The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  Fred couldn’t believe how many cars there were. It could mean only one thing. Badger had changed his mind about O’Malleys and had invited all of his friends over for a bon voyage party. Maybe they would smash a bottle of champagne on Badger’s bumper. He limped across the grass. There was no need to ring the bell. The door was open. There were strangers leaving, strangers in the living room and strangers dotting the hallways. All of them were nice to Fred, nodding and smiling. Fred was happy. The mean people on the sidewalks downtown were forgotten now.

  He was glad for the surprise party. He was really hungry. And there looked to be baskets of food everywhere.

  Fred had chattered excitedly, mingled with just about everyone and eaten handfuls of chips, celery and roasted almonds. Then he overheard someone say that the Flin Flon Five were in the kitchen. Fred lurched in that direction. “Okay, so where are they? And even though I have heard stories of Badder Mind Off, Symphony Liberation Army, the FLQ, and a monk who set himself on fire, I want to hear about you.”

  Badger’s four old friends, three men and Juliette, sat uncomfortably at the kitchen table as Fred swayed before them. “C’mon, c’mon, tell me some tales of anarchy and derring-do.” One of the old men handed Fred a plate. “Buh, buh, what is this?”

  “Tuna casserole. Eat it.”

  “I thank you so much.” Fred sat down and looked at the ceiling. “Dear God, I am so hungry I could eat a whole plate of whatever this is and then I will ask the gang to sit back with toothpicks and corncob pipes and tell me what really happened to the grocer who found frightened animals at the bottom of a lake.”

  Conversation in the kitchen continued as Fred devoured his food. He belched. “Excuse me, you pig, buh, buh, would it be asking too much to get a second helping?” The old man who had brought Fred his first plate piled on another load of casserole. “Um, um, I will eat slower and listen to the stories.” Fred looked at the four expectantly.

  Juliette could only manage a melancholic smile. “How are you, Fred?”

  “Yes, the author of the secret note who nearly got the four of us thrown in jail,” said one of the old men, scrutinizing Fred harshly, “how are you?”

  “Stop right there, grouchy grampa,” said Fred, wiping his mouth. “What note?”

  A kinder, gentler old man leaned close and whispered: “Ten minutes left in the third period. First stoppage.”

  Fred concentrated really hard.

  “Jumbotron,” whispered the man. “Madison.”

  “Hot dogs!” Fred raised his hand and blasted his double-barrelled laugh. “I don’t believe it.”

  The old man grabbed Fred’s wrist. “Easy.”

  “I know, I know, cross my heart.” Fred gobbled the rest of his food. “This party has been dynamite and happy days are here again, buh, buh, we have a long trip ahead and I am the navigator so I can’t be too full of food and fall asleep, um, um, by the way, where is Badger?”

  Silence. Then …

  “Badger’s dead,” said one of the old men.

  Fred’s smile, which he had carried excitedly from room to room, remained where it was. He looked to Juliette for the punchline. Her ashen face told him one wasn’t coming. Fred’s eyelids began blinking at an extraordinary rate. “Um, um.” His left leg started bouncing. He rubbed his fingers on his face. Salt from the snacks sprinkled from his beard. “Wowee.” Fred stood up and sat down again.

  One of the old men handed Fred a glass of water. Fred gulped it down and bolted out the back door.

  The gate creaked and Fred stepped into the alley. The charred motorhome tilted precariously to one side. Fred saw that the tires on the right side were flat. The vent on the roof was black. A side window was blown out, but small pieces of glass hung stubbornly to the rubber seam.

  He limped slowly around the Georgie Boy. And then he did it again. He didn’t hear Juliette until he had his fingers on the side door handle. “You shouldn’t go in there.”

  Fred pulled the door open and stepped inside. The carpet was black, torn, and water damage had buckled the walls. Fred stepped carefully around the debris that littered the floor, including remnants of shattered oxygen tanks and pieces of a Mr. Potato Head. Fred picked up a plastic nose and sniffed it. “Um, um, what happened?”

