoot it and bury it. When your neighbour came by asking if you’d seen “Sparky” you just shrugged your shoulders. Jack was thankful he had never been put in that position. He was a very infrequent and ineffective fabricator and blushed like a bride if he told a lie.

  It was Taillon who had warned Jack that something predatory had come across his radar. Taillon’s bark was not really a bark at all. It was a low bellow, like a foghorn. Jack always heard it, wherever he was. And his reaction was not unlike that of a First World War trench soldier hearing his commander’s whistle during battle. Jack was up and running, hurtling toward the enemy.

  Taillon stood tall on his mound, facing the pasture. He was smart. He didn’t go rushing off and chasing threats when the sheep were inside the corral. Coyotes were cunning enough to lure a livestock dog away while the rest of the pack moved in and snatched a sheep or a lamb.

  Jack retrieved his .38 Special. It had been a parting gift when he retired from the police department. Jack had been pistol-shot champion three years in a row, and he was still proud of that fact. He kept the unloaded gun beside a box of ammunition inside a locked drawer in his desk. He fumbled inside a dusty coffee mug where he kept the key.

  Gun loaded, Jack jumped on his snowmobile, feeling the same rush he’d experienced when responding to a police emergency. He roared over to the fence line that separated his property from the Feniak salvage yard and found Ryan’s pit bulls, Bonnie and Clyde, running around in his pasture.

  Jack tried yelling. Then he stomped his boots and fired a shot in the air. They didn’t budge. In fact, they growled defiantly. It wasn’t until Jack threw a hammer that they clambered back through the hole they had chewed in the fence.

  He plugged the hole by jamming in a few pieces of wood he kept on the back of his snowmobile. His sheep would be pasturing in a few months. Right where these bandits had busted through. He imagined their powerful jaws crushing the throats of his ewes.

  Jack searched for his hammer in the snow but gave up. He’d get it in the spring. He berated himself for throwing a brand-new hammer. He then ran out of gas on the way back to the house, and had to walk five acres in knee-deep snow. It had not been a good morning.

  Mrs. Feniak answered the phone. She told Jack if it happened again she would get rid of the dogs.

  Jack was pleased. No harsh words had been exchanged. No feud had started. Relieved, he went out to see Fred.

  He was shocked. The ice looked as strong as concrete. Jack had never seen it set so fast. The water was pooling up, just like it was supposed to, but this usually happened only after several days of flooding. Jack saw Pearl ready to make a dash through the entrance. “No, girl, down.”

  She obeyed and dropped to her belly. Fred waved his arm dismissively. “Um, um, let her go, see if I care.”

  Pearl scampered forward and immediately sprawled on her face. She struggled up but her frantic paws slid out from under her and she fell again. Fred was delighted. He knew the rink was now safely beyond her penetrating paws. “Serves you right, you garbage hound, for all those bad holes you made last year and the year before that.”

  Pearl made it safely back to the snow. Fred took even greater pleasure from the barking that ensued from behind the snowbank.

  Jack approached Fred cautiously, partly due to the slippery ice and partly because things had been tough that morning. He didn’t like taking his moods out on Fred. “I think it’s the best one yet.”

  “Don’t say another word and maybe you won’t jinx it.”

  thirteen

  Ever since Ryan and his mother had left Brandon, Fred Pickle had begun showing up in the strangest places. Some of these reminders were subtle, like the Humpty Dumpty lunch box that Virgil had seen at a bus stop. But the one wearing an IGA apron and kneeling in front of a shelf stocked with pickle jars was obvious. And it had nothing to do with the pickles.

  “You’re Wally, aren’t ya?” asked Virgil.

  Wally Chilton glanced over at Virgil. “Yes, yes I am.”

  “I’m Virgil, Virgil McLeod. I work at the Keystone.”

  “Yes you do. You drive the Zamboni.”

  “How’d you know that?” asked Virgil, pleased that someone had noticed him doing his job.

  “I go to a few games and you’ve been coming here for groceries twice a week for the past five years.” Wally started pulling jars from a cardboard box and putting them on the shelf. “You looking for something?”

  “Relish.”

  “Down on your right.”

  “Thanks.” Virgil stayed where he was. “Do you remember Fred Pickle?”

  Wally’s hands paused briefly before moving the jars again. A small silver cross dangled from his neck. “Who could forget?”

