“Badger?” whispered Fred.
Mutt had offered to come help but Jack told him there was no point. George was beside himself, telling Jack his worst fears had come true—Fred was roaming the countryside like a ticking time bomb.
Everyone within thirty kilometres knew Fred was missing. This was the hardest part for Jack. Here he was trundling around in his truck, trying to sell the paper bundles of lamb meat and firewood. But every encounter was accompanied by questions about Fred. Jack ended up emotionally spent at the conclusion of each transaction.
Marilyn sat with Jack at the kitchen table, long into the night, as she had done for the past few evenings. The only gratifying result of Fred’s disappearance was having Marilyn wake up with Jack in the morning. He enjoyed cooking her breakfast and drinking coffee in bed.
“What if he went somewhere far away and forgot who he was?” asked Jack. “Who I was. Where he lived. And just started a new life. We’d never hear from him again.”
“Oh, Jack, he’ll turn up.”
Jack rubbed his cheeks, trying, it seemed, to massage his fallen face back to how it had been before Fred had disappeared.
The phone rang. Jack bolted from the table. “Hello?!?” Jack’s shoulders didn’t slump as they had during previous calls when he had discovered it was someone’s voice other than Fred’s. “Are you sure?” Jack listened intently. “When?” Jack nodded. “Thank you.” He hung up slowly.
Marilyn walked over. “Who was that?”
“RCMP. I was right. U.S. immigration turned Fred away from the border three days ago.”
“He can try ten more times, he’ll never get across.”
“There’s ways,” said Jack, lighting up a cigarette.
“If you’re that worried, fly down.”
Jack groaned. He had already checked on flights. Eight hundred and forty dollars was the cheapest return ticket.
In all of his recent searches of Fred’s room it was what he didn’t find that nagged. The picture of Andrew Madison and the dime novel cover had been under Fred’s mattress for a long time. He had seen them there many times, trying to solve the mystery of Fred’s Rosetta stone. Now they were gone and it meant that wherever Fred went he had probably taken them with him. Badger may have been dead but his words, instructions and secret codes, scribbled on the back of the book cover, were still alive.
Jack held back the horses that were carrying him to darker conclusions. His logic had suffered a near-fatal blow when he fired that bullet into Taillon’s neck. And now Jack was again in danger of rushing to conclusions with very few facts.
Pearl started barking outside. Jack jumped up, leapt from the porch and saw her spinning and wagging her tail. He patted her on the head, his eyes intently scanning the fields. “Good girl.”
Jack jogged in the direction of the barn. A coyote suddenly darted beside the corral. Jack threw a clump of dirt at the hopping hind legs, then turned and ran back to the house. Marilyn was standing on the porch.
“Coyote.” Jack rushed to his desk, grabbed his key from the dusty coffee mug and opened the drawer. The box of ammunition had been opened and bullets were scattered.
Jack lifted out his address book and a ream of paper. Some of the bullets fell onto the carpet. His hands dove through the remaining papers, refusing to believe that his search would not end successfully. Marilyn’s hand dropped on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
Jack looked up and the blood started to drain from his face. “The gun’s gone.”
“Oh, Jack.”
She pulled his head to her thigh. Jack hugged her once and then he was up. “I gotta run that coyote off.”
Marilyn looked down at the scattered bullets around her feet, then yelled through an open window as Jack dashed to the fields. “Maybe he took it for protection!”
In spite of his aching legs and back, which had slowly adapted to the gruelling punishment, Fred had achieved the most important adaptation of all. After nearly six hundred kilometres, his spirit was finally in tune with the front tire that was forever spinning him forward.
He had forgotten how he had snuck across the border—hiding with his bicycle in the back of a livestock trailer. He’d had his choice of rabbits, pigs or bison inside the trucks parked on the Canadian side. He’d chosen Flemish Giant meat rabbits because they were cleaner, cuddly and, in spite of their name, much smaller. The driver was none too happy when he found Fred, but like Fred he was handicapped, the result of an accident while working as a young man—a fridge with steel metal legs had followed his tumble down a set of stairs and impaled his spine. He walked with canes but drove like the devil and dropped Fred off at the side of the highway when he needed to turn east and Fred was continuing south.
