The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” whispered Jack.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. Jack skipped off to the garage and returned with an old goalie mask and a rake. Crouched behind the driver’s door, he started to drag the rake across the back window, keeping a careful eye on the driver’s head. When his actions didn’t deliver the desired effect, he thumped on the door with his elbow.

  The driver woke up, looked left, then right. Jack dragged the rake again. Once he was certain that confusion reigned, he pounced. Jack yelled, his face hidden behind the goalie mask. A man screamed inside the car. Pearl barked and ran in circles. The driver started hitting the horn, perhaps calling for help. Fred tumbled out the back door in his bathrobe, hair coned from sleep, with a hockey stick in his hand.

  “It’s okay, Fred,” wheezed Jack. “It’s just me.” Jack tore off the mask. The driver sat frozen. His sluggish brain was still piecing everything together so it fit right. Jack opened the car door. Then he lurched to the side, spitting laughter. “Morning, George.”

  George nodded and licked his lips, happy to have saliva in his mouth again. “Morning, Jack.”

  George saw Fred standing on the porch. “Morning, Fred.”

  Fred raised the hockey stick in greeting. “Hi, Dad.”

  Jack stayed with Fred and George in the kitchen long enough to fry up some eggs and hash browns, hear all about Italy and get a pair of leather slippers that George had bought for him. Fred received a pair as well. Neither Fred nor Jack asked where George’s wife was. Jack guessed that George had left her in the city. Jack excused himself so he could get the ewes and lambs into the pasture.

  Fred hadn’t touched his slippers, and they were close enough that he should have. George shared none of Jack’s vivaciousness. About anything. He appeared perpetually bored. With everything. Sagging skin jiggled under his chin as he glanced at the fridge, all the time frowning, covering, uncovering his nose. There was a photo of Fred holding Lucky Lucy. Beside this was a large magnet with last year’s hockey schedule. And on that schedule had been forty-one opportunities for George to take his son to a game.

  It wasn’t as if George lacked the intuition. He knew a hockey game in the city with Fred would have gone a long way toward repairing their friendship. And gentle reminders from Jack had also reinforced the idea. But it was all too painful. George didn’t like being reminded that Fred’s shattered NHL dream had also been his shattered dream. That’s around the time, much to Fred’s dismay, that George had started watching basketball.

  It hadn’t always been that way. George was the one who had laced up Fred’s skates when he was five and rubbed his toes when they became numb. He was also the one who had come out to Brandon and proudly told a stranger in the stands, “That’s my son,” after witnessing a Fred Pickle hat trick.

  But George’s enthusiasm had collapsed on the night that Fred fell and the blood oozed onto the ice. George and Fred and hockey would never again find comfort in the same room.

  George cleared his throat. It had been a while since he had spoken. “Should we go see how Jack’s doing with the sheep herd?”

  “Um, um, flock.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a flock, buh, buh, a herd is for cows and Papa Joe is scared of cows.”

  “Well you see what happens when a dumb city boy comes out to the farm spouting off at the mouth.”

  “You are not dumb. Is your number still 250-860-6668?”

  “Yes.”

  “Um, um, just checking.”

  Fred stood up from the table and made his way to the door. George stayed behind awhile. It always hit him when he didn’t expect it. Seeing his son limp like that.

  As George passed the row of roosters on the lambing pens, they squawked and flapped their wings. George flinched and cursed under his breath as Jack gave up chasing one of the roosters and fell onto his back in the hay.

  “I smoke too much,” said Jack, coughing. He pulled out his plastic box of cigarettes and lit one. George found a safe place in the corner, on top of a hay bale, away from the roosters. “Did Fred show you his lamb?”

  “Not yet,” said George. “You need groceries.”

  Jack exhaled a stream of smoke and smiled. “Yup.”

  “I was putting the milk away. I wasn’t snooping.”

  Jack rolled over and pushed himself up with a groan. “What happens to Fred if I’m dead?”

