Milk Chicken Bomb

by Andrew Wedderburn

  Then what? asks Vaslav. You’d be bored to death. You’d turn up at the neighbours to listen to their pipes.

  The point is, our hot-water tank is fine. Not that I’m advocating McClaghan profiting more off our backs.

  McClaghan wants us all to get rickets and die in the cold, says Vaslav. He wraps a checkered cloth around the handle of the hot pan and starts to pour it, slowly, into the mustard paste. Stirs with his other hand. I want a cold wind to blow him into hell.

  You should get him with the Milk Chicken Bomb, I say.

  The what?

  Don’t you guys know how to make a Milk Chicken Bomb?

  Whatever that is, kid, it sounds disgusting, says Vaslav.

  I sit on the curb in front of the post office and watch her, in the window of the junk shop. She sits in the middle of the floor and changes the bits in a screwdriver. Pieces of cardboard boxes and Styrofoam packing blocks scattered all around on the floor. She builds a shelf, a piece at a time. Screwing brackets into tall wooden sides.

  I want to stop everything and go in there. See what she’s up to. Stop everything like in the school Christmas play, when the angel shows up to give her speech: all the kids in the shepherds’ bathrobe costumes freeze, their mouths wide open, their arms up and their hands all spread. Those bathrobe shepherds are pretty good at holding still – they stretch out so it’s really hard, and one of them, he’s probably the best shepherd, he stands on one foot. I want to stop everything like that. Run across the street while she’s frozen there putting a new bit in her screwdriver. I want to look in all her drawers, in her desk, under her table. I want to run up the stairs: does she sleep up there? Is there a little bedroom, up above the junk shop? Is she settled in, or is that all in pieces too, like the main floor? Is there furniture, a toothbrush on a shelf, a reading light, clothes hanging in the closet?

  She looks up from her shelf at me. I duck under my comic book. After a while I peek up and she’s still watching me. She sits there across the street, watching me, and after a while I put my comic book into my backpack and walk away down the street. She watches me go.

  In the winter you can stay inside at lunch so long as you go to the library. Mullen and I always go outside at recess, especially when there’s snow, but days he has to stay in detention all lunch I don’t mind the library. Not all the books are school-type books.

  The library used to be a courtyard. I remember in the first grade it was concrete tiles, weeds poking up out of the cracks, and old picnic tables. The inside classrooms had windows that looked out on the courtyard. I was in the second grade when they covered up all the windows with newspapers. We’d sit in math class or language arts class and listen to them hammering, listen to them sawing and digging. Kids who sat in the back row could maybe catch a look through the gaps in the newspaper and see the workers in their hard hats, sawing and hammering. They built a roof out of ribbed steel over the old courtyard. Like the inside of cardboard, on red steel beams. They poured a flat grey concrete floor. Any time I’m in the library I keep an eye out for weeds coming up through the concrete. They must be down there somewhere, the old courtyard weeds, growing and growing. All white and soft in the dark, like some big weedy octopus trapped under the concrete and carpet, listening to kids whisper and turn pages. The soft heels of their inside shoes. Waiting for the right day to push off all the concrete and climb out.

  The librarian sits behind her desk. Flips pages in a catalogue. Licks a thick finger. I walk up and put my elbows on her desk.

  Hello, I say, I’d like to find some books about Uzbekistan, please.

  She looks over her glasses at me. Pardon me?

  Uzbekistan, I say. It’s in Russia.

  The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, she says.

  No, I say, the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. In Russia, the country. Some of my friends used to live there. One of my Russian friends is a writer but he doesn’t know too much about geography. But people have written books about everywhere else, so someone must have written one about the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. In Russia.

  You can use the card catalogue, she says. Look under Subject. How is it spelled?

  It’s got a zed in it, I say. There’s a desert, except it’s very cold.

  I find a heavy book in a plastic jacket, The USSR in Pictures. I flip the thick pages. Soldiers march past banners. A space-man, all alone in a rocket, stars reflected in his round helmet. Pruney-faced women with handkerchiefs, like the Hutterites who live outside Cayley and sell potatoes at the Millarville farmer’s market. I flip to the index and find nothing about the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic.

  Dwayne Klatz and some of his friends hunch low around a big library table, books propped up in front of them. Dwayne waves me over to the table. How do you spell goddammit? he asks. I think about it for a while.