  “Some kid
come in with his mom. She told me that Fred’s her neighbour. Can you believe that?”

  “What a small world.”

  “I thought ole Freddy had died,” said Virgil.

  “No, last I heard he was out of coma in Winnipeg there and heading back to his dad’s.”

  “Well, I heard that too but I never heard nothing after they moved him to Vancouver. This kid said he’s a retard.”

  Wally almost dropped a jar. “That’s the pits. He was a heck of a hockey player.”

  “You don’t remember me that night?”

  “Nope.”

  “’Cause I got called right after it happened. And I remember you and Brad Tate and a couple of other guys.”

  “Yeah, it was a bad night. Wish I hadn’t been there.”

  “I seen them wheeling someone into an ambulance,” Virgil exclaimed. “All I seen was a pair a skates hanging off the end of the stretcher and I knew it was serious, eh? That’s when they told me he was dead.”

  “I think they thought he was dead.”

  “Oh, you betcha. Whatever happened to Brad Tate?”

  “I haven’t talked to Tater in years. Last I heard he was in St. John’s.”

  “Anyways, thought you’d like to know. Fred’s living on a sheep farm.”

  Wally nodded, picked up his empty box and walked away. Virgil suddenly felt exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights overhead.

  The cold wind snapped at Virgil’s collar as he muscled two bags of groceries down the street. His lips moved quickly but his voice was barely a mumble. It was a condition Virgil had acquired shortly after Fred’s accident, but it had been in remission for years. It was something he assumed nobody noticed. Especially on dark, quiet streets in the middle of winter.

  Mr. McLeod, on the evening of February tenth, what time did you last check on the ice?

  Well, your majesty, it was about midnight.

  There was public skating between the hours of nine and eleven. Does that ring a bell?

  Yes sir.

  And, in your own words, the ice was pretty tore up?

  Yes.

  And what was your responsibility at that time?

  Well, I was supposed to resurface the ice. The Wheaties, I mean the Wheat Kings, had a practice the next morning at eight o’clock.

  And I assume then that you started up your Zamboni and did just that, eh?

  No, I didn’t.

  Why not?

  I don’t want to get nobody in trouble.

  Mr. McLeod, you’re already in a whole heap of trouble.

  Objection, your honour, he hasn’t been charged with anything.

  Objection overruled. Please answer the question.

  Fred Pickle used to come into the rink after hours and he’d bring his friends. They’d play a game of shinny.

  Shinny?

  Yes sir, just like regular hockey but there’s no goalies. To score a goal you have to hit the puck off the crossbar or the goalpost. There’s no slapshots and no checking. It’s just for fun.

  Were you friends with Fred Pickle?

  I wouldn’t call us friends, exactly, but I liked him and I think he liked me well enough.

  Is it not true, Mr. McLeod, that Fred Pickle may have liked you because you never said anything to team management about his midnight hockey games?

  Oh, I couldn’t say.

  But it is true, is it not, that Fred was violating club rules by participating in these games? And if he’d been caught he might have been suspended or kicked off the team?

  I suppose.

  And isn’t it also true that it made you angry because there were many times when you had resurfaced the ice and Fred had come in with his friends and ruined your work?

  I didn’t appreciate it very much, no sir.

  Would it be fair to say that if you had told Fred he couldn’t skate after hours that he might have ended up a happy, normal man instead of being retarded and paralyzed?

  Objection, your honour, that’s conjecture.

  Sustained.

  Let’s go back to the night of February tenth. There you are, standing and looking out at the ice. And you had a decision to make. A decision whether or not to resurface that ice. And you chose not to because you were thinking that Fred and his friends might just come straight from the bar and mess it all up?

  That’s right.

  And isn’t it true that around midnight you threw your hands at the ice and said, “The hell with them, let them skate on crappy ice,” a direct reference to Mr. Pickle and his friends.

  I don’t remember the exact words.

  And then what did you do?

  I went home and set my alarm for six-thirty so I could resurface the ice in the morning. A little after one o’clock the phone rang. It was Mr. Willoughby.

  Who is Mr. Willoughby?

  The general manager of the Wheat Kings at the time. He told me there had been an accident and I better get over.

  You told Wally Chilton that you saw a player being loaded onto an ambulance. That’s not true, is it, Mr. McLeod?

  Well, I might have exaggerated a little.

  Because by the time you got to the rink, Fred Pickle had already been taken to the hospital.