  George grimaced. “You sick?”

  “No.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “I was just thinking about it.” Jack pulled himself up and sat on top of a lambing pen.

  “Well, stop thinking, I got enough to worry about.”

  “Well, I am thinking. He’s still throwing dirt balls and doing his hunger strikes.”

  “And he does that every year, and every year around this time it stops.”

  “It stops ’cause he’s got hockey games to go to, but this year there won’t be any hockey games to go to. I think he’s getting itchy feet for real this time.”

  “That’s just fungus. Jesus, Jack, you gotta tell that boy to wash his feet, I could barely breathe in the kitchen.”

  “He was making calls to some old hockey buddy, looking for work.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, he never found him.” Jack heard Fred calling from the fields. “You better get out there.” Jack smiled. “Act impressed when he shows you the lamb.”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “No, but you got that phony way of pretending you’re impressed. Everyone sees through it. Especially Fred.”

  George checked the back of his pants to make sure he hadn’t sat in anything. “You need to get tougher, Jack. No work, no food. He’s a goddamn con artist and he plays you like a fiddle.”

  Fred sat giggling at the picnic table as George scrubbed his foot in a bucket of warm, soapy water. Fred’s other foot dried on a towel. “You are like Jesus Christ for doing this and I thank you so much.”

  George’s hands moved slowly, almost tenderly. He had already argued with Fred about cleaning his own feet, but Fred insisted that they didn’t smell. It was George’s ultimatum. No clean feet, no car ride. George had lost that battle because Fred was more interested in playing checkers and George would rather have cleaned Fred’s feet than play twenty-five games of that.

  The car ride had become a ritual during George’s visits. It was the only activity they did together, and it was the only time that George felt comfortable enough to talk. With him driving and Fred sitting where he liked to sit, in the back seat, it was just like the old days. George was a cab driver again and he’d picked up a fare, albeit a strange one. “How’s your money holding out?” asked George.

  “Um, um, I don’t know, ask Papa Joe, he is the one who looks after my millions.”

  George checked in the rear-view mirror. Fred was looking from side to side at the passing farms and ranches. He saw that Fred had put on his kaffiyeh. “Take off that goddamn thing. You look like an idiot.”

  Fred thought about leaving it on and sparking a big fight, but George didn’t come around much. So he did as he was told and scratched his scalp because it was itchy.

  “Sure is nice out here,” said George.

  “It is prettier in the winter when everything is buried under snow.”

  “Too cold.”

  “Buh, buh, not if you dress warm.”

  “Sorry to hear about your hockey team.”

  “Thank you for your condolences, um, um, now that the hockey team is gone maybe it’s time for me to go.”

  George frowned. “Maybe it’s time to start taking more of an active interest in the farm.”

  “Um, um, did Papa Joe say he was disappointed because I lay out on the hammock and watch him work?”

  “Why do you call him Papa Joe? I’m your father!” George took a deep breath and slowed the car down. “I just think it’s better if you don’t take your situation for granted.”

  “How dare y
ou, I pay three hundred dollars a month, cash, in twenty-dollar bills.”

  “That’s a damn good deal for food, utilities and a roof over your head.”

  “I am lazy. If that is what you are trying to say, then say it.”

  “I just think you have a tough time getting going because you get so frustrated with the things you can’t do.”

  “You are so smart it hurts, buh, buh, it is hard to get motivated to kill baby sheep.”

  George dug deep and filled his voice with so much enthusiasm it almost cracked from the pressure. “Jack loves having you here and you like building your rink. It’s a great arrangement.”

  “I can build a rink anywhere it is cold enough for water to freeze.”

  George wiped his brow. “I’m not as rich as you think, Fred. I can’t afford to pay your way somewhere else.”

  “Uncle Jack wouldn’t mind if I got a job somewhere else because he could have someone live here who did more work.”

