The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

“Our ancestors said no to their revolution.”

  “What revolution?”

  “The American Revolution.”

  “That’s nice, I’ll holler when dinner’s ready.”

  “Don’t you remember? You’re getting as bad as me. I was trying to tell you when we were driving back from the game.”

  “Why don’t you go back outside and play on your rink?”

  “And that just reminded me.”

  “What did?”

  Fred’s mind was racing around like an excited dog and he had to backtrack for a second and sniff some areas he had already trampled. But lo and behold he finally found it and stumbled back to the American who recoiled as Fred pointed triumphantly at the lapel pin. “This!”

  “What in the hell’s that got to do with anything?” asked Jack, growing irritated.

  Fred fought to retrieve the missing piece. “Badger said that most Americans think our ancestors didn’t join the revolution because they were loyal to England, buh, buh, excuse me for living, that isn’t true at all because there were lots of them who didn’t give two nickels about England and the Frenchmen were some of them, buh, buh, there were others and just ask the American Indians who fought with Canada in the war of, um, um …”

  “Eighteen-twelve,” said Mrs. Feniak firmly.

  “Fred, stop!” ordered Jack, but it was too late. Once Fred got started he couldn’t be stopped. It was like riding a bull. You either jumped off right away, which meant leaving the room, or you had to hang on and hope like hell you didn’t get hooked by a horn.

  “Exactly, a long time ago, when the Americans invaded Canada and with the help of the brave Indians we kicked them out, and even walked down to Washington and burned the White House a little bit, buh, buh, even before that our ancestors said no to that stinky revolution because the Americans wanted no history any more and wanted to start new and they were the funda …mental cases from England that came over first and they had their own crazy ideas and they were fun ideas like truth and liberty and chasing happiness everywhere like giant rabbits, buh, buh, there were dark storms underneath all that holy talk that was full of holes because just as the Americans were saying these big things they were shipping slaves over in boats, that makes me so mad, and our ancestors saw that this new country was a little bit like a cult and they wanted nothing to do with them because you can’t run away from your history and you shouldn’t stop writing to your uncle in Europe, how dare you, and there’s no magic hat for happiness or freedom and you can’t talk about liberty when you are whipping slaves and hanging them from trees and so our ancestors felt like they could do just as well on their own and they said no to the snakes in the grass underneath the big ideas that made a bloody civil war and snobby, money-hungry people who tell the world they are the best and they say they have the biggest penis of any country and Hitler said things like that and look where that got him, deader than a stick, and they tell the world about freedom like they invented it and who cares what a corrupt politician says about freedom anyway because it isn’t about buying as much as you can and being a pig and polluting the world and beating countries to a pulp and calling that the American way and, wowee, they don’t learn anything in their schools except the pledge of allegiance which they invented so the wobblies wouldn’t wobble all over America and the spelling of Mississippi and then they forget they are the only country that ever dropped atomic bombs on women and little children and they did it twice, I don’t believe it, and we aren’t going to get hypnotized by fireworks and guns and apple pies with vanilla ice cream and they still think they are such a high-class country and like to show off for everybody and use the army, navy, air force and marines to protect the french fries and twenty-first century American capitalism will die just like twentieth century communism because you can’t have too much power in the hands of a few greedy snakes, buh, buh, I am so glad that our ancestors said no, I thank them so much and I will shut up now.”

  Dink, head resting on his little orange paws, stared at Fred, eyes blinking. Fred rocked back and forth, red-faced and out of breath. Pearl grunted at something in her sleep. Jack reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette. Mrs. Feniak made no attempt to hide her smile. The American had left shortly after the slaves were hanging from the trees. A puck was slapped outside. Somebody shouted after they scored. Fred raised his hand and let out an exhausted double-barrelled laugh.

