Fred looked at Jack dejectedly. “Well, goodbye, um, um, what was your name again?”
“Carl,” said the man in the other cell, who looked just as disappointed that Fred was leaving.
“I hope you get home soon, Carl, and maybe it is best that we ended in a tie so that we can stay friends.”
Fred giggled and limped down the hallway. The constable didn’t need to raise his eyebrows at Jack, but he did anyway. Jack paid no attention. He had too much on his mind.
“You wouldn’t believe it, buh, buh, for lunch they brought in McDonald’s, wowee, I have not had a Big Mac in years and I didn’t even care that Badger calls them weapons of mass destruction. I asked for a Schweppes raspberry ginger ale and they said I could get one next time. Holy crow, I know those hamburgers make you fat, buh, buh, they taste good and it doesn’t even matter that I have a tummy ache. I am happy, happy, happy, so what did you do today?”
Fred looked expectantly at Jack, who sat hunched near the steering wheel, his mind far away from Big Macs and jail cells and failed efforts at punishment. “You need to stick close to the farm for the next couple of weeks.”
“Did I do something wrong again?”
“There’s some people that want to hurt you.” Fred’s eyes began to blink rapidly. Jack lit a cigarette and rolled down his window. “I’m gonna try and figure this out.”
“Um, um, if someone comes to the house to beat me up will you protect me?”
“If anyone steps one foot on that property they’re gonna get the living shit kicked out of them.”
Fred gushed and patted Jack on the shoulder as they passed the Feniaks. Jack bristled. “It’s not over, Fred.”
“I know,” said Fred. “Will you tell me when it is?”
five
Jack was the only one in the bleachers. It was a relief to be inside a cool place on such a hot day. What had started out as a quick sprint to his truck when he saw Ryan drive past in his mother’s truck had turned into a forty-five-minute pursuit to an indoor arena. He wasn’t sure if Ryan knew he was following him.
There were nine players on the glistening ice that Jack assumed was the same sheet that Virgil had cured. Some had full equipment; others, like Ryan, did not. There was no checking, but there was a lot of shouting and skating. Without shooter tutors the players, at least the good ones, were clanging their shots off the posts.
Jack didn’t like what he was doing. He wasn’t sure it was the best way to deal with what Kenton had told him, but now that Ryan had seen him sitting in the bleachers there was no turning back. His initial discomfort was dulled somewhat by what he was seeing on the ice.
Jack had seen a slower, injured Ryan on Fred’s homemade rink. This was a faster, stronger Ryan. Jack was surprised and impressed.
It had been quite a few years ago, but Jack still recalled having similar feelings about Fred Pickle. Jack had only been to a few of Fred’s games, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t scanned the sports page every morning to see if the Brandon Wheat Kings had won. And if they had scored a few goals, he had wondered how many Fred had had a hand in.
Because Fred had played amateur hockey so far away, there had never been box-score summaries of Fred’s games in the newspaper. There had been, however, lists of the top ten scorers in the Western Hockey League, and these had been printed two to three times a week. Fred had been a fixture on this list in the months leading up to his accident.
Jack knew now that Fred was blowing smoke when he said he had had more skill than Ryan. But Fred had had heart. There were more than a few policemen who followed junior hockey closely. It had thrilled Jack to the bone when one of them would ask if Fred Pickle was his nephew.
The boys weren’t playing seriously, so there was no clear demarcation for the end of the game. Guys just dropped out when they became tired. Jack had to sit there until Ryan was the only one left on the ice, setting up twenty pucks just inside the blue line and lasering slapshots at the net.
Jack made his way down the stairs, stepped into the visitor’s box and leaned over the bench. Ryan gathered his pucks into a bucket and skated over. It was a different relationship on the ice. This was Ryan’s house and with his skates on he towered over Jack, who couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated.
“You’re pretty damn good, boy, I’ll give you that.”
“Ah, we’re just messing around.” Ryan had sweat dripping from his bangs. He cleared his nose and spat a large glob onto the ice. “So what’s up?” asked Ryan, eyeballing Jack.
