The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  Fred’s despondency lasted until his hand went into his pocket and came out with the Polaroid. Andrew Madison’s smile had never looked more sinister. Nor had Fred’s eyes, as he craned his neck and began seeking out the faces in the luxury boxes that towered over him.

  —

  Jack had tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but the ushers at the end of each of the tunnels had asked him for his ticket.

  His only option was to take his seat. Jack ended up near the rafters. Finding Fred from here was going to be impossible without binoculars, and Jack managed to borrow a pair at the end of the second period.

  It was slow and painstaking. Jack’s view of the world was reduced to a magnified circular frame of contented faces. They had no right to smile—their team was losing—but it was their first live hockey game, after all. Jack’s search was made easier by the fact that many of the fans had left their seats for food and beer. Fred, if previous behaviour meant anything, would stay where he was.

  But soon the fans began returning to Jack’s section. The clock on the Jumbotron showed that less than a minute remained in the intermission. Jack had developed a crushing headache. He handed back the binoculars.

  One minute into the third period, Fred stood for no apparent reason, looking to some like Abraham Lincoln. Several fans yelled for him to sit down or take off his top hat. He had just seen a man who resembled Andrew Madison glide down the stairs, not two tunnels from where Fred was sitting. “Buh, buh, is that Andrew Madison?”

  The voices shouted: “So what?” “Yes.” “Sit down, jerk.”

  “Um, um, why isn’t he sitting in a luxury box with the beautiful people?”

  Fred sat after a wiener bounced off of his top hat. A fan in front of Fred turned around. “He’s with the governor, and the governor likes to sit with the rest of us. He’s got an election coming up and he doesn’t want to look …”

  “Snobby and money-hungry.”

  “Precisely.”

  He rustled his knapsack together. His heart pounded. His fingers trembled. With ten minutes left in the third period, Fred Pickle made his move.

  Fred inched his way down the tunnel in his tailcoat and top hat, licking an ice cream cone, trying to be inconspicuous. He waited until a woman walked up and asked the usher a question. Then a fight broke out on the ice and a policeman turned to watch. Fred glided past.

  Fred’s good fortune continued all the way down the concrete stairs to the row where Andrew Madison sat. In the aisle seat of that row, unoccupied, Fred flopped himself down. Madison, who was busy talking to the governor’s wife, immediately to his left, and the governor, one seat over, had not yet noticed Fred’s arrival.

  Even from such a distance, there was no mistaking the tailcoat, the top hat or the limp. In a flash, Jack was up and gone, knocking over a boy’s popcorn as he scrambled past the seats.

  “Um, um, excuse me.”

  Andrew Madison turned, startled that a stuttering male voice spoke to him from the seat that used to be his but had become empty when his wife left to go to the bathroom and he had moved one seat closer to the governor.

  “Yes?” Madison.

  “Have you ever seen a lamb with a horn about yea big?” asked Fred, extending his ice cream cone from his forehead.

  Madison was spooked but smooth as he pasted on a smile and tried to place Fred. “Do I know you?”

  Fred grinned. “I would hope so because we watched a hockey game together, um, um, I am Fred, in case you forgot.” Fred licked his ice cream cone.

  “Nice to see you again, Fred,” said Madison haltingly, beginning to recollect.

  “Buh, buh, I wanted to say that I am very disappointed, you know, that my team had to move so far away.”

  Madison nodded. “And you came here to see them?”

  Fred nodded. “On my bike as well, which is not as easy as it sounds.” Fred rubbed the inside of his thigh where his muscles continued to spasm.

  “You’re certainly a dedicated fan and, on behalf of the organization, I want to thank you for coming out.” Madison half-turned to get back to the governor.

  “Oh, I did not come all this way to see my team because they are not my team any more.”

  “You didn’t?” asked Madison with a tone that would have been more appropriate for a child.

  “I came to see you.”

  Madison became more concerned and tried to stand. Fred’s hand pushed his knee down. “I am sorry I have not quite finished yet.” Fred waved at the governor’s wife and the governor. “Hello,” said Fred, raising his ice cream cone.

  “Hello,” said the governor’s wife.

  “Hi there, young fella,” said the governor.

  Jack had already been turned away by the usher. Now he had the policeman in his face, pushing him back against the wall of the tunnel. “Where’s your ticket?”

  Jack had no idea how psychotic he looked. He was making the policeman nervous. “It’s my nephew, for Chrissake!”

  “Easy, pal, everything’s gonna be just fine.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  Jack hadn’t meant to clip the policeman in the jaw with his shoulder. He really hadn’t. He was just trying to get past. The punch hit Jack square in the nose. He was out cold before he hit the cement.

  Madison, his back turned to Fred, was horrified that Fred was engaging the governor in conversation. He turned suddenly, smiled coldly. “What do you want?”

  “I would like you to answer a question.” Fred balanced the ice cream cone and fumbled for a note. He read it to himself to make sure he had it right, then raised his head proudly and stared at Madison. “Um, um, do you feel ridiculous?”

  “What?”

  “Okay, okay, I asked you if you would ever move the team and you said you made a promise and if you broke your promise you would look ridiculous and a man in your position could not afford to look ridiculous, so I just wanted to know if you feel ridiculous?”

  Madison stole a look to where his young assistant was standing, chatting, handing his business card to the usher.

  “Well, do you?”

  Beads of sweat dotted Madison’s forehead. “I don’t think there’s one easy answer to that.”

  “Then you can give me one or two complicated ones because I may walk funny, buh, buh, that does not mean I am as dumb as I look.”

  “It’s not easy being rich, Fred. There are decisions that men like myself have to make. To others they may seem cold and ruthless, but they are no worse than the decision you made when you bought that ice cream cone. You could have bought a soft drink or a hamburger. You chose the ice cream and you didn’t think for one second about the vendor selling burgers, the driver who delivered the meat or the rancher who raised those cows. So you see? We’re both guilty.” Madison looked behind Fred with visible relief. “I think this gentleman found his way to the wrong seat.”

  The assistant immediately recognized Fred. “You.” He grabbed Fred’s arm.

  “Um, um, please don’t touch me.”

  “C’mon,” said the assistant.

  Fred implored Madison with his eyes. “Hey, hey, hey, I don’t feel ridiculous because I bought an ice cream cone so I am still waiting for an answer.”

  Madison smiled at Fred. “It’s simple economics. And if you don’t understand that then you are as dumb as you look.”

  The young assistant scooped a hand under Fred’s armpit. The ice cream cone fell and splattered. “Um, um …” Fred couldn’t find the words he wanted. A policeman pulled him from the seat and another pushed him away from Madison. Fred offered no resistance as the two policemen pulled his arms back.

  “Everyone all right?” asked one of the policemen.

  “Yes,” said Madison. “Get him out of here.”

  The policemen pushed Fred up the steps. Fred pushed back and managed to stop them. The words finally came. “You no-good, snobby, money-hungry snake-in-the-grass, I wouldn’t let you in my house if I had a mongoose in the kitch
en.” The policemen pushed harder and managed to get Fred moving. Fred spun and glared at Madison with sanguinary eyes. “You fucking pig!”

  Madison turned to the governor and his wife. “Sorry about that, just a disgruntled hockey fan.”

  Fred was led awkwardly and silently through the concourse, his right leg dragging behind his left. He tried to keep his head from bowing down. Many smiled at him as if he were a familiar friend. They had seen him before. Maybe at baseball and football games. There was always someone who had one beer too many.

  It was a long, humiliating walk to a service door marked For Authorized Personnel Only. The door swung open and Fred was pitched into the night. “Go sleep it off.”

  Fred stumbled forward. Neither policeman saw him fall. The door closed behind them, and Fred was flat on his back.

  ten

  Jack’s eyelids fluttered open. “Where am I?” A bright fluorescent box light hovered above him. He squinted as a bolt of pain shot through to the back of his head. He groaned and closed his eyes. A nurse sat beside him.

  “You’re in the first aid room.”

  Jack tried to lift his head. He was having trouble breathing.

  “So, Jack, you wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?” The policeman who had punched Jack was standing at the door, Jack’s wallet open in his hand.

  “Where’s Fred?”

  “Who’s Fred?” asked the policeman.

  Jack sat up. He touched his face. He couldn’t feel his nose, but he touched two bandage tubes hanging from his nostrils. “Nothing happened?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jack rolled off the cot. “I’ve got to find him.”

  The policeman waved his wallet at him. “Not until you answer a few more questions.”

  The coffee shop, a popular downtown eatery by day, was virtually empty. A young couple read magazines and did not speak to one another in a booth at the far end, and an old man slurped soup and talked to himself in another. Fred sat alone at the counter, seemingly in agony.

  His ignominious departure from the arena and struggle to get back onto his feet had fuelled a wrathful walk to the coffee shop. A plate of scrambled eggs and a visit to the bathroom to massage muscle cream into his thigh might have settled Fred down, but he had accidentally swiped cream on his testicle. The burning had taken hold, and so had Badger’s plot. It wasn’t a question of right or wrong any more. It needed only to be done and others could judge him if they wished.

  Fred scanned the back of the dime novel cover. He read to himself: “Adapt and strike quickly. Then run like hell.” Fred was surprised that his stomach was not fluttering more. Surprised that he was still hungry. He was, after all, only a few blocks from the Four Seasons.

  The waitress went to clear Fred’s plate and saw that he was at the other end of the counter, hands stuffed in his tailcoat, rocking back and forth, wincing from pain, almost in tears, looking inside a glass case that had several rotating stainless steel levels, holding an assortment of pastries, pies and fruit bowls. Fred’s eyes moved from one level to the next, from one spinning dessert to another.

  “You see something you like?”

  “They all look good,” he whispered.

  Jack wandered the streets that bordered the arena. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. A taxi. Fred. He kept a tissue to his nose, which was still bleeding. The nurse had told him it was broken and that he should get it looked at back in Canada.

  The policeman had been satisfied with Jack’s explanation that he and Fred had travelled down together. That he had grown concerned when Fred had disappeared at the arena. That Fred was handicapped and prone to wandering into places he shouldn’t. Jack knew how to talk to cops.

  A giant bat moved across the street from one alley to the next. Or at least it looked like a giant bat from where Jack was standing.

  Jack started to sprint.

  Three local news crews had arrived at the Four Seasons. Two of them were already inside the banquet room. The third crew, along with a still photographer from one of the local papers, was still out front getting a few shots of arriving guests, which included local celebrities and politicians. The governor and his wife were due to arrive soon. Nobody cared that the Chicago Blackhawks had laid a 6–1 whomping on their new team. It was time for the post-game party.

  A black Town Car pulled up. The rear door was opened by a valet and out stepped Andrew Madison. He reached inside and helped his wife out.

  The two made their way up the red carpet. The camera operator swung over. As he flicked on the camera-mounted light, Madison and his wife were caught in the harsh white glare. She squinted. He smiled. The still photographer fired off several shots.

  A limping man in a top hat and tailcoat moved quickly from the shadows of the sidewalk. Witnesses would later say he had the fierce look of a maniac. In four long strides, Fred closed the gap. Fred’s first thought was how short Madison was. It almost didn’t seem fair. Fred’s second thought was to aim low.

  Madison’s wife screamed as the dark-red splatter hit her sleeve. Madison’s hand reached for his face as he toppled forward.

  “Oh my God!” yelled someone holding open a door to the hotel lobby. Those were the only words Fred was to hear. As quickly as he had struck he was gone, leaving the witnesses shocked and disoriented.

  Since his injury, Fred had never run as quickly as he did that night. He’d never had reason to. He disappeared into an adjoining alley as fast as a spooked rhinoceros. Such was his pace that a group of men, disadvantaged by their initial stunned reaction, could not catch him.

  It was a good thing Fred ran as swiftly as he did. Because he arrived at a bus stop, two blocks from the hotel, just as a bus was signalling to leave. He hauled himself aboard and was gone.

  Jack was not as lucky. He had just about caught up to Fred at the Four Seasons. He stumbled and almost fell in disbelief. He had started after Fred again before the first wave of pursuers and, as such, it appeared to them that he was an accomplice. One had escaped. The other was running after the bus. But not for long.

  Jack’s legs gave out. His bandage tubes were gone. He had blood all over his shirt. He turned just as the first man tackled him. “Bastard!” The other men followed. Jack was buried and could no longer move.

  Fred wasted no time at his motel. He changed out of his tailcoat, grabbed his bike and his knapsack and, before the incident appeared on the local news at eleven, Fred was hissing past the city limits, heading north, heading home.

  eleven

  The air was getting cooler. She wandered along the fence hugging her hands underneath her down jacket. The llamas clucked their tongues. Pearl trailed obediently at her heels. Marilyn was a reliable neighbour, but that’s not why she was out there. She didn’t like being in her salvage yard any more. It was junk, and she was tired of it.

  The ewes kept pace beside her. Lucky Lucy was still the runt among her sisters but she had improbably assumed the role of leader. Wherever she went, the other ewes followed.

  Marilyn regretted the fact that Jack was coming home. It had only been one afternoon and one morning, but she realized how much she needed to be out in the fields, with the animals, with something that was alive.

  Kenton’s voice startled her, even though he was shouting from far away. By the time he reached her he was gasping for breath and what he had just told her made no sense at all.

  “Slow down,” she said.

  “Fred’s on the television.”

  Jack had answered the same questions over and over. He had been reunited with the policeman who had held his wallet in the first aid room. His nose was still bleeding. Not much, but enough to dab with a piece of toilet paper.

  A four-hundred-pound Haitian-American turned onto his side. The bedsprings groaned. “So what are you in for?”

  “I’m a sheep farmer.”

  “No shit?”

  Jack avoided the bars. He stared instead at a moth fluttering in the corner
of the ceiling.

  Fred hadn’t seen a television or read a newspaper but he knew he was an outlaw. So he made sure he heeded the rabbit driver’s advice to stay on the secondary highways. It wasn’t that hard to figure out which ones to take. He had told Fred that all even-numbered highways ran east/west and the odd-numbered ones ran north/south. The hard part was remembering.

  Fred kept repeating to himself that if it was odd then it was good. When he tired of reminding himself, he pulled over and wrote it across the back of his hand. The cashier said he could keep the green felt pen. Fred thanked her, relieved that she didn’t appear to recognize him.

  Desperation drove him to ride harder and faster. In three days he covered a great distance. Exactly how far, he did not know. He had endured a thunderstorm and a hail of abuse from a psychotic in an El Camino who had called Fred terrible names for no apparent reason.

  It was not fatigue that forced him to alter his plans. It was money. In spite of drinking only water and eating cheap red apples, core and all, he was down to his last five dollars. There was no way he could make it. The water at the rest areas would not be enough to sustain him. His body would need solid fuel to endure the relentless punishment of riding.

  He gave some thought to stealing but decided it was a sure way to get caught and then be linked to the Four Seasons. No, he had to make it to the border quickly and undetected.

  Inspired by the smell of diesel, which reminded him of the rabbit driver who played lots of Woody Guthrie songs about train hopping, Fred left the relative comfort of the paved secondary highway and crunched along a gravel road, wobbling, looking and listening for a train.

  What had begun promisingly quickly developed into a tense bartering deadlock. It was clear that Eddy was not going to back down. Fred thought he had the careless eyes of someone who might have killed before. His matted hair was pulled back behind his ears. His body odour wasn’t just noticeable, it was intimidating. Fred had met his match.