The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “They had you come all this way to fix their ice? You must be pretty good at making rinks.”

  “Well, when you do something your whole life you better have something to say about it.”

  “You know Fred makes a rink every year.”

  “So he said. I wish I could’ve seen it.” Virgil tipped the bowl. “How am I doing?”

  Jack didn’t bother looking. “Great.” Jack finished greasing the pans. “So was he the bad fella he says he was?”

  “Oh, no sir, he was just a kid, no better, no worse.” Virgil brought the bowl and spoon to the counter. “But he was a heck of a hockey player. No problems there at all.”

  Virgil watched Jack pour the mix into the pans. It moved as slow as lava and Jack used the spoon to scoop the sides of the bowl and then his finger to scoop the spoon. Virgil mumbled, waited until Jack was finished. “Some people say that if he hadn’t been drinking that night, then nothing would have happened but I don’t feel that’s right.”

  “I know that’s what he thinks.”

  “I just wish he’d come back one day. There’s a lot of people would like to see him.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Yes, sir, Fred was a popular guy. There’s still folks asking about him.”

  “I mean going back to Brandon. He’s never seemed too keen.”

  “I can understand why.”

  “You see, I can’t. He talks about that accident like he was telling someone how he stubbed his toe. There’s something else there he doesn’t like.”

  Virgil licked his lips and hitched his pants up. “Well, I think that’s where it happened and everything connected to her is kinda bad. I had a friend who crashed a car. His father got throwed out and killed. This guy can talk about that accident like it was yesterday. But I asked him once if he’d ever been back. It were Devil’s Lake, I do believe. He looked at me like I was crazy.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Virgil took a deep breath and ended up coughing up some phlegm. He took a napkin out of his pocket, put it over his mouth and cleared his throat. “What about Fred? Does he remember much? About the accident?”

  “Oh, he talks about it all the time. You’ll get strangers out here and he’ll tell ’em the whole terrible story. Sometimes twice.”

  Jack didn’t notice Virgil cringing. He opened the oven and popped the pans inside. Virgil stood there teetering, maintaining his balance with one hand on the counter. Jack slammed the oven door shut, Virgil twitched and Jack looked at his watch. “Let’s let those bake for …” Jack checked the back of the box, “…thirty minutes.”

  Fred was inconsolable. He stood beside Badger in the backyard, his head tilted toward the grass. Badger puffed on his oxygen nebulizer like a cigar, sending small plumes of mist into the air. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, it’s been a while.”

  Fred was so fascinated with the nebulizer, the puffing and the mist it took him quite some time before he spoke. “Um, um, I used to do it all the time and, wowee, little Fred always came to play.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “You are old and that is supposed to happen, I am not so old and time is running out.”

  “You got all afternoon, relax.”

  Fred took a deep breath and looked at Badger expectantly. “Okay, okay, so don’t go away or anything because I may have to talk again.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  Fred turned and limped back into the house.

  Jack took Virgil outside and showed him around the farm. Virgil asked Jack if he was keeping that mountain of wood around for any special reason. Jack asked Virgil how much wood he could fit in his car. Virgil told Jack he didn’t have a fireplace.

  Virgil seemed revived by the fresh air but was otherwise quiet and preoccupied. The only part of the tour that aroused a response was seeing Taillon. He told Jack he’d never seen a dog as beautiful. Jack told him that Fred would be glad to hear that.

  “Where the hell is that boy?”

  After Jack had pushed a toothpick into one of the cakes and it had come out clean, and after he’d cooled the two pans on top of the oven for fifteen minutes, he pulled a small tub of milk chocolate frosting off the shelf and tried to hand it to Virgil. “Here, why don’t you do this. I’ll clean up.”

  Virgil put his hands in the air like Jack was holding a gun on him. “No, sir, that’s something I’d wreck for sure.”

  “No you won’t.” Jack popped the cakes out of the pans and set them on some waxed paper. He sat Virgil down and handed him a spatula. “Have at it.”