Jack wanted to light a smoke. “I had some boys come by the house and I thought they might be friends of yours.”
“Why would you think that?”
Jack was well prepared to lie to protect Kenton. “I think I’ve seen the truck at your place, brand new, red, crew cab, black trim.”
“I’ve got a few friends with red trucks.”
“Whoever was inside the truck went into my house.”
“They steal anything?”
“No, they didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“And what was that?”
“Fred.”
Ryan seemed surprised. “Why Fred?”
“Because of Claudia.”
Ryan lifted his skate over the boards, stretching his hamstrings. “You think someone’s trying to get him?”
“I think some young folks might have the wrong idea about what’s best for Fred.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about that.”
“If you hear anything …”
“I’ll let you know.”
“No, you don’t have to do that. All you have to do is tell them I’m in charge, Fred’s my responsibility. And it wouldn’t hurt to remind them that judges aren’t particularly fond of delinquents who beat up handicapped people.”
Ryan cleared his nose again. “And what about grown men who grope fifteen-year-old girls and use their handicap as an excuse? Are judges particularly fond of them?”
Ryan spat again and skated off with his bucket of pucks. Jack fought the urge to wait in the parking lot and tell Ryan everything he knew about sexual impulses in people with brain injuries, how they couldn’t control them sometimes. But he hadn’t come to deliver a medical sermon. He had come to deliver a message. And Ryan had heard him, loud and clear. He hoped it was enough to head off any stupidity.
six
The rules had changed since Mutt had opened his big mouth at the barbecue. Marilyn could tell the kids to spend the night at friends. Jack could see Marilyn at her house. They could eat together and do dishes together. And tumble into Marilyn’s bed together. But she still didn’t want him sleeping over. She said it would be too much like the real thing and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.
The obvious question that Jack never raised was why Rip had been allowed to wake up with Marilyn in the morning. It’s a good thing he never asked, because Marilyn didn’t have an answer for that. Rip had arrived at the former dairy farm with salvage that sold, great sex and gentle cuddles. Jack brought her a quarter section of felled timber that was now home to mice and squirrels, a chainsaw that wouldn’t start and, because Jack was so bony, uncomfortable cuddles.
And yet Marilyn had to concede, usually when she was in the bathtub with candles lit, that she had never loved Rip. She had loved having him around. She didn’t always love having Jack around. He sometimes made her nauseous, almost to the point of throwing up. This had nothing to do with Jack’s manure-stained rubber boots and everything to do with falling in love. And because it felt too much like the real thing, Jack couldn’t show Marilyn how relaxed he’d be in the morning.
His anxiety had become such a source of frustration that he had started cursing in bed. It made no difference how many times Marilyn told him to relax. Or how many ways she tried to help. The last time Jack had been over she had suggested he see a doctor. He had grabbed his clothes and stormed out.
Jack saw his rams in a new light. They had it easy. They didn’t thin
k, and their semen kept a roof over his head. Jack never told Marilyn that the reason he and Vera never had children was because he was firing blanks. He regretted this a lot more after she had passed away; at least there would have been a little of Vera left behind.
seven
It wouldn’t have taken much for Fred to get a hockey stick and lift his wheels off the nails. He had in fact already done this, just to prove that he could.
The two wheels had become a source of fascination. He thought he remembered what Jack had said, that there was something on the country roads, maybe the same something that had killed Mr. Feniak. The wheels were hanging in the garage for Fred’s protection. Fred knew this much. And that is why, when he emerged from the garage, he wasn’t bitter.
Fred made his way to the lawn chair near the fence beside the road, his kaffiyeh flopping off his shoulders as his Davy Crockett hat had done in winter. He sat and faced east. Because that’s where Taillon was, lying in the grass not too far from Fred’s feet. Fred was close enough that he could see some of the colours of the sunset reflected in Taillon’s eyes—brilliant oranges, spurts of yellow, slopes of pink.
