The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “If Taillon wasn’t my best friend I would be playing a harp in heaven.” Fred smiled gleefully, thinking of Taillon barking for help on the road. Had Fred known that Taillon had kept him warm he might have had his sweater framed. After all, nobody had ever touched the white giant and he’d have evidence from Taillon’s coat to prove it. As it was, he rocked his fist and sneezed, and a few dog hairs fluttered to the floor.

  “No more skating when no one’s here,” bellowed Jack.

  “Yes, mommy, buh, buh, Taillon is a hero.”

  Jack was trying to downplay the notion of Taillon as hero dog. That was too random an act for him to accept: that Fred’s life had hung by such a slender thread, even if Jack and Fred didn’t know the full length of the thread.

  Taillon had two visitors that night. Jack had been out first and had pitched a handful of Pearl’s dog biscuits. This was not something Jack ever did. So he did it quickly and dashed back to the house looking like a mischievous boy after a garden raid.

  A half-hour later Fred did him one better. He threw a plate of sausages and waited so he could watch Taillon eat them. But Taillon didn’t even sniff the sausages until Fred was back in the house. And then he devoured them.

  Taillon didn’t understand why food was being thrown his way. He had done nothing unusual. He had protected a helpless one. It was all in a normal night’s work for a livestock dog.

  seven

  Fred’s perfect hockey attendance record continued through the end of January and into February. Jack’s enthusiasm, however, seemed to wane. More often than not he was on the phone in the morning to find someone to take Fred to the game. On several occasions, he found a willing driver in Jiri.

  Speculation about the team’s impending move was now dominating the print, radio and television coverage to such an extent that Jack kept the television off, read his newspapers at the local gas station and reminded Jiri to try to avoid the pre-game show on the car radio.

  Fred knew that Jack’s ewes were important so he didn’t take it personally when Jack looked for another driver. And he had plenty of other good reasons to like the arrangement—Jiri didn’t listen to country music, he didn’t smoke and he didn’t make Fred walk from O’Malleys to the arena. He parked right there in the lot, sometimes right near a familiar rusted motorhome.

  —

  Fred rapped his knuckles on the motorhome door. This was before he heard the moaning. Jiri was just about to tell Fred it sounded as if Badger was busy with a woman, but Fred, convinced that Badger was dying, flung the door open. Jiri stepped away immediately. A respect for privacy demanded this. Fred stood his ground.

  “Can I help you?” asked an elderly woman with a French accent. She may have been grey-haired and in her seventies but she had the playful smile of a sixteen-year-old girl.

  Badger, stark naked, was flat on his back on the floor. The woman, fully clothed, was straddling Badger’s crotch. “Um, um, more than one person has said that an old man should not be alone inside a dirty camper with children. I told them to spit those little devils out because I see Badger with them all the time and there has never been anything shady, and I am relieved to see there are no children here, buh, buh, what are you doing to him?”

  “Massaging his chest,” said the woman as she continued to knead Badger’s flabby skin while he moaned and coughed. “You must be Fred,” she said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Alfred says you’re the only sane person out here.”

  “Who’s Alfred?”

  “Fred, this is Juliette,” gasped Badger.

  “Are you Badger’s girlfriend?” asked Fred. “And why is he wheezing? Does he have the flu or something?”

  “I’m right here, you can ask me,” said Badger.

  “Buh, buh, you are naked and I would rather ask her.”

  “He’s not sick, he’s just congested.” Juliette continued to work her thumbs deeply into Badger’s skin. “I’ve known Alfred,” Juliette smiled sweetly, “I mean Badger, for years. He rescued me in France.”

  “How?”

  Badger tried to speak but Juliette’s probing thumbs made it impossible. He gagged and Juliette eased up, but only a little. “We met in Caen. He found me wandering the streets. He gave me chocolate and cigarettes. My father was killed by American bombs. I was sixteen. I had no one else. Badger came back for me and whisked me across the Atlantic like a baby pelican nestled in the beak of her mother.”