Fred lost all track of time. He followed Badger’s black line on the map from sunrise to sunset, found a tree, checked for dog poop, slept, climbed back on his bike and started again. He never once gave a thought to calling Jack. He had forgotten Jack. He had even forgotten Taillon. All that was left was a city circled in felt pen.
The rabbit driver had told Fred that meat rabbits were high in protein and low in fat. He had also said to stay off the interstates, bicycles weren’t allowed. Fred made as few stops as possible along the secondary highways: at diners, rest areas and service stations, usually to make sure he was headed in the right direction. He encountered many Americans, Americans he thought would annoy and provoke him. But the only feeling that the worst of them instilled was pity. They seemed spoiled. And angry. Because deep in their hearts they knew it wasn’t okay to be so spoiled. They reminded Fred of the little German boy who drowned in Willy Wonka’s river of chocolate.
Most of the folks helped Fred, fed him until Fred stopped thinking about greed and ignorance. Maybe, Fred thought, as the warm southern winds swirled through his greasy hair, maybe the United States could become the first empire to embrace its foreign friends instead of trampling them.
But just as suddenly as Fred’s faith in America had flickered to life, the city loomed before him. The big American city. Like a giant, beached whale, barnacled with shiny emeralds and silver pillars. Fred shivered as his shadow grew long across the highway. This was, after all, Babylon, where the snobby, money-hungry people lived.
The snow began to fall lightly as Jack packed his travel bag. It fell in the Enchanted Forest, on the ewes that had bedded down on the straw, on the empty sheepskin beside the barn and on the flattened oval of dirt behind the house.
But the snowflakes didn’t dance or tumble. They lacked their usual enthusiasm. There was, after all, no audience. The light in the rear bedroom was off, the log cabin that sat in the windowsill was hidden in darkness. The arched neck and the excited eyes were missing. And so as quickly as the snow had started to fall, it stopped.
eight
The warm, soapy water felt glorious. Fred felt glorious. He couldn’t wait to look in the mirror and see what it looked like to feel older, wiser, stronger. He was certain there was nothing he couldn’t do. Except, perhaps, hit Jack with a clump of dirt.
Fred was enjoying his second soak after letting the first one drain because there had been so much road grit in the water. He grabbed the pipe under the sink and pulled himself out, feeling completely revived. A good night’s sleep in a cheap motel and a slow soak in the tub could do that.
In fact, Fred was so rejuvenated he completely forgot to look in the mirror or where he was. He knew it was hot. And muggy. He looked out a dirty window screen onto a graffiti-stained alley for clues. Slowly, panic began to build. He tried to stop it by taking deep breaths and running on the spot, which was hard to do with one good leg. He yelled down to a man picking through a garbage can. “Um, um, where am I?!?”
The man wiped sweat on his grimy sleeve and looked up. “Exactly, precisely where you need to be.”
Fred retreated from the window. “Okay, okay, slow down.”
He unpacked his knapsack and looked at the ticket as if he were seeing it for th
e first time. This brought an excited squeal that travelled all the way up from his gut. Then he found the Polaroid of Andrew Madison. This brought a hint of recognition. Rereading the scrawls on the back of The Sunless City cover created more confusion. Only when he pulled out Badger’s lamb’s horn did it all make sense. He hadn’t come all this way to watch a hockey game.
Fred limped from one hotel to the next, growing increasingly impatient. The hotels were not as close together as the chambermaid had promised when she told him where a snobby, money-hungry man would stay. He stopped and massaged the muscles cramping up on the inside of his left thigh. The net effect of Fred’s rubbing and anguished expression was a complaint from a shop owner that a pervert was scaring off customers. Fred was inside a drugstore around the corner by the time the police car pulled up.