  Jack went to the sink and busied himself with the scrubbing. Virgil’s swollen, crooked fingers took a long time getting the plastic lid off the frosting tub. The foil seal came off more easily.

  Virgil spread the first glob of frosting. And again. His hand carefully scooped and spread. Virgil went about his task like a determined child trying to fit a fat, frayed shoelace through the tiny hole of a sneaker.

  There was no doubt in Virgil’s mind: This was going to be the smoothest frosting in the brief history of instant cakes. But this cake had an unfair advantage. This one had a rink master applying the finishing touch.

  It was much later when Fred emerged from the house for the fifth and final time. Badger was snoring. Fred tapped him on the knee. His eyelids fluttered open. “Any luck?” asked Badger hopefully. Fred’s hangdog face told Badger the answer. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

  “Maybe we could try again on my next birthday, um, um, I shouldn’t have touched this or anything, buh, buh, it is my birthday so I guess I was thinking that I get special privileges or something.” Fred held the lamb’s horn. “I don’t remember why this is so important, buh, buh, maybe if you hold it long enough you might have something to look forward to and can stop being so unhappy.”

  Badger smiled weakly. A mosquito moved to a vein on his hand and then flew away. “See? I’m too old. I’ve got no blood left.”

  Badger had to pay the woman five times what she had agreed to. That’s because he had discovered the truth about Fred’s subdued appearances in the backyard. He wasn’t frustrated at all. He was resting. Five positions. Five shots. Five goals. Five empty condom wrappers.

  Fred traced his finger down a fat black line Badger had drawn on a road map of the United States. “Um, um, I have not been to America since I played junior hockey.” Fred looked at Badger expectantly. “It will be just like right now won’t it? With you in the driver’s seat, and me as your navigator. Only we will be three times as excited.”

  “That’s right.” Badger took a deep breath of fresh oxygen, his eyes smouldering. “And I might even ask you to have a nice big cup of shut-the-fuck-up every once in a while.” Fred squealed with delight.

  Fred knew it all now. The whole dirty plot. If he told Jack, so be it, thought Badger. If he didn’t, everything would still be okay. Fred was brain injured and all he had to do was work the video camera. They’d probably never see him. And even if they did, they’d blame Badger for everything. Fred would walk. Badger would die in jail. But Fred was right. He needed to do something. Even if it didn’t start the revolution, it was something to look forward to.

  Georgie Boy belched black smoke from its exhaust pipe and clattered down the highway.

  “Take a good look at Dink and see what happens when you stray too far from home without telling me where you’re going,” said Jack angrily. “That poor man waited all day.”

  Fred didn’t know if he should pet Dink or just look at him. A leg was wrapped in white bandage. An eye was swollen shut. Half his left ear was missing and glistening with ointment. All around his body were clumps of hair fused with dried blood. Tom had really done a number on him.

  Fred dropped a finger on Dink’s head and began stroking. Dink shuddered. Fred shuddered as well. He still carried the residue of Badger’s cigar smoke. And his plot. “Buh, buh, stay away from the barn.”

  By the time Fred returned from th
e living room, Jack had lit a candle on his double-layer, double-chocolate swirl cake. Jack and Jiri sang, Fred made his wish, and then he overwhelmed the flame with a short, emphatic blast.

  “What did you wish for?” asked Jack.

  “That is between me and the gods.”

  Fred had flirted briefly, as he sometimes did, with the notion of wishing for a normal brain, but when he realized it might be his last chance at something else he went for that. He knew the hockey gods had more important matters to attend to than bringing his hockey team home, but he decided to ask anyway. It couldn’t hurt. Having his team back would save Badger some money on gas and would certainly save George a bundle on hiring his son a good lawyer.

  Before Jack cut the cake he told Fred who had iced it. There was irritation in Jack’s voice because Fred still hadn’t told him where he’d gone. “Um, um, hold it right there while I sit and admire the work of a professional.”

  Fred made Jack and Jiri wait while his eyes skated slowly over the smooth brown surface. “Okay, I am done.”