  “What are you going to do for a job?” George realized too late that the question carried far more sneer than he had intended. He saw Fred’s anger building. “You’re disabled, there’s not a lot of jobs out there.”

  “There’s lots I could do,” squeaked Fred.

  “Like what?”

  Fred squirmed. George couldn’t tell if he was going to explode or burst into tears. But Fred did neither. Instead, he calmed down and gazed out the window. “Um, um, it is a nice day for a drive, thank you for taking me.”

  George stopped for gas before they returned to the farm. It was a service station Fred knew well. He came here often on his bike for a chocolate bar or a flavoured slush drink.

  “I’ll be right back,” said George as he jumped out. Fred watched him stuff the nozzle in the tank. He knew there was no point in trying, but he decided to anyway. Click, click. The car was locked from the driver’s door.

  George chatted with someone else getting gasoline. It was Marilyn. Fred tried the automatic window but George had the keys.

  Fred knew his father locked him in on purpose. He didn’t want Fred outside causing him embarrassment.

  George climbed in. “Told you I’d be right back.” He drove away, happy to have a full tank, happy to be leaving a public place without his son making a scene.

  Fred was happy too. He was so happy he sang. “Fred, Fred, Fred of the tundra, um, um, watch out for that post.”

  “All right, you know I hate that,” said George.

  “I’m sorry, buh, buh, I think it’s funny and good that I can make a joke about something so bad.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny at all.”

  “Not even a little bit?”

  There were no more words between the two. But there began a clicking sound inside the car. At first, George couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. He looked along the instrument panel for warning lights, signs of trouble. Then he saw what it was. Fred was staring out the window, flicking the door handle in the rear. George decided that there was no point in telling him to stop. They were five minutes from the farm.

  Thirst finally brought Jack in from the ram field and down to the house. There he found George in a lawn chair, shirt off, pant legs rolled up, enjoying a cold beer.

  Jack grabbed a beer, called for Fred, received no answer, came back, saw an old wooden stool near George, dragged it over and sat down. “Where’s Fred?” asked Jack.

  “Bike ride.” George leaned over and handed Jack a cheque for five hundred dollars.

  “What’s this?” asked Jack.

  George fished a piece of bacon from between his bottom teeth and flicked it onto the grass. “He seems depressed.”

  Jack swallowed his pride, his fears about Fred, and chased them down with a mouthful of beer. He swiftly tucked the cheque into his shirt pocket. “He’ll be right as rain as soon as you’re gone.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jack, I’m serious. He seems off to me.”

  “Let me tell you something, George,” said Jack, fully prepared to lie through his teeth to keep his brother calm, “if I spent my day worrying about his moods I’d go crazy. He’s up. He’s down. You can’t watch too closely. It’ll make you dizzy.”

  “It’s not like I don’t know when things are going sideways for him. You said yourself you’re worried.”

  “I’m a concerned uncle, I’m not going to get hysterical.”

  “I’m just saying, keep an eye on him.” George glanced down the driveway. “You think he’ll be back before I leave?”

  “You know better.”

  “You’ll tell him I said goodbye?”

  “Too bad you can’t stick around long enough to meet Marilyn. She’s a peach.”

  “Next time.”

  Fred thought he was hidden behind the tree, but George saw him as he drove past. George slowed the car and lowered the window. “The coast is clear, Fred, I’m leaving.”

  “You must think I am a strange duck, buh, buh, you ask Mutt and he’ll tell you I do the same thing except you are smarter because he never sees me.”

  “Well, I caught you.”

  “Thanks for the hundred dollars.”

  George waved and the window started to close as he drove away. Fred waited until George was well down the road before he waved back. Later that night, Jack found him snoring on the couch, the pair of slippers hugged tightly against his chest.

  thirteen

  Ryan was losing a lethargic battle with the box of two-inch nails his mother had slapped into his hand. His fervent appeals that he had to leave by eleven, that he had a two o’clock flight to Winnipeg, that he had a bus ride to Brandon, they all fell short of their mark.