The lobby of the Four Seasons was an oasis of air-conditioned luxury. Fred shuffled from a bathroom in the lobby, feeling relief at last. The cream he had bought in the drugstore was spreading warm waves through his thigh muscles and the cramping was dissipating. He confidently approached the front desk with his knapsack slung over his shoulders and asked if Andrew Madison was staying there.
The answer discharged Fred’s double-barrelled laugh, which ricocheted off the wall behind reception, hit several people sitting in the lounge and careened outside, where the bellhops turned their heads.
Fred was staring at the Polaroid and didn’t notice the dapper assistant who strolled over from the front desk. “Hi, I’m Mr. Madison’s associate,” said the young man, who sensed something familiar about Fred. It might have been the odour. Fred had scrubbed his body clean but had left his clothes as he did at the farm: folded and stinking. “Can I help you?”
Fred stuffed the Polaroid in his pocket, pushed himself up from his chair, licked his fingers and ran them through his hair. “I don’t think so because I asked to see Andy, um, um, we used to watch hockey games together.”
“He’s not here. What did you need to see him about?”
“Okay, hold on, that is between me and him.” Fred’s hand shot out, the assistant recoiled and Fred lifted a white thread off of his padded shoulder. “There, now you will represent Andy as nobody else can, holy Casanova, maybe you will meet a girl or a boy and get lucky, you little devil.”
The perturbed assistant walked away stiffly, stole a quick, self-conscious glimpse in a passing mirror and hopped into a waiting elevator. “Okay, fine,” said Fred.
Fred started toward the front doors and noticed a bustle of activity in an adjoining room. There were at least a hundred tables with white tablecloths. Balloons. Flowers. Fred stopped a man who was pushing chairs inside. “Excuse me, is someone getting married?”
“Nah, it’s a party for after the hockey game.”
“Wowee, they are going all out, buh, buh, I have not seen the arena yet, is it nearby because I have a ticket to the game tonight.”
“Four blocks west.”
“You were supposed to say, Holy jackpot, how did you get a ticket, okay, which way is west?” The man pointed. “Buh, buh, first a game and then a party, I am a lucky ducky.”
“You got an invitation?”
“Not yet, buh, buh, I know the owner.”
“It’s invitation only. I think the governor’s coming.”
Jack watched nervously as the meter tumbled past twenty dollars. “How much further?”
“We’re almost there.”
Everything was crashing in on him. The airplane ticket. The meter. His rash decision. It was all about conscience. If something happened and he hadn’t made an effort he would never forgive himself. Fred was probably showing up back at the farm. That’s how things worked sometimes.
He also didn’t like trusting the farm work to anyone else. He reminded himself that Marilyn would do as promised: get the sheep in from pasture, feed them, get them out again in the morning. Jack would be back tomorrow by early evening. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“I’m driving as fast as I can.”
Jack was too consumed to reassure the cab driver that he wasn’t swearing at him.
nine
There were too many entrances for Jack to cover, so he couldn’t stand and watch just one. He had been there for an hour, circling the arena. There was no other way to do it. He had to keep walking, searching.
He checked his watch. It was five minutes after seven. The crowds were getting bigger. There were kazoos, whistles, air horns, and a band playing seventies rock and roll.
It wasn’t what he saw that brought Jack to a sudden stop. It was what he heard. Faint, off in the distance, a sound like a man being stabbed in the chest and then suffering an attack of flatulence.
Jack dodged through the fans. “Fred!” Jack scrambled up the stairs to Gate A. “Fred!” The band played “Smoking in the Boy’s Room.” Jack could barely hear himself above the thumping bass guitar and crashing drums.
By the time Jack reached the ticket taker, he had lost sight of Fred. A hand fell across his chest. “Ticket please.” Jack rocked back and forth. The line grew longer behind him. “C’mon, Mac!” yelled someone from behind.
—
The seat was good. Right near the blue line and just high enough above ice level to see the action at both ends. Badger had done well.
The only snag had occurred shortly after having his ticket torn. A security guard had pulled him to the side and asked him to open his knapsack. Fred had been told he couldn’t bring food into the arena. But they hadn’t frisked him and Fred was grateful. He was ticklish.
Fred was pleased that he had decided on the tailcoat and top hat. He might have stood out otherwise. It wasn’t just his section. There was a section to his left, near centre ice, where Fred could tell the people had lots of money. Although none of these folks were dressed as smartly as he was, a lot of the men wore suits and many of the women were in dresses.
“Um, um, high class, almost like Montreal.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“First game,” said the scalper. “Take it or leave it.”
Jack wandered off in a daze as other scalpers shouted. “Tickets, who needs tickets?”
There had to be another way. Jack thought about what he could tell security. What story he could make up without causing a potentially lethal response.
It was while he was standing, his thigh muscles beginning to cramp and spasm, that Fred began to consider doing the unthinkable. It had all been much too much. There had been fireworks, cheerleaders, a marching band and a flying mascot that had descended in a harness from the ceiling to the ice. The video images on the Jumbotron had been fast and furious and they had made him dizzy. The public address announcer had pumped so much testosterone into each syllable that Fred had wondered aloud whether it was possible for someone to talk in such a deep voice without bursting an intestine. The players he had cheered for had taken the ice in their new, flashy and, Fred thought, ugly uniforms.
And so, weary from the audiovisual blitz and angered by the sight of his team in another city’s colours, Fred sat down halfway through the national anthem.
As the singer on the ice belted out the last few lines, the crowd began pounding their feet, clapping their hands and cheering with religious fervour in response to the giant American flag that had taken over the Jumbotron.
Fred conceded defeat. They had taken his team. And they were loud in victory. Fred covered his ears as best he could and bent forward.
“Hey, buddy,” called the voice.
Fred’s name was not buddy so he did not respond.
“Hey, buddy,” called the voice for a second time, a little louder. A woman behind Fred tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. She pointed to a husky, balding man with a USS something-or-other on his black baseball cap. “I don’t like that,” said the man.
“Like what?”
“You don’t sit down during the anthem. I lost friends fig
hting for that flag.”
“Um, um, that makes me so mad, because I saw them in a store for only two dollars and your friends did not have to fight so hard at all to get one.”
Five minutes after the puck dropped, everyone within shouting distance knew where Fred was from and what he thought about his hockey team being moved. He cheered loudly when the Blackhawks scored the first two goals.
Fred found himself in even deeper trouble when he chastised the fans for booing calls that were obvious. He tried to explain what constituted an offside penalty, what a two-line pass was, why one play was tripping and another wasn’t. But nobody listened. He was, and would remain, the son of a bitch who had sat down during the national anthem.
By eight-thirty, ticket prices outside the arena began to plummet. Scalpers were scrambling. Jack finally found one who would sell his for one hundred dollars. It was, as Jack pointed out, still highway robbery. The ticket was only worth forty-five dollars and the game was half over. Jack forked over the cash and rushed up the stairs.
Much to the relief of the surrounding fans, Fred stopped talking halfway through the second period. His brain had retrieved some old television images. It was a commercial he had seen as a boy. A Native American was riding a horse through dirty streams, sidestepping pieces of garbage. He arrived at a bluff overlooking a freeway and looked down upon rows of cars through air choked with smog. A big teardrop moved slowly down his face.
Fred didn’t have a big teardrop rolling down his cheek, but he sure felt like crying. It wasn’t the game he remembered. In fact, it wasn’t a game at all any more. It was a business. A business that had pulled his team out from under his nose because fans had stopped supporting mediocre hockey at prices they could no longer afford. A business that pulled players from one city to the next in search of bigger contracts and U.S. dollars. A business that paid no attention to the time-honoured traditions of hockey: loyalty and respect. In fact, it was a business that now trampled those ideals. This was no longer a game Fred knew at all. This was garbage.
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