THE MILK CHICKEN BOMB
ANDREW WEDDERBURN
copyright © Andrew Wedderburn, 2007
first edition
This epub edition published in 2010. Electronic ISBN 978 1 77056 151 9.
Published with the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Coach House also acknowledges the assistance of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Wedderburn, Andrew, 1977–
The Milk Chicken Bomb / Andrew Wedderburn. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-55245-180-9
I. Title.
PS8645.E27M54 2007 C813’.6 C2007-901577-8
for Scott Black and Mike Schulz
Are you lost?
The headlights sting my eyes. I keep my hand in front of my face, squinting. My backpack digs into my shoulder, too much stuff packed in there I guess: sandwiches, my Thermos, some comic books. I wasn’t really sure how long I’d be gone.
I squint into the headlights and try to yell over the big, loud truck engine. I’m just out for a walk, I say.
A what?
A walk, I shout.
It’s true, I’ve been out here for a while, walking up the gravelly side of the highway. I’m not sure how long. Long enough to get right out of town, past the Welcome to Marvin sign, past long dark stretches of ditch, barbed wire fences, and now and then a driveway, with a floodlight at the end, up above a farmhouse door. The wind whips grit up off the road; it gets into my teeth, makes it hard to breathe.
The passenger door opens and a woman gets out. She walks over and squats down in front of me. Lines around her eyes, puffy cheeks. A blue bandana wrapped around her head, a starched blue dress.
You can’t just walk up the highway in the middle of the night, she says, you’ll be run over by some maniac. No one knows how to drive around here.
The truck is huge, not a pickup but a big blue farm truck, a red hood, a wooden box with sides tall enough to hold cows. A man with a thick brown beard and denim overalls sits at the wheel. In the back of the cab are five kids, all of them in crisp overalls and checkered shirts. Behind them I can see dark shapes. Wooden crates, hay, egg cartons, chicken wire.
Get in, she says, get in. Shoos me up into the cab, between the quiet kids. No one says anything while I squeeze up onto the seat. I look for seatbelts but there aren’t any. The woman climbs into the passenger side and slams the door. Some maniac would have just run you over and not even noticed, she says. Just driven right by, like they’d hit a badger or a porcupine.
Just out for a walk, I say.
The man shrugs and puts the truck in gear. We drive off, everybody quiet, no radio. The kids sit still and don’t say anything. Their chins dip and then they jerk awake, wide-eyed for a while, until they start to doze off again.
It sure is dark all over, driving up the highway. Sometimes headlights whoosh past and you have to squint. You can see them coming, the sky over a hill getting brighter, then two white circles that sting your eyes and cut the whole road away, leaving little blue spots. We drive past the old chicken farm. Long rows of black windows with a white glare. I wonder what happens inside the chicken farm at night – are all those chickens sleeping? Or are they up, working on their big escape? If you stand outside the long chicken-farm walls, you can probably hear them inside, clucking, scratching at the concrete floor with their dirty chicken feet, trying to find a way out. Standing on each other’s backs, trying to reach the windows. Trying to lift the latches, before tomorrow when the lights come on.
We pull off the highway into the Aldersyde truck stop. Even this late, trucks are parked at the diesel pumps. Teenagers with red shirts under heavy red and black jackets climb up on the big rig tires to clean windshields. The father rolls down his window, waves a hairy hand toward the diesel pump.
We’re on our way back to the colony at Cayley, he says. We can drop you off wherever you live, though.
Well, the thing is, I was on my way here.
He narrows his eyes at me.
I was just out at a friend’s place in the country, and I was on my way here to get picked up. I just live over in Marvin.
You were in the middle of nowhere.
Yeah, I went up the wrong road. But this is where I’m supposed to get picked up. Right here at the truck stop. Turned out perfect I guess.
His wife shrugs. I don’t know, she says, how often do you find children out by the highway in the middle of the night?
You’re from Marvin, he says, so we’ll take you there.
But they’ll be looking for me here, I say. They’ll get pretty worried if they show up and I’m not around.