  But Mr. Willoughby did say he was dead.

  What else have you told us that you’ve exaggerated?

  Nothing, your honour.

  When you got to the rink, what were you told?

  They said Fred Pickle caught an edge and hit his head on the corner of the net where the goalpost meets the crossbar.

  And what did you see?

  I seen police and some coaches. I seen Wally Chilton, Brad Tate and three other guys. Brad Tate was talking to a policeman. Mr. Willoughby told me he wanted the ice cleaned up.

  And what exactly was he referring to?

  There was a big pool of blood right near the goal net. I come out later with a pail and some hot water and a rag. I tried wiping up the blood but it had soaked right through. That’s when I saw the divot.

  Divot? Now, now, Mr. McLeod, this was no divot. This was a hole in the ice that went straight down to the floor.

  It was pretty deep, yes sir.

  Had you ever seen a hole that deep?

  Never.

  In fact, you told Mr. Willoughby later that it looked as if someone had gouged it out with a skate?

  Yes sir.

  And your thinking was that some kid had gouged that hole during the public skating that night. It couldn’t possibly have been a defect from a bad ice surface?

  No way, not that deep.

  And that was, in fact, the hole that Fred Pickle tripped on before hitting his head on the goalpost.

  I can’t say for sure, but it makes sense. He must have been going awful fast.

  So what did you do after you mopped up the blood?

  Well, that was a problem, I couldn’t clean it off. So I got a chisel and a hammer and I cut the ice into pieces and put it in a bucket.

  And then what did you do?

  I tried to clean the goalpost. To tell you the truth I was dreading that more than anything. I thought there might be stuff from Fred on there. But I wiped that rag where Fred had hit and it was clean as a whistle. He musta hit so hard and so fast that nothing come out until he fell down.

  But you did see something in the bucket didn’t you?

  Not until later. You see, I was stupid. I should have tossed that bucket right away. When I come back the next morning all the ice had melted. And the water was red and there was bits of stuff floating in there.

  Bits of stuff?

  I’ll never know for sure, but I figured they was pieces of Fred’s brain.

  So what did you do with the bucket?

  Well, I thought about taking it to the hospital. I thought maybe they could use some of the pieces. But I couldn’t see myself walking up to the admissions desk with a bucket of blood and pieces of brain floating in it. So I dumped it in one of the big sinks we got back there.

  You never did
tell Mr. Willoughby, or anyone else, that you didn’t resurface the ice after the public skating session? They all assumed, did they not, that Fred and his friends had gouged up that ice?

  I expect they did. No one asked.

  Would it be fair to say, Mr. McLeod, that a bad ice surface, an ice surface that you were responsible for, was the reason Fred Pickle tripped and hit his head?

  I never saw that hole.

  You never saw that hole because you never looked.

  fourteen

  Fred continued to flood in the morning and at night. The water was rising and freezing. Fred loved the fact that he could water for an hour and Mother Nature would do the rest. It was just like making Jell-O.

  Eventually, the ice was ready for two blue lines, two red goal lines, one big red centre line, five red faceoff circles and two red goalie creases. The painted markings were not close to perfect, but they were Fred’s signature mark on his rink. Subsequent floodings ensured that the paint was protected by a few layers of ice.

  It was finally time to roll out a custom-made water wagon, an old, wooden, single-tire wheelbarrow that Jack had rigged with a barrel. The barrel was filled with hot water. A hose ran from the barrel to a modified sprinkler head that was bolted at the front.

  Two long handles extended from the wheelbarrow base, and from these handles hung a thick, synthetic felt pad that dragged behind the wagon like a wedding train.

  Jack’s “Olympia Junior” was a big hit with Fred. He had named it and painted it red. Fred’s only complaint was that he couldn’t do the resurfacing himself, the contraption was too cumbersome. Still, he sat transfixed at the entrance, and watched Jack turn what was already a very smooth surface into a shining greyish-blue sheet of glass.

  Jack checked the bulbs on the three big lights he had rigged up on the roof of the house. He then dragged two tattered hockey nets from the garage while Fred swept out a small shack beside the rink.

  The shack was a recent addition. It enabled up to six people to put on their skates in a warm room. A small sign that said Eddie Shack hung beside the door. After a few tries Jack had the stove lit and then helped Fred lay the ragged carpet that ran from the shack to the rink.