Flies buzzed around Taillon. Only when one of them tickled his eyelids did he shake his massive head. His tongue fell from his mouth and he began to lick the top of his paw. Fred watched as the white hair flattened and began to glisten. “Um, um, would you like to go for a walk?”
Taillon’s head continued bobbing, then it dropped to the grass and he rolled onto his side. A satisfied grunt brought a similar grunt from Fred. “Do you think that one day I could fall asleep with my head on your soft belly?”
Jack realized from the moment he woke up that a bottle of rye had not rescued him. A raging hangover brought bitter thoughts back as soon as he rolled out of bed. He’d looked at his cheque book last night and the balance column showed $78.51. The indignity of a bank loan loomed.
And Fred’s silhouette on the lawn chair, which Jack had seen shortly after closing his cheque book, loomed larger than it had when Jack had cracked open the bottle of rye and plucked a shot glass. The mountain of firewood. A shot of rye. A paltry forty-nine head. With a healthy pair of hands he’d have a hundred. Another shot. Fred’s fat hand on Claudia’s tit. Two shots. Badger, the cryptic messages on the back of the novel cover and the secret meetings at the library. Three shots.
If there was one part of being a cop Jack missed, it was the simplicity of the job. There were bad guys. And good guys. He despised the contradictions that Fred forced upon him. Jack did not know it, but this grey world that Fred had plunged him into was causing him to seek revenge. That and the half-bottle that had failed to drown his fears of impotence.
Fred was not oblivious to the approaching storm. He did everything he could to cheer Jack up. He cleaned his own dishes after breakfast. He tried sweeping the small back porch. And when he saw that his actions were having no effect, he tried words.
Fred leaned the broom beside the door and followed Jack into the kitchen. “Um, um, are you going to have lunch?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Why don’t you let me fix something?”
“Because I don’t feel like a peanut butter sandwich.”
“How dare you, I could make us peanut butter and jelly and even toast the bread.”
Jack stuck his head in the fridge, dug out the remains of a roast chicken and grabbed a big carving knife.
“Okay, you have to show off and prove that you want a sandwich that I could not make, see if I care.”
Jack threw down four slices and skimmed mayonnaise across the bread.
“Um, um, I don’t want you to think I was snooping, buh, buh, I haven’t seen our season tickets yet and do you have the foggiest idea when they might be coming?”
Jack tossed some torn chicken pieces onto the bread, threw Fred’s sandwich on a plate and dropped it on the table. Fred, still standing, looked down at the sandwich. “Thanks, buh, buh, you did not answer my question.”
Jack took an angry bite from his sandwich. “There’s no season tickets this year.”
Fred erupted with laughter, then circled his finger around his ear and pointed at Jack. “Cuckoo, cuckoo.”
“The team’s gone, Fred.” Jack’s voice became louder. “We’ve talked about this and talked about this.”
“Buh, buh, if I gave up like you I would never have learned to skate again because there is still a chance that Andy will change his mind and bring the boys back home because if he doesn’t then drastic measures might have to be taken and the shame of it all will force Dad to change his last name from Pickle to Boysenberry.”
“Are you playing a game with me here?” yelled Jack.
“Not unless you want to have a quick game of checkers after lunch, please, please, please, say yes.”
“Am I going to have to tell you every day that the goddamn team is gone?” Jack stalked into the hallway and pointed. “You want me to tape it to your bedroom door so the first thing you see in the morning is a big note?”
Fred’s eyes blinked rapidly. Something wasn’t right. Jack came back and grabbed Fred’s wrist, hard enough that Fred winced. “Or what about a tattoo? Maybe that’s the answer. We’ll get it tattooed on your wrist.”
Fred shook his head and smiled. He hoped that maybe Jack was just kidding and he wanted to go along just in case it ended with a funny joke. Otherwise he would look stupid.
Jack stormed over to his desk, fumbled to find the key in the coffee mug. “I got a better idea.” Jack tore through his desk drawer and came back with an old newspaper, a little yellow on the corners. He slapped it on the table beside Fred’s sandwich. “I saved it for you.”
Fred stood there, not smiling any more.