  “It was just his time,” said Juliette with as much conviction as she could muster, which wasn’t very much.

  The smell was soothing initially. It reminded Fred of sleeping under the stars with Taillon as the wood crackled and the stars shone brightly. “It would be just like Badger to choose his own time and his own place just like when he walked west to Cherbourg holding your hand.”

  Juliette said nothing. Indeed, Badger had telephoned her the night he had died. He had told her he had just eaten a plate of boiled potatoes and built Mr. Potato Head. He had sounded disoriented. Juliette had been concerned that he had forgotten to hook up his oxygen. He said he had plenty. He had told her loved her, hung up the phone, walked into his motorhome where every one of his oxygen tanks had been releasing oxygen into the enclosed space. He had then set Mr. Potato Head in his lap, thought one last time about the farmer disappearing from his sight in a field somewhere east of Caen, unwrapped his Cohiba Espendido, bit off the tip, sucked the leaves until they were wet and struck a match.

  Fred’s voice quivered as he spoke. “It’s one thing to die fighting for something you believe in, buh, buh, to just give up and quit …” Fred took a deep breath and held down his sobs. “I don’t understand. Unless he knew something we didn’t, buh, buh, he was crafty that way. Maybe he knew the world is going to come to an end and just forgot to tell us that there’s no point because the time has expired on the clock, the game is over and the snobby, money-hungry people win again.” He stood there, heartbroken. He kicked over one of the shattered oxygen tanks.

  “Fred,” said Juliette, who waited until he looked over. Fred saw an expression so striking, so transparent, so haunting that he thought he was seeing a ghost. “If you were in the pasture and you saw one of your lambs was about to eat some poison, would you stand there and think there wasn’t enough time? Or would you react blindly, passionately, and run, do your best to save it.”

  “Badger sometimes talked in secret code just like you so I think he mistook my brain injury for brilliance.”

  Fred’s right foot caught on something. He looked down and picked up the road map. The cover was burned away. Fred let the pages fall open. And there it was. The map that showed all of North America. The one on which Badger had marked a long, winding trail with a black felt pen. Fred took the map and sat down in the passenger seat. The empty driver’s seat held Fred’s attention long after Juliette had returned to the house. “Um, um, so what happens now?”

  Fred pulled out his hockey ticket. He was just about to tear it in half but decided there was a better way. He opened the glove box and rummaged until he found one of Badger’s lighters. He touched the tip of the flame to the ticket. But a soft glow made him stop, and his chubby fingers disappeared inside the glove box to investigate. When they emerged, they held the lamb’s horn.

  Fred rubbed the sides, almost expecting a genie to emerge in a plume of smoke. He brought the horn to his lips, but then was seized by trepidation. There was a time and a place for the horn. Badger had told him as much. And it wasn’t now. It wasn’t here.

  Jack chased a rooster out of the barn and saw Fred walking up. He didn’t see the car that had long since pulled away. “Did you get a flat?”

  Fred froze and did some slow calculating in his head. “Buh, buh, I don’t think so.”

  “Where’s your bike?”

  Jack asked Fred where he’d been. Fred said he had gone to Badger’s funeral. This wasn’t news to Jack. He’d heard it four days ago, but had said nothing. He continued to say nothing for the next two hours it took them to find Fred’s bike. Fred insisted on one more stop before they returned to the farm, and he told Jack to wait in the truck.

  Fred stooped over the cage
. Taillon slowly opened his eyes. Fred spoke in a whisper. “I am so sorry I didn’t say goodbye last night, buh, buh, things were moving fast, fast, fast, I forgot, one bang to my head, I know, I know, bad excuse, um, um, I hate goodbyes and now I have to leave again and I don’t know when I’ll be home so you hang in there and guess what?” Fred saluted Taillon, then blew him a kiss. “I will return.”

  Jack peeked out the window by his desk and saw Fred oiling the chain on his mountain bike under the porch light. The screen door squeaked as Jack stepped out. “Um, um, you are blocking the light.”