The Hutterite shrugs. He pulls crisp five-dollar bills out of his wallet and holds them out the window for the gas jockey. I climb overtop of the quiet kids and out the door.
Inside the truck-stop restaurant old men hunch over their coffee cups, faces pressed close to sports pages, want ads, laminated menus. I wander over to the counter and pull myself up on one of the round stools. Put my chin down on the counter, careful about the old coffee rings and sticky spots. The waitress cocks an eyebrow at me. I listen to the truck drivers mutter to each other. Over by the door a heavy trucker plugs quarters into the pay phone. Drums his thick fingers on the plastic. The waitress picks up a pot of coffee, sniffs at the steam. Makes a face and pours it in the sink. I watch her for a while then slide back off the stool.
The toilet in the washroom has a sign taped to the tank: Out of Order. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach the urinal. On the brown tile wall there’s a checklist: paper towel, soap, washed. Some checkmarks and initials. A vending machine: instant tattoos, and Mixed Adult Novelties, and something called a RoughRider. A picture of a blond woman with bare shoulders, her head thrown back and her mouth open.
I come back and there’s a piece of pie on the counter, where I was sitting. The waitress sits on the other side, her chin propped up on an elbow, sips ginger ale from a straw.
I don’t have any money.
I wouldn’t worry about that, she says. Where do you live?
In Marvin.
How’d you get here?
I was out for a walk.
That’s a long way to be out for a walk.
I guess.
Eat your pie, kid.
I unzip my backpack and get out a comic book. Flip the pages and eat pie. In the city under the ocean, the Under Queen gets ready to unleash her tidal wave on the Surface. But millions of people live on the coast! She catches the hero and ties him, upside down, above a vent in the molten crust. The Under Queen laughs and laughs. I guess if I ruled the city under the ocean, I wouldn’t much care about the Surface Dwellers either.
I watch the gas jockeys outside, pumping gas. One of the gas jockeys props open the hood of a car, peaks around the side to see if the driver is paying attention. The driver just sits there in his car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. The gas jockey goes back behind the hood, where the driver can’t see him, and yawns. Stretches. Scratches the back of his neck. After a while he closes the hood, gives the driver the thumbs-up.
The gas jockey looks up and makes a face. Drops his squeegee. Points. Truckers put down their forks, look up. Their eyes get big, their mouths drop open. The tidal wave rushes in above the fields, over across the highway. Fence posts and cows and pickup trucks all pushed along in front of the massive, boiling wave. Everybody screams and drops everything, truckers turn and run, and inside we get under the tables and hold our hands over our heads as that wave comes crashing down.
Where were you walk
ing to? asks the waitress.
I shrug, eat some pie. It’s pretty good pie, not too sweet. I guess a lot of people like really sweet pie, but I can only eat so much of it.
Well, I thought I’d go to Calgary. I’m looking for a job.
She chokes. Lays her hand flat on her chest. Takes a deep breath.
How old are you?
I’m ten.
Right. Ten.
The bell above the door rings and in comes Mullen’s dad. I turn around so that he won’t see me, but you just can’t pull one over on Mullen’s dad. The older gas jockeys all stand up to say hello, slap him on the shoulder. He starts to take off his jacket. Sees me and stops laughing.
I play with my pie. Mullen’s dad sits down on the stool beside me, has to pull his long, skinny legs up into the tight space. The waitress sits up. Straightens her apron. Mullen’s dad pulls off his black toque, sets it on the counter beside him.
Having some pie? he asks after a while.
Yeah.
Apple pie?
Yeah.
He looks up at the waitress. Hello, Hoyle. Nods his head toward the coffee pot. She pours him a mug. He pushes away the little bowl of creamers. Has a little sip.
Long way to walk.
I got a ride.
He was asking for a job, says Hoyle the waitress. Starts to say something else and he looks at her and she stops. I play with my pie, tap the crust with the bottom of my fork. He sips his coffee. Then he pushes the cup away.
Finish that last bite, he says. I stab it with my fork. Put it in my mouth. Mullen’s dad pulls out his wallet, unfolds the leather. Hoyle shakes her head. He shrugs and puts five dollars down on the counter. She shakes her head again, and he pushes the bill toward her. Pulls his toque over his hair.