“You better read it now because it’s going up on your bedroom wall. Look at it.”
Fred’s eyes dropped to his shoes.
“I said, look at it, goddammit.”
Jack grabbed Fred and pushed his head forward. Fred offered no resistance. Jack held Fred’s neck so tight his knuckles went white. He couldn’t see that Fred had his eyes closed. The barely audible whimper that escaped Fred’s throat hit Jack hard. He let go and stepped away.
Fred stayed where he was, bent over, his face inches from a photo of a smiling Andrew Madison, a big headline—MADISON WINS, WE LOSE—on the front page of the tabloid.
Jack stood, hands in the air, ready to catch Fred. Ready to touch him on the arm and let him know it was over. But Fred stayed where he was, bent over the table, and when Jack finally moved he did so slowly. He slid the newspaper out from under Fred’s face, and dropped it carefully into the garbage can under the sink. He lifted a chair, set it behind Fred, then gently tilted him back until he was sitting down.
“It’s okay,” whispered Jack.
Jack could not do or say anything else. He retreated from the kitchen and jogged to the barn. But the barn wasn’t far enough away. So he ran to his truck and jumped in it.
Jack slowly drove away. He didn’t want Fred thinking he was still angry. Soon his hands were numb from hitting the steering wheel. For the first time since his wife had died he was driving without a destination.
Jack didn’t return until after sunset. It wasn’t concern for Fred that brought him barrelling down the driveway. He had forgotten about the sheep in the pastures. He headed unsteadily for the house to get Pearl, who was waiting inside the door, tail wagging.
“Fred? You here?” called Jack, his voice slurred. He glanced inside the kitchen. Fred’s sandwich was gone. He was glad that Fred had eaten. Fred’s bedroom door was closed. Perhaps he was inside. Not answering. Or maybe sleeping.
Jack’s sandwich was still on the counter. The bread was hard, but it didn’t matter. He was drunk. He was hungry. He took a bite and led Pearl outside.
Jack scanned the empty pasture. He wondered where the sheep had gone, thought for a second that maybe rustlers had struck. Then he heard the sound of a bleating lamb. And another. Jack
followed the sounds to the corral. There they were. All his ewes and lambs, facing him, looking like an audience waiting for Jack to sing or dance. The day had been chaotic but not so much so that Jack didn’t remember putting them inside the corral and locking the gate.
It was then that Jack saw the fire. It was over at the far end of one of the pastures.
Jack crouched, almost tipped over, and poked the wood with a stick, sending sparks sizzling into the night. “Can I burn a pine bough?”
Fred shrugged his shoulders. He could smell the rye. Jack grabbed a bough from a pile that Fred had stacked. He laid it across the fire and it ignited and hissed. The smoke cascaded around Jack. “That smells good, eh?”
“Not bad.”
Jack poked the burning logs again. He seemed in the throes of a terrible struggle. “I think I’m losing her.”
Fred eyed Jack warily. “Who?”
“Marilyn.”
“Um, um, she is too high class for a sheep farmer?”
“I don’t know what the problem is, it’s just nerves, I can’t relax. Jesus Christ, you’re my goddamn nephew.” Jack stood up, took a deep breath and swayed. “There’s too much going on. I think too much. I find something good and I want it so bad I get all worked up.”
“Buh, buh, are you having trouble making a boner?”
“Jiminy cricket, you don’t have to put it like that.”
“Um, um, try sit-ups and if that doesn’t work then get a chair and step up and down about two hundred times and if all else fails you can buy a pistol-grip penis pump that enlarges you up to twice your normal size.”
“That works?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never had that problem, buh, buh, I saw it in a magazine.”
“Forget I even mentioned it. Jesus Christ, you’ll be telling everyone.”
“You told the right fellow because I am understanding and helpful tonight and tomorrow I won’t remember.”
Jack plucked a smoke from his plastic cigarette box, had a hard time fusing the flame and the tip. He finally drew smoke and exhaled it slowly through his nose. “I hope you’re not sleeping out here because you think you have to.”
The Horn of a Lamb Page 25