  Jack cut three pieces and when Fred said it was the best frosting he had ever tasted, nobody disagreed. Certainly not Taillon, who received his piece while Jack was busy in the barn.

  two

  Lucky Lucy had not yet learned the lesson of the western fence line. She had seen the others bump against the wire of the stock fence. Some of the ewes had even found relief from an itch against it. But these encounters occurred on the other perimeters.

  She moved slowly, her side grazing the fence as her young, stocky legs tottered forward. Her bright-white ears stuck out at right angles and one ear darted back and forth through the fencing. Her black eyes resembled tiny buttons sewn onto a soft, beautiful fabric. She had grown sturdier since her birth but still retained enough awkwardness to instill a sense of suspense in her forward movement.

  She heard the thump of a paw and instinctively jumped. A set of jaws burst through one of the ninety-eight square openings in the mesh wire that ran between each post. The sharp crack of the teeth caused her to tumble, but she was safely out of reach and was able to right herself.

  Bonnie and Clyde went berserk. They slobbered. They spun. They growled and barked and gnashed their teeth. Lucky Lucy froze with fear. Her mother came over, nudging her once with her nose to push her further away.

  Taillon galloped over to investigate the disturbance. His large presence brought an immediate end to the growling. Neither pit bull had ever seen Taillon this close before. But it was not his size that brought their tails down inch by inch. It was his silence. His cold, deadly silence.

  Bonnie and Clyde sniffed the air and tried to understand what was different about this white giant. He wasn’t quite a dog, but he wasn’t a wolf either. The conflicting signals brought a whimper from Clyde and he slowly began to retreat. Bonnie was not so quick with her surrender. She stood her ground and matched Taillon’s steady stare.

  The showdown lasted a full minute. Taillon’s hypnotic eyes remained steady, confident. His jaws had crushed and killed predators much larger than Bonnie. The killing instinct of both dogs hummed invisibly back and forth across the fence line. Bonnie finally relented. She turned her head to look for Clyde, who stood behind her. The battle was over.

  The sheep began moving off and Taillon had no further interest in the pit bulls. To signal the conclusion of the conflict he trotted to the fence, lifted his hind leg and shot a steady stream of urine onto the post. When he finished he turned, and with his back legs kicked dirt onto Bonnie’s side of the fence.

  This action enraged her but she controlled her fury until Taillon was a good distance away. Then she flung herself at the fence, cracking her jaws on the wire. Clyde was made brave by her aggression. He rushed up beside her and joined in her barking and snarling.

  Once Taillon was out of sight, Clyde sniffed the fence post. The message left by Taillon had not been kind. Clyde’s tail drooped once more and a slight whimper escaped his throat. Bonnie sniffed as well, but her tail did not droop. In fact her eyes blazed with indignation. She snapped at Clyde and he lunged out of the way of her crushing jaws.

  three

  Fred gripped one corner of the bedsheet because that’s all he could hold. Kenton held the other two corners, snapped them together and walked his end toward Fred. Fred pursed his lips as Kenton came closer. “Shall we dance?”

  Kenton grimaced and yanked Fred’s corner from his hand. “Buh, buh, why do you work so hard?”

  Kenton stacked the folded sheet on a pile of finished laundry. The washing machine was gurgling and the dryer was humming. Fred bent over a basket of dirty laundry. His hand came up holding a pair of black panties. “I thank you so much, um, um, whose are these?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  Fred clamped the panties with his teeth and pulled them out with his left hand. Kenton saw the size and continued folding. “Probably Claudia’s.”

  Fred sighed, pulled out a bra and found the tag. “Thirty-eight, double C, not bad.” He didn’t have to ask to know it was Marilyn’s. He pulled the bra to his face and inhaled. “Um, um, where is your mom again?”

  “I told you, she took Ryan to the city.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s getting new hockey skates.”

  “Um, um, how come they never asked if I wanted to go?”

  Kenton turned to see why Fred’s voice was so muffled and saw his face buried in white lace. “Get out of there!”

  “Okay, okay, so where do these go?”

  “In the basket.”