  Ryan had already banged his throbbing thumb twice. He was normally accurate with a hammer, but a crushing hangover made him clumsy and weak. It didn’t help that the grey skies, which had rolled thunder and threatened a downpour, had made good on their promise and were pelting Ryan with rain and small, stinging hailstones.

  He was repairing a short section of fencing. The rain pooled up inside two trenches that ran perpendicular to the fence line.

  Three posts had been knocked over, taking the wire stock fencing with them. Ryan had managed to get one of the posts back up with some scrap pieces of wood and a handful of nails. He was damned if he was going to do what his mother had asked, which was to replace the posts completely.

  Ryan stopped hammering and listened to the sound of the rain plunking on the bill of his baseball cap. He slid his thumb and forefinger across the bill and rubbed the water into his neck, which felt swollen and hot.

  Fred came upon Ryan as he tried to swallow the hot saliva that was threatening to bring up last night’s dinner. Fred’s arrival brought with it the shame of the events in the greenhouse, and the Kraft Dinner came with it, all over his boots.

  “Um, um, I don’t believe it, there cannot be that much effort put into fixing a fence that you crashed into because you were showing off, unless maybe you are feeling sick about the things that you do and I hope so.”

  Fred, wearing a rain poncho and hood, put his left hand on his hip and surveyed the damage. Not all of it was in the field. Ryan’s cheek had healed. But it would carry a permanent scar, compliments of Jiri’s Doc Martens steel-toe boot. Like everything else to do with Ryan though, it looked good on him, made him look tougher, like a real hockey player, just in time for training camp. It sure beat the hell out of a crease from a pillowcase. He lifted the other fence post off the grass and avoided eye contact. “I’m fixing the goddamn fence, what else do you want?”

  “You have really taken the last biscuit and eaten it this time, haven’t you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘this time’?” Ryan asked, his voice cracking slightly. “According to you I’m always fucking up.”

  Fred shook the rain from his eyelids and took several steps toward Ryan. His voice was strong. “Buh, buh, you listen and you listen hard because I’ve had my eye on you so I am not just some bum in the bleachers saying, hey, h
ey, hey, you are throwing everything away just like I did and you are so smart you think all you have to do is come out here in the rain and fix a fence, big deal, and you don’t see that I was your age once and made big mistakes and thought that second chances were the order of the day just like french fries with gravy, so take a good look when I walk away and see what can happen to you, if not a bad accident then something worse like not getting a chance to experience what the soldiers in the great wars felt for each other because hockey is not about scoring goals and dreaming of the NHL, just like the old wars were not about soldiers fighting for their countries or their moms or their wives—they fought and died for each other, the men who were with them every step of the way in the gas and the explosions and the terrible things they had to see and it is wrong to say that being on a hockey team is just like that, buh, buh, it’s as close as you’ll get and you won’t get near it because you are too selfish and dull in the head and won’t even know what you missed and that makes me so mad.”

  Ryan’s hand dropped and the hammer swung back and forth. He swiped the raindrops from his cap bill again. When this was not enough, he turned his back and put a hand on his hip.

  Fred made his way back across the field, being careful not to lose his balance on the uneven, slippery ground. Ryan stood where he was, dizzy and nauseous, and fought his own battle to keep from falling over.

  fourteen

  There wasn’t much that escaped Virgil McLeod. From a distance he had seen the new kid, the one who had grown up near Fred Pickle. He had started a few of the coaches talking during the two-a-day training camp sessions, but it was what he did after a practice one afternoon that caught Virgil’s eye.

  Walking beside the rows of team pictures with his equipment bag over his shoulder, Ryan Feniak had tapped his finger on one in particular. Virgil didn’t need to walk over to know it was Fred’s team picture.

  Virgil watched him march out alone, as he had done since his first day. He didn’t look like the loner type. It must be, Virgil thought, that he was just very, very focused.