  Fred stood for a moment, forgetting about Badger’s flabby skin and veiny legs and the fact that somewhere underneath Juliette’s buttocks was Badger’s wrinkled penis. “Something does not add up in Caen, buh, buh, I can’t remember what.” Fred stared at Juliette’s eyes. There was something translucent there, something he almost recognized.

  Badger motioned with his hand for Juliette to stop massaging. He cleared his throat. “Fred, I told you it was the daughter who died in the bombing. That wasn’t true.”

  Fred’s eyes began blinking rapidly. “I thought someone got hit over the head with a rifle.”

  “A shovel. I made that up.” As Badger turned his head to see Fred, the door to the motorhome slammed shut.

  It didn’t take long for Fred to momentarily forget about Badger and Juliette. A chocolate heart from Wendy helped. A long fight shortly after the opening faceoff brought him to his feet, and he was away, sailing through another cavalcade of cheers, Pocket Dawgs and double-barrelled laughs.

  Jiri went to buy a beer. Fred had grown anxious because Badger never took his seat. He imagined that every word Badger had told him had been a lie. And this caused his mouth to dry up. Fred’s anxieties erupted when three fans sitting nearby talked loudly about what the new team name might be after they moved. Fred bolted.

  —

  “Is Andy home?”

  Andrew Madison’s young, dapper assistant bristled and couldn’t take his eyes off the mustard in Fred’s beard. “This is a private box.”

  Fred dug into his pocket, retrieved his Polaroid and showed it to the assistant. “Just so you don’t think I am some Joe off the street.”

  The assistant tried to take the Polaroid but Fred wouldn’t let go. “You can look but you can’t hold it.”

  The assistant smirked patronizingly. “That’s nice that you met him, now if you don’t mind …”

  “Everyone is talking about him moving the team and you know as well as I do that dumb people spread dumb rumours and he said if he ever broke a promise …”

  “Special-needs visitors get one visit only. Please think of the others.” The assistant shut the door.

  Before Fred could think of something to yell, the door to the adjoining luxury box opened and Badger walked out. Badger looked as startled as Fred. “Okay, so I know that I am not supposed to be up here, buh, buh, neither are you because you never smash bread with the snobby people unless of course you are a big fat liar and secretly hang out with the rich folks and make fun of them behind their backs or maybe you are working as a secret agent for the RCMP or FBI and are flushing out wobblies and getting them sent to cages in islands that are so hot you can’t breathe.”

  “I was just saying hi to a retired judge. He’s neither snobby nor money-hungry. He’s just a decent man.”

  “There seem to be a lot of old people in your life all of a sudden. How come you never told me you had a girlfriend? And where is she?”

  “She’s asleep in Georgie Boy. She used to be my angry wife. Now she’s a reliable friend.”

  “I hate divorces.”

  “Me too. But sometimes the person you love is better off as a friend.”

  Fred groaned. “I have never seen a man your age in his birthday suit. I’m going straight home tonight and putting a cold, wet towel on my forehead because I never want to get old, buh, buh, you told me a lie.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you remember the picture of the young woman in my room where I keep the little Russians?”


  “The one that makes you hide your face behind a pillow?”

  “That’s Juliette.” Badger looked around. He didn’t want anyone else to hear. “We were on a troop train leaving Caen. It was overcrowded. Many of us rode on top. Some of the boys noticed French farmers in the fields. They started shooting, taking target practice. You would see a farmer in the field. And then you wouldn’t see him any more. Myself and a few other men ran from one end of the train to the other, begging them to stop. Eventually they did.” Fred noticed that Badger’s hands were shaking. “You give a nineteen-year-old boy a gun and a uniform and teach him to kill, sometimes he feels too much power.”

  “Sometimes that is true of greedy hockey players.”

  “I don’t know how many farmers died.”

  “Wowee,” said Fred. He could see the farmers dropping to the dirt. In grainy black and white. Because that’s what he thought the Second World War looked like.