  Fred reluctantly dropped the bra. “New hockey skates. Wowee.” Fred continued to rummage. “Buh, buh, has he been training hard? Running and lifting weights? Listening to inspirational music and things like that?”

  “I haven’t seen him do anything except watch TV.”

  “The other boys will better conditioned and he will get cut, get sad, get fat and drink himself into middle age.”

  “Did you train hard for your first camp?”

  Fred raised his arm and blasted his laugh. “I drank beer and looked at dirty magazines, buh, buh, don’t tell Ryan.”

  “I wish I could have seen you play.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Fred yanked a T-shirt out of the basket. He shook it until it fell open and his jaw fell with it. “Please, please, tell me this isn’t whose I think it is.” Kenton folded a pillowcase and looked over at the Property of the Brandon Wheat Kings T-shirt. “Um, um, you get this after you make the team, not before training camp.”

  “One of his friends bought it for him.”

  “That’s what he says, buh, buh, you and I know that he bought it for himself so he could walk around like a big shot with sunglasses, tight jeans and an easy smile.”

  “He’s on the PPL. He is their property.”

  “And when I see you in September,” sang Fred. “There will be twenty or so properties looking for T-shirts with a picture of a little engine on skid row that says I thought I could, I thought I could.”

  “Where’s your Wheat Kings shirt?”

  “I don’t know, why do you ask so many questions?” Fred dropped the shirt into the basket and buried it at the bottom.

  “You should have a shirt.”

  “Okay, bye.” Fred limped up the stairs.

  “Aren’t you going to help me with the next load?”

  Fred passed the kitchen window and was just about to answer but he saw something outside that stopped him in his tracks. Kenton heard the door slam shut and then the dogs barking.

  Bonnie and Clyde followed beside Fred, snapping and growling. Fred finally had enough. He turned, pulled his shorts down and mooned them. “Take that and that you monsters of the junkyard.”

  Fred hitched up his shorts and jabbed a finger at the snarling dogs. “I am a friendly neighbour and you don’t care at all because you hate everyone except the boy wonder.”

  He emerged from the shade of the house into the blazing sun of the backyard. The heat fe
lt good on his face. He quickly found a lawn chair and dragged it across the grass. It was important that he position himself just right. Satisfied, he dropped himself clumsily into the chair.

  Claudia’s right foot bounced gently on the chaise longue. Fred’s eyes roamed up the curve of her oiled calf, past her thighs to her bikini bottom. He rested a moment and carried on up her back, which was bare, which meant the ties to her bikini top were undone, which meant the side of one of her breasts was visible. Fred sighed.

  Claudia’s head was turned, her ears plugged with music from her CD player. Fred’s mouth was dry by the time he had traversed all the glistening slopes and bends. He sat back and took in the whole form. He knew it wouldn’t last. There would be questions. So he rehearsed his answers.

  Claudia twitched, stretched her shoulders. Then she turned her head, saw the shadow and shuddered. “What are you doing?” she cried, yanking her earphones out, smothering the side of her breast with one hand, covering her bikini bottom with the other.

  “I wanted to know if you need anything.”

  “You’re just sitting there,” Claudia spat.

  “I didn’t want to make a peep because you looked like you were dreaming, please tell me you need something cold to drink and then I have to go home because there are chores to be done and by the way your little brother is busy, busy, busy, and you don’t help him at all, how come?”

  Claudia paused, shook her large plastic travel cup. The straw vibrated above the lid. “There’s lemonade in the fridge, lots of ice.”

  “Okay, okay, lots of ice, now you’re talking.”

  Fred replenished the cup inside, leaving several scattered ice cubes to melt on the kitchen floor. When he returned, Claudia had tied her bikini top and was sitting cross-legged. Neither noticed that Kenton was spying on them from an upstairs window.

  “Wowee, I like being your servant, is there anything else you would like me to do?”

  “Get lost.”

  “I love you because you are so honest.” Fred plopped down in his lawn chair. “Okay, okay, so tell me you would not be happier if you could sunbathe in the nude and not have, you know, bikini lines where everything is white, white, white, in some parts and golden brown in others.”