  It’s got two D’s, I say. Pete showed me in one of his books once. Two D’s and two M’s. Goddamme it. No, says another kid, it’s got a B at the end. What? says Dwayne Klatz. Say it slow, says the kid. God DAMBIT. The librarian shoots alook over at us and we all make like we’re reading.

  Dwayne opens his lunch box, orange plastic, a decal with a Viking. A helmet, with wings. He looks inside and makes a face. Anybody want to trade for a granola bar? he asks

  A granola bar? says another kid. You’re nuts.

  A kid unscrews his Thermos lid, turns it over like a cup. Pours his hot soup, it splatters a bit on the table. He blows on the steam. Lifts it and touches it with his puckered lips. Too hot, he says and sets it back down.

  Come on, says Dwayne, it’s got chocolate chips. It might as well be a candy bar.

  I’ve got yogourt, I say, and a doughnut.

  Dwayne peels the plastic wrap off his sandwich. Lunch meat and brown bread. He lifts the top slice to peek inside. Macaroni-and-cheese loaf, he says.

  I tug at the plastic around my sandwich. What’s that? asks a kid.

  It’s a pizza sub, I say.

  Everybody’s eyes get big. Like, from the store? asks Dwayne.

  Yeah, I say, from the store. I pull at the plastic. Everybody stares. Dwayne holds his sandwich, not really near his mouth, stares at me trying to open the stupid sandwich.

  Hey, Dwayne, I say, I’ll trade you sandwiches.

  You want to trade a pizza sub from the store for my macaroni-and-cheese loaf?

  Sure, I say. Dwayne looks at everybody else, then holds his sandwich out to me. I give him the fat sub, locked in its plastic. The ingredients printed on the side label.

  The bread is pretty soft. Mustard and butter and salty meat. I chew and chew. Your mom sure makes good sandwiches, Dwayne, I say. Dwayne tries to open the tough wrapper. Tears at the plastic with his teeth. He finally gets the sub out and takes a big bite. Red meat sauce squeezes out the side. He chews and smiles.

  Do you think Jenny Tierney wears a bra? he asks.

  Keep your voice down, I say.

  She isn’t anywhere around, he says. She’s probably out in the parking lot smoking.

  Well, you never know, I say.

  She always wears those baggy sweaters, or those black shirts with guitar players. You can’t ever get a good look.

  Who wants to get a good look? I ask. I bet she gouges out the eyes of any kid looks at her boobs. Jesus, why not just go play on the highway, if you’re sick of life.

  I bet she wears a bra, says Dwayne, staring out the window. I mean, if any girl does, it’d be her. She ought to be in junior high.

  So go to the junior high if you want to look at boobs, I say.

  It snows and snows. We wear our snow-pants at the lemonade stand. All up the street people come out and unplug their cars, wrap the long orange extension cords up around their elbows. People sit in their cars and jog the engines, they chug and gasp and start eventually. We have to keep brushing the snow off the lemonade counter. We have to keep stirring the lemonade to keep it from freezing. But at least we don’t need any ice.

  We go down the hil
l behind Mullen’s house on black garbage bags. The hill under the junior high school is good for tobogganing, because it’s longer, but the hill behind Mullen’s house is only big enough for bags. We sit in garbage bags and slide down the hill. Crash into the fence at the bottom. Mullen goes down face first, his head gets buried in the snow when he crashes into the fence. It’s cold! he hollers. I’m burning up!

  We walk up the street pulling our bags behind us and catch up to Deke, pushing his wheelbarrow full of shovels. He looks up at the sky, a shovel over his shoulder, at the snow falling. He looks worried.

  Hey, Deke, how’s all the digging going?

  What digging? asks Deke.

  Come on, Deke, Mullen says, you can tell us about it. What’s going on? You’ve been digging for days. Where are you headed? How far are you going?

  Deke turns around and groans and sighs. Stops pushing his wheelbarrow. An RCMP car pulls around the corner. Drives up alongside of us and stops. The window rolls down.

  Howitz, says Constable Stullus, leaning out the window.

  Evening, Constable, Deke says.

  Why are you digging up public property, Howitz? asks Stullus.

  Deke looks down at his wheelbarrow. The shovels are caked with mud. His shirt, covered in mud. Scratches under his cap. I’m not digging up public property.

  You’ve been down there all day hammer and tongs, Stullus says. On municipality land.

  Pick and shovel, says Deke, not hammer and tongs. So what? So I’m digging a hole in a lot of muck. Don’