  Mrs. Feniak stayed behind to serve Fred his lamb dinner. She told Fred that Jack wasn’t feeling well, which made no sense to Fred because then he should be in his bed and not out in the barn with his bottle of Scotch.

  nine

  Fred had a surprise visitor at the end of February. He woke up to the sound of somebody skating on the rink. It was early. So early that the sun had lit the sky but hadn’t yet surfaced. Fred pulled aside the curtain and saw that his log cabin needed brushing, but yelled for Jack instead.

  He made his way unsteadily to the ice. His first few steps, as always, were awkward. But after a few strides he was gliding, his left skate cutting and pushing him on.

  Ryan wristed a puck at the net. He missed the crossbar by inches and the puck sailed into the snow. With no other pucks around, he continued his skate with a piece of ice.

  Fred had brought his own puck. He skated at one end while Ryan stickhandled his piece of ice at the other. Fred, his right leg impaired, skated clockwise. Ryan, his left ankle recovering, skated counter-clockwise. The time passed and each of them kept to their own ends, their revolutions unintentionally synchronized so that when Fred was skating toward centre ice Ryan was skating away.

  Fred was faster, so this timing was destined to change. Ryan made his turn and Fred did likewise. The two looked up and made eye contact. It was hockey instinct and nothing more. Fred tapped the puck in Ryan’s direction. The feathery pass plunked against Ryan’s stick. Ryan handled the puck once on his forehand and once on his backhand, then slapped it back to Fred. It was then that Fred allowed himself to grin. It was hockey, after all. And he loved it very much.

  ten

  Jack grabbed the ewe under the neck with his left hand while reaching around in front of a hip with his right. Using his knees as leverage, he lifted her off the ground and sat her down on her hindquarters.

  Fred shuffled gingerly. His brown trench coat flopped open to reveal a starched white shirt, tie and dress slacks. His face drooped with disappointment. “You are too good a shepherd now and this is not as exciting to watch.”

  The sheep had spent the entire winter in a confined area and foot trimming would help prevent rot and abscesses. Jack reached for his trimming shears and started paring away the overgrown horn so it was level with the sole of the foot.

  He had been up before dawn and was exhausted. The task was made more difficult because Jack knew there was an easier way to do it. There was a handling crate about the size of a doghouse, specially designed for foot trimming. All a farmer had to do was push a sheep inside, spin it upside down and get to work. He’d planned to buy himself one with the money from the mountain of firewood.

  Jack glanced at Fred as he continued paring. “Did you get your dishes put away?”

  “Buh, buh, how do you know when it’s time to wash dishes? Give up? Look inside your pants. If you have a penis, it’s not time.”

  “You see any vaginas around here?”

  “Sometimes I see two before I fall asleep at night.”

  “I thought we talked about this.”

  Jack and Fred hadn’t really talked about Fred’s chores. Jack had yelled and Fred had listened. Jack had been yelling on and off since the American drove away with the eight thousand dollars in his pocket. “You’re gonna have to try harder, Fred. There’s no free rides.”

  A vehicle pulled up and honked twice. “Except that one, bye.”

  Fred turned and lumbered through the door. The movement spooked the ewe, Jack lost his grip and the ewe scrambled back to the corral. “Goddammit!”

  Mrs. Feniak dr
ove. Claudia sat with Kenton in the back. Fred hummed and stared out the window. Mrs. Feniak looked over several times to see how he was doing. Nobody spoke.

  Fred went to church because he liked the building. It was stark white and stood on a hill and had chiming bells.

  Fred went to church because he liked to sing. It was the only time he didn’t stutter.

  Fred went to church because he liked to look at the way the sun played against the stained-glass pictures, and because the organ was loud and gave him chills.

  Fred went to church because some of the women wore shorter skirts and he could peek at their panties if they crossed their legs and didn’t think he was looking.

  Fred went to church because he was a miracle and the people there always reminded him of that.

  Fred went to church because the hugs he’d get would last for the rest of the day, sometimes into the next.

  And Fred went to church for the same reason he went to the hockey games and built his rink for everyone to use—it beat being alone.