Come on, he says. I zip up my backpack and follow him out the door.
We drive out the back highway, past the old magnesium plant, its dark windows all empty, its chain-link fence locked up. The new Meatco plant is all lit up in the distance, big white lights in the parking lot, the parked trucks, everything new, big. We drive and all the farm lights are out now and it’s just our headlights on the narrow highway, fences, ditch garbage. Mullen’s dad drives with one hand, elbow up against the window, his other hand resting on the gear shift. He whistles to himself. Rolls his shoulders, like his back hurts.
In High River some cowboys sit outside the bowling alley and drink beer out of stubby bottles, their shirts unbuttoned in the cold. We stop at the traffic lights, the only set in town, red.
Hey, open the glovebox, says Mullen’s dad. Get me that pen. I open the glovebox: a map of Calgary, a socket wrench, some crumpled candy wrappers. I hand him a blue-capped ballpoint pen. He puts it in his mouth and grinds the plastic between his teeth. Mullen’s dad is always chewing on something: straws, keys. Sometimes he chews on pencils and gets little flecks of yellow paint on his teeth.
We drive past Lester’s Meats, the parking lot all empty for the night, a few dirty cattle tucks under the single light post. Proud To Be Union Free Since 1977. I wrinkle my nose at the smell.
So I pulled the toboggan out of the garage the other day, he says. It’s not doing so well. Bottom’s all scratched up. Were you guys riding it on ice last winter?
There wasn’t snow for so long, I say.
I was thinking of getting Mullen a new sled for Christmas, he says. You think he’d like that? The sort with runners, that you can steer. You guys could ride one of those anywhere.
Christmas is pretty far away, I say.
Yeah. Christmas is pretty far away.
We drive through the dark, past wooden gates, long driveways. People put wagon wheels on their gates, their names on wooden arches over the road. We drive through the dark and the circles of light, under posts, around driveways. We drive through the snow and onto the highway in the dark. We get back to Marvin and Mullen’s dad drops me off at my house.
You want me to come in and say something?
No, I say, it’ll be okay.
It’s pretty late.
It doesn’t matter.
I close the door of his truck and wave goodbye.
We ought to make the lemonade sweeter, Mullen says.
Most of the leaves are already brown and falling off the trees, all the way up the street. In school we colour pictures of autumn leaves: brown and yellow and red and orange. None of the leaves on Mullen’s street turn red, though, or orange. Just brown and yellow and then they fall off the trees and get wet and soggy and stick in the grates. They stick to the roofs of people’s cars.
We ought to make the lemonade sweeter, says Mullen. Now that it’s fall. I bet people would buy more lemonade if it was sweeter.
That sweet stuff is for kids, I tell him. We’re after the adult audience. Real classy. Mullen pours himself a glass and puckers.
You’re sure out early this morning, says Deke Howitz. Leans on his fence. Deke Howitz hasn’t shaved this morning, and his hair is greasy and not combed. Eyes red like he’s been up all night. Hey, Deke, Mullen says, do you think we ought to put more sugar in the lemonade? Deke shrugs. I don’t know anything about lemonade. Shouldn’t you be in school? School doesn’t start for another forty minutes, Deke. I know I wouldn’t be up this early if I didn’t have to, says Deke.
He waves us over to his fence. Leans over and reaches back into his scruffy blue jeans for his wallet.
Did they come, Deke?
He coughs and grins. Opens up the worn leather wallet, flips through the little plastic flaps with his driver’s licence, his credit cards. He pulls out a little paper card.
Davis Howe Oceanography, Mullen reads, Davis Howe, CEO. What’s a CEO, Deke?
That’s me, kid. Sole owner and proprietor.
I don’t get it, says Mullen. Why do you have a different name on your Oceanography business card?
Because they really stack the deck against you when you’ve got a name like Deke Howitz. Everybody just thinks you’re some hillbilly. Some real asshole.
So the bank will loan you the money now? The money to buy your submarine?