  Jack moved his head so the porch light could shine on the bicycle chain once again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Badger. I was gonna say something but it seemed like you had enough on your plate.”

  “Too much casserole.” Fred belched, spun the pedal and watched the glistening chain circle around.

  “If I’d known about the service I would have taken you.”

  Fred leaned his bike against the house, patted Jack on the shoulder, grabbed an apple from the kitchen and disappeared into his bedroom. He spent the rest of the evening behind the closed door, emerging only twice. Once to ask Jack where the bicycle tire repair kit was. The second time to say good night.

  Jack had a difficult time falling asleep. Fred was slipping away. Bridget’s greenhouse. The kill room. Badger. Taillon. No hockey team. Jack told himself he’d take Fred for a long drive tomorrow. Talk things out.

  Pearl woke Jack up. He looked at his clock. It was four in the morning. Pearl was scratching at the bedroom door and barking. “Fred? Is that you?”

  Jack struggled out of bed. He went to the kitchen and let Pearl outside. She barked all the way around the corner.

  “C’mon, girl, what’s going on?”

  Pearl came hustling inside the house, wagging her tail. Jack fell into bed. He hadn’t seen, nor could he hear, Pearl eating two marsh-mallows she had brought back from the side of the house.

  six

  It was mid-afternoon when Jiri’s truck pulled into the farm. Jack darted from his two-ton, half-filled with firewood, trying not to appear anxious. “I’ve been trying you all morning.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Have you seen Fred?”

  Jiri shook his head. “He’s probably with Taillon.”

  “He’s not. I just came back from there.”

  “He’s probably off on one of his bike rides.”

  “Taillon went berserk.”

  “He’s not sedated any more.”

  “He would have ripped me to pieces.”

  “Give it time. You did shoot him, after all.”

  “If you see Fred, tell him to come home,” said Jack, his voice trembling enough for Jiri to notice and wonder. “Tell him I’ll take him for some ice cream.”

  Fred sat and felt the warmth of the tiny fire on his face. He was glad he had remembered to bring the lighter fluid. It made getting his fire started as easy as squirting and dropping a match.

  His sleeping bag was already rolled out and his bike was leaning against a tree. He had been riding all day, stopping only to go to the bathroom and have a Teen Burger at A&W.

  His evening meal had been a stale ham sandwich, picked up at a service station. Sizzling marshmallows, plucked from a bag he had pinched from Jack’s kitchen and roasted over the fire, were his dessert.

  He couldn’t believe it. He had hoped to reach the border in one day. He was so tired he started thinking that maybe he had already crossed it and couldn’t remember.

  He did, however, remember that Badger wasn’t with him. He also remembered that they were supposed to be riding in luxury, in Badger’s Georgie Boy. Maybe, Fred began thinking, he was meant to ride alone, to prove—not to his father or Jack, but to himself—that he might be handicapped but he couldn’t use that as an excuse to keep him from getting things done any more. This wasn’t like learning to skate again. His big brother was thousands of kilometres away. It wasn’t like building his rink. There would be no neighbours to help. This was much bigger. And scarier.

  Even with the page he had torn from Badger’s road map, he had no idea where he was. It had started to get dark and, with his legs and back begging for relief, he had pulled over into a grove of trees. As he climbed into his sleeping bag he could hear the sound of the trucks and cars passing nearby. They sounded like snakes. He pulled the sleeping bag up around his neck and wished he had Taillon beside him.

  Jack had called the neighbours. And area hospitals. Marilyn had just returned from searching the country roads. As the clock struck midnight, Jack made the phone call he had been dreading. Providing necessary information such as height, weight, and hair colour to the RCMP shifted Fred’s disappearance from a troubling personal matter to something that was too vivid and all too official.

  He had seen the signs but it wasn’t until he was behind the short line of cars that he realized he had finally arrived. Fred straddled his bike and waited for the car in front of him to move ahead. The uniformed inspector’s voice did not waver in pitch or tone. “Country of citizenship.”

  “Canada.”

  “Purpose of your visit?”

  “Um, um, I am going to a hockey game.”