  “It wasn’t just Vietnam, Fred. Terrible things happen in all wars.” Badger’s eyes were glistening with shame. “I jumped off the train, went back to Caen, found Juliette and took her with me. She was the antidote for everything that had happened on the top of that troop train. If I hadn’t found her I would have blown my brains out.”

  “Um, um, I can almost understand why you lied because those were your friends and Second World War veterans probably don’t like telling bad stories because everyone thinks that all of them were heroes, buh, buh, next time don’t tell me anything at all. It is better than making me believe something that wasn’t true.”

  Badger saw that the usher Fred had navigated past was now moving briskly in their direction. He did not appear happy. “It’s okay, I’m taking him back. No harm done.”

  “Tell that to the French farmers.”

  A foul odour awaited Fred when he arrived home, and only after a room-to-room search did Jack find the source. It was Norman the Great. The old cat had crawled under the couch one last time and died. Jack put him in a box and set him outside the back door. He would figure out what to do with him in the morning.

  Fred was pouring himself a glass of milk when Jack came quietly back into the kitchen. Norman had been with him long enough to have been a favourite of Jack’s wife.

  That was reason enough for Jack to retrieve a bottle of rye and a shot glass. Jack hardly ever drank so Fred was all eyes. “I’ll miss the old fella,” said Jack as he poured a shot and held it high. “Here’s to you, Norman.”

  “Hey, the Great.” Fred held his glass of milk. “Um, um, even though you spent most of your life sleeping, you were a good cat and make sure when Aunt Vera picks you up you purr right away because she will be happy to see you.”

  The two men tilted their glasses to their mouths and the little stray cat came trotting into the kitchen, tail high. He already knew he was top cat now. Jack scooped him into his arms. The little cat hated being picked up and squirmed like a weasel. “I suppose it’s time we named this little fella,” said Jack, his voice cracking a little.

  Fred took his time. Thought real hard. “Dink.”

  Jack arched his eyebrows and nodded. He tickled the cat’s belly, which only caused him to kick harder and try to escape. “What do you think of that, Dink?”

  Dink scratched Jack’s arm and flipped onto the floor, attacking a small piece of paper towel that had blown across it.

  Jack woke up the next morning, made his coffee and ate a banana in four bites. As soon as the last piece cleared his throat he lit a cigarette. Vera had always told him never to smoke on an empty stomach.

  He was still figuring out what to do with Norman. He couldn’t bury him because the ground was frozen. He thought about burning him because he’d seen a television show where Indians did that with a dead monkey.

  With his mug in one hand and a cigarette hanging from his lip, he slipped into his rubber boots and opened the back door. The box was there but Norman was gone. Jack looked at the tracks in the snow leading away from the back porch. They were too big for a coyote.

  Jack followed the tracks to the side of the garage and saw what he had been expecting—Taillon with the dead cat in his mouth. “Drop it!” barked Jack.

  Taillon flopped onto his chest like a dog on a beach protecting a stick. Jack bristled. Then Taillon’s tail started to wag. This really got Jack going. “No!” Taillon grabbed the cat carcass and shook it. Jack moved closer. “Give me that.”

  Taillon grabbed the carcass and ran a few steps away, turned expectantly and waited for Jack to start chasing him. “That’s enough!”

  Jack made one more move toward the dog and Taillon moved away again. Jack threw his hands in the air and stomped back to house, trying not to think about Taillon eating Norman. If he liked eating dead cats, then he might get a taste for live cats and maybe even lambs.

  Jack turned once before going in the back door. Taillon was spinning in a circle, chasing his tail. “What the hell is going on around here?” Jack cursed himself for giving Taillon those dog biscuits. He wasn’t a pet. He was a working dog.

  Fred stood sleepily in the kitchen. “Um, um, why are you yelling?”

  “Taillon’s got Norman. Have you been feeding him?”

  “I don’t remember, buh, buh, I will get Norman back.” Fred went down the steps and slipped his boots on.

  “Don’t feed him any more! He’s going goofy.”

  eight

  Finding the newborn lamb in the corral two nights before had been a fluke. Jack was out tossing hay when he heard the bleating. If the lamb had been born an hour later, after Jack had gone inside, it would have died.

  Jack set up the mother and her lamb in the barn with a heat lamp. He even grabbed some fabric and cut out a little jacket for the lamb. Winter lambs meant that Jack hadn’t done a very good job of keeping all of the rams and ewes separated last fall. These unexpected births required extra vigilance because of the cold.

  In a normal winter Jack would have checked on the lamb every hour. But Jack had firewood to sell. And that’s just what he had been doing the night before. Six hours skidding around country roads in the two-ton. Only two cords sold, and when he came back he found one burned-out heat bulb and one lamb deader than a stick.

  Fred asked if the lamb had suffered. Jack lied and said he hadn’t. Jack didn’t want to think about the lamb shivering, bleating, collapsing and dying. He tried to stay upset about losing two hundred dollars. Jack knew he could sell the meat to the Greeks. The Greeks liked lambs young and some sheep farmers slaughtered lambs a few days after birth. Jack wouldn’t do this, though. He thought it immoral. A lamb should be able to run around in a field and breathe fresh air—for three or four months, anyway.

  Jack cut the last pieces of timber and shut the buzz saw down. One by one he tossed the logs onto what was now a mountain of wood. Mrs. Feniak had been right. Most people already had their firewood for the winter. To her credit, she had not reminded Jack about this when they decided it was time to stop driving out to Butler’s quarter section.

  Jack stood in front of his mountain and convinced himself that in spite of the dead lamb it had all been worth it. From that first day of cutting when Mrs. Feniak had come back to his two-ton and touched his hand and he had kissed her. Not long. Just a short, dry kiss. Yes, it was worth it.

  Besides, Jack had stumbled upon a potential buyer—a friend of a wealthy rancher he had tried selling firewood to, a friend who managed a resort in Idaho, a resort that had more than two hundred units, all of them with wood-burning fireplaces. And this American was not interested in just a cord or two. He might take the whole shebang, more than a hundred cords. That was eight thousand dollars.

  That wasn’t a mountain of dead wood. It was a mountain of gold.

  Jack pulled out all the stops. He bought an expensive bottle of Scotch, grabbed a nice leg of lamb from the freezer and built a roaring fire in a pit beside the rink. The spruce and poplar burned well. The American liked the wood. He also liked the fact that he would be s
aving plenty on the exchange rate.

  The American liked Mrs. Feniak and after a few drinks told her she was a fine-looking woman. He said he would buy the wood in cash and produced a wad of hundreds to prove it. He poked fun at Canadian money and how Canadians were always comparing themselves to Americans when Americans didn’t care one way or the other. Jack agreed with everything the American said. Mrs. Feniak bit her tongue.

  It was a little after four o’clock when Fred hobbled into the kitchen on his skate guards and asked for a drink of water. “Mmmmm, mmmmm, it sure smells good in here. Did Papa Joe tell you he killed a lamb yesterday?”

  “Oh, for Chrissake, Fred, the heat lamp went out.”

  “Um, um, yes it did.”

  Fred guzzled his water and then spotted something that caused his eyes to narrow. He hobbled toward the American who reared back in his chair. Fred found a thread and nimbly plucked it away. Right below where the thread used to be was a small lapel pin, an American flag pin. Fred stared at it, licked his lips and turned to leave.

  Halfway to the kitchen door Fred stopped. His eyes began popping like oatmeal. “Hey, hey, I just remembered what Badger said was the most important thing that made us different from Americans.”

  Jack stared at Fred incredulously. “What?”

  “He asked everyone what made us different from Americans. And I just remembered.”

  Fred looked excitedly at Jack, pleading to be asked what he remembered. Jack didn’t particularly want to, but he was Jack. “And what is it?” he asked apprehensively.