  —

  Fred received an unusual number of sympathetic smiles during the service. Even the minister singled him out with when he came to a particularly stirring passage. Fred was oblivious to the attention and afterwards, as he did almost every Sunday, he pretended he was Quasimodo and chased the children around the church. Mrs. Feniak and Jiri stood together and watched. “He’s taken it well,” said Jiri.

  A few of the children lobbed snowballs at Fred as he scurried after them.

  Fred seemed genuinely happy, and to Mrs. Feniak this didn’t seem right. She grabbed Jiri’s elbow. “Oh, God, Jiri, I just had a terrible thought.”

  “No, it’s impossible,” said Jiri.

  “Jack didn’t find out Lady Di was dead until the next day. It’s not impossible.”

  Mrs. Feniak’s heart sank. She flashed briefly on Claudia as a little girl, soaking in warm water, gently flicking a plastic boat from one side of the bathtub to the other, not seeing Mrs. Feniak’s quivering lip, not knowing she was about to be told that her father was not coming home.

  Mrs. Feniak walked over to Fred. Jiri watched as she stopped him. He could see Fred nodding and smiling. Mrs. Feniak put her arm around him. And he kept on smiling but stopped nodding. And Jiri did not see him speak. Fred walked away from Mrs. Feniak and started limping through the plowed parking lot toward the road.

  Fred hurried through the gate and past the house and headed for the mound of snow. Taillon eyed Fred cautiously as he came toward him. “Shhh, little doggie.” Fred dropped onto his side and slowly rolled onto his back.

  His frosted eyelashes blinked rapidly and he squirmed in the snow. “The bad writing’s on the wall, the sad cat is crawling out of the bag and it is not a good time to sing happy days are here again.”

  Fred turned his head to Taillon. “I meant to ask you what you dreamed about and if you don’t want to answer right away that’s okay, buh, buh, would you like to curl up in front of a fireplace or walk through a park and make all the other doggies whine and feel so little that they will run home with their tails down and bury their bones?”

  Fred watched Taillon intently. Taillon continued to pan his head from side to side, eyes alert, ears up.

  “It is too hard to think about doing something new when you have this important job to do already, wowee, I knew that, and I am in the same busy boat as you, even though I might have less to do because, did you hear? The hockey team is going to move away.”

  Taillon yawned.

  “Okay, okay, if you don’t care then don’t rub it in.” Fred could hear the ewes moving en masse inside the corral. Their hooves on the packed snow sounded like paper being balled up. He looked across at the house for signs of life. The paint peeled off it like dead skin. The drapes were drawn like closed eyes. Jack must have been napping. Fred felt a strange disconnect, as if whatever he was looking for was not going to be found inside the house. Or in Badger’s living room. Or on the rink he had built. Nor was it going to be found in the concourses of the arena in the city ever again.

  “I love you, Taillon, you are my best friend, buh, buh, let’s make a promise that if one of us leaves then he will take the other guy with him. Deal?” Fred held his hand out for Taillon, who dropped his head onto the sheepskin. Fred pretended he was shaking Taillon’s paw. “I know I talk too much so I will shut up and we can sit and listen for coyotes and mountain lions and violins in the distance.”

  Fred closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was a lucky ducky. In twenty-four hours he wouldn’t remember what Mrs. Feniak had told him. And forgetting something like that would stop his heart from beating so quickly.

  lambing

  one

  Virgil McLeod poked the envelope into the shadow of the slot and felt a rush of blood surge across his forehead. The letter dropped into the belly of the mailbox without a sound and Virgil crunched away across the snow-packed sidewalk.

  He had planned to wait until Ryan came to training camp in the fall before contacting Fred, but his stomach had started churning sour, stinging acid into his throat again. Getting Mrs. Feniak’s phone number had been easy. He had called her, scribbled down Fred’s address, written five drafts and eventually sent the following:

  Dear Fred,

  You might not remember me but I am the rink maintenace manager at the Keystone in Brandon. My name is Virgil McLeod. I was happy to hear that you are alive and well and working on a sheep farm. Sounds like that must be fun and alot of hard work.