  The inspector watched the rivulets of sweat coursing down Fred’s neck and disappearing underneath his drenched shirt. “Why aren’t you taking an airplane?”

  “They are too heavy to pull.”

  The inspector waited, paying no attention to the line of cars that was growing behind Fred.

  “I have been asking myself the same question all the way down here, buh, buh, the tickets were too expensive and I can’t take a dirty nickel out of my bank account without my uncle saying it’s okay and he doesn’t say it’s okay very often, especially when it means withdrawing the hard-earned cash my father sends to me every month.”

  “How much money are you taking with you?”

  “That is none of your business.” The inspector, expressionless, stared at Fred. “Did I say that? I think I have just over one hundred dollars.”

  “How much over?”

  “Not too much.”

  The inspector ran his tongue over his top lip. “Can I see your passport?”

  “You sure could, buh, buh, I don’t have one.”

  “Driver’s licence?”

  Fred reached around and pulled his knapsack off his back. He fumbled inside his wallet. “They won’t give me one because of one bump on my head, buh, buh, I do have a library card with my name on it, would you like to see that?”

  seven

  Juliette opened Badger’s door but had no intention of inviting Jack inside. She could smell a cop, even if he was a former cop and Fred’s uncle. “I don’t know who drove him home.”

  “Do you remember anyone he may have talked to?”

  “He talked to everyone.”

  Jack almost smiled when he realized what a stupid question he’d asked. Of course Fred talked to everyone. Jack was grasping at straws.

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Juliette had to shut the door on Jack because she too had started to worry and Jack was still standing, thinking, not leaving.

  Jack walked around the block and down the alley to Badger’s motorhome. He had already heard from the police that the coroner’s report listed accidental asphyxiation as the official cause of death. But the cop Jack spoke with wasn’t buying it. They found a cigar. All those oxygen tanks. Badger knew what he was doing when he struck that match. Not that it mattered to the cop. Badger was old. And crazy. And he’d cost him seventy-five bucks trying to save that stupid hockey team.

  Jack didn’t feel much remorse either. On the contrary. He was relieved that Badger was out of Fred’s life. He stared at the fire-ravaged motorhome. It seemed fitting that a man who had thrown dynamite at a McDonald’s had himself been consumed by flames.

  Jack seemed more concerned that Marilyn wouldn’t be able to get his sheep into the corral than with what he was planning. He had already
called her from a pay phone to make sure that everything had gone okay.

  Jack waited until he was inside the motorhome before he clicked on his flashlight. He kept the beam low to the floor so it couldn’t be seen from the house. He ran his fingers across the charred carpet and put them to his nose. They smelled like burned hair. Jack quietly opened cupboards and drawers and eventually the fridge. He stared inside the fridge for quite some time, because there were twelve cans of Schweppes raspberry ginger ale staring back at him.

  There was more urgency to Jack’s search as he rifled through the glove box, the pouch beside the driver’s seat. He began sifting through the burned articles on the floor. He inspected each and every piece.

  At first he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was holding. The hockey ticket was seared by fire. He could barely make out the teams. But the date and the city were unscathed. He had found one ticket and there may have been another. Jack didn’t bother searching for it. He thought he knew who might have it.

  Jack sat on the corral fence. His sheep were huddled in a corner. Pearl rested below him, looking just as worried as Jack. He held the burned ticket in one hand and swallowed another gulp of rye from a tin cup. Maybe Marilyn was right and the ticket had nothing to do with Fred. It would probably be silly to call all those U.S. border crossings.

  Fred drifted in and out of sleep. At one point he bolted awake. His fingers gripped the seat. He couldn’t remember where he was. Darkness surrounded him. It looked like water. Was he at the bottom of a lake? What if he opened the door? Would he have time to squeeze through and swim to the surface? He inspected the inside of the truck cab. It didn’t look like a submarine and it was much larger than Jack’s truck. And higher. A car passed on the other side of the highway. At first Fred thought it was an airplane. A strange man was snoring in a small bed behind him.