All I’m saying is that Davis Howe is a lot more likely to get $400,000 from the bank than Deke Howitz is. He puts the card back into his wallet. Now I just have to get my suit cleaned.
Is that the suit you wear to pay your parking tickets?
Yeah, that one.
I thought you had a washing machine in there, says Mullen. I thought you even had a dryer.
Sure, says Deke, but you can’t wash a suit in a washing machine, it gets all rumpled. I’m rumpled enough already. Hey, Mullen, is your dad home? I need to borrow his jerry can. He’s already gone to work, says Mullen. Deke leans on his fence. I need to borrow his jerry can before McClaghan comes around for the rent, says Deke. Just the four-litre would do. He’s already gone to work, says Mullen. Deke goes back into his house. After a while the windows start to steam up.
Hey, buy some lemonade, best on the block. People mostly ignore us. They pull by slowly in cars, their dogs’ faces pressed up against the glass, panting. They walk by reading newspapers or just looking at the sidewalk.
Across the street Mrs. Lampman tugs on the rusty hinge of her mailbox. Hey, Mrs. Lampman, you want some lemonade? She shuffles through her mail, skirt creased, hair frizzy. It’s too cold for lemonade, she says, you should get a coffee pot. Well, Mrs. Lampman, we’re not allowed to drink coffee, and besides, we’ve got the best lemonade, and people love it even if it’s cold. Mrs. Lampman roots in the pocket of her jacket, finds some credit card receipts, a sticky mint, a kleenex, a dollar. Here, give me some lemonade. Hey, Mullen, get Mrs. Lampman some lemonade. Mullen blows a bubble.
Selling lemonade is a lot easier in the summer. In the summer we hardly have to ask people; they cross the street for lemonade, their quarters right out of their pockets. We had a big grasshopper problem this summer, I guess worse than a lot of other years. Grasshoppers all over the lawns and in the gravel, grasshoppers in garden hoses, in dog
dishes and mailboxes, trapped underneath newspapers. Anywhere you went you could hear them, scritching and hopping, rattling around like pennies in a jar. All the cars on the street had grasshoppers ground up in their tires. We had to put tinfoil over the lemonade jug and wrap the lemons in cellophane. Grasshoppers jumped on and off the tinfoil, like popcorn.
Mullen’s dad pokes in the black mailbox. Lifts the metal flap. He pulls out a few letters, looks at the addresses. Puts one of them in his mouth and the rest in his back pocket. He takes the letter out of his mouth and tears it in half. Tears it in half again. Stuffs the torn paper in the front of his blue jeans.
Mullen’s dad is probably the tallest guy in town. He comes out of the house, stretching his skinny arms way up above the top of the door frame. He scratches his chin. He puts his hands on his narrow hips and leans backward, rolls his shoulders around.
How’s the old man’s credit?
It’s fifty cents a glass, Dad.
Come on. You know I’m good for it.
Dad, you’ve got a job.
Mullen’s dad sits down on the curb. He takes a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and sticks it in his mouth. Mullen pulls a plastic cup off the stack and digs his tongs into the ice bucket. Takes his dad a cup of lemonade. Then he gets a duotang out from under the bag of sugar and makes a tick on his dad’s tab. Mullen won’t ever let me look at his dad’s tab; I can only guess how big it is. Someday he’s going to pay it, though: a jam jar full of quarters, five-dollar bills tied into lumps with elastic bands. Enough nickels to fill a Thermos. We’ll both buy new bikes, with handbrakes, not the backpedalling kind, when Mullen’s dad pays his tab. Buy every new comic book the week it comes out, with plastic bags so they don’t get sticky and torn up. We’ll skip school and buy slurpees and boxes of Lego, and if they throw us out of school we’ll laugh, on account of our financial security. I think they ought to try and throw us out of school. We’ll just make the lemonade better.
At 8:20 we take down the signs: Lemonade! and No Dogs Please. We take the cooler and the lawn chairs into Mullen’s garage. Mullen’s dad lets us leave the cinder blocks and the plank on the lawn. We go to school.
Milk Chicken Bomb Page 1