  Well any way I just wanted to say hello and if you feel like it you can write me back. If you don’t thats okay to.

  Sincerly,

  Virgil

  P.S. You were one of my faverite players in Brandon.

  Virgil lived alone in a cramped one-bedroom apartment within walking distance of the arena. He ate frozen dinners at night and instant oatmeal in the morning. There were several mice that scuttled through his apartment but he only ever saw them one at a time. As a result he was convinced that the same mouse had lived with him for seventeen years. He called him Gerald.

  Virgil was known by his neighbours as a reclusive and grumpy tenant. He didn’t mean to be. It’s just that being at home meant sitting by himself in the living room, standing in the kitchen or pacing between the two.

  The rink was where he could keep his hands and head busy. He was a happy man while walking to work, even at five in the morning. But since Ryan Feniak’s visit, he felt his one sanctuary, the rink, had been taken away. Normally approachable and sometimes even affable, he had become so ornery that most of the players had stopped saying hello.

  The players weren’t the only ones ignoring him. Immediately after Virgil told Wally Chilton about the ties that bound them to that tragic night, Wally turned his back on Virgil whenever he was stocking shelves or looked down if he was bagging groceries.

  Virgil had thought they might go for a beer sometime. Perhaps get drunk. Maybe he’d even tell Wally what really happened that night. But now it struck Virgil as appropriate and fair that Wally avoided him. His negligence, after all, had destroyed one of Wally’s good friends.

  two

  Ryan carved his way around the orange cones that were placed in the four corners of the oval. Fred stood at centre ice, a whistle poised in his left hand. “Faster, faster, pussycat, skate, skate.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” yelled Ryan, gasping.

  “Buh, buh, you are not cutting tight enough and your left skate is dragging.”

  Ryan spun around and skated angrily at Fred, stopping just in time but sending a shower of ice across Fred’s skates. “It’s dragging because you broke it, asshole.”

  Fred blew his whistle. The shrill sound made Ryan cringe. He raised his stick and made Fred think he was going to knock his head off. Instead, Ryan swerved behind and slapped Fred hard on the back of his leg. “Um, um, you watch it or I’ll pop you good.”

  Fred put Ryan through as many passing drills as he could thin
k of. But Ryan’s problem wasn’t technical, it was emotional. He hated passing the puck. It meant he wasn’t in the spotlight any more, and if he wasn’t in the spotlight then what was the point? “Don’t you see that hockey is a team game and you should get just as much of a wowee from helping someone else score a goal as scoring one yourself?”

  Ryan didn’t see this at all. When he wasn’t firing slapshots he liked one drill and one drill only. It was a move that Bobby Orr had perfected and Fred had copied. Fred no longer had the wheels, but he tried to teach it to Ryan.

  The manoeuvre required him to skate toward an opposing player, throw the puck to the outside as if he was going to skate past, complete a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn and disappear around the other side. Done gracefully, it was a thing of beauty. Done poorly, it made the player look like a Wayne Gretzky wannabe and guaranteed teasing and abuse. This was why few players tried it during a game.

  But it gave the player who had the balls an opportunity to look glorious. It also made the opposing player look foolish. These were two good reasons for Ryan to practise it so often that Fred had to blow his whistle and push him down to the other end of the ice for another drill.

  Fred, standing behind the net with a bucket of pucks, set Ryan up in front. Ryan fired his shots, aiming first for the upper holes of the shooter tutor. Fred’s passes were crisp. Ryan’s shooting was deadly accurate. He rarely missed a hole.

  In the middle of a pass Fred’s eyes went wide and a gush of excited air made him cough. “Did you hear the good news? Andy can’t move the team.”

  “Sure he can.”

  “Papa Joe said he heard it on the radio. We can keep them here if we find a local buyer. That was the deal Andy signed. So the city was not so stupid after all.”

  “You got a hundred and twenty million dollars?”

  “Wait,” said Fred as he fished in his pocket, eventually pulling out a crumpled note. He read it and looked at Ryan smugly. “Eighty, dumb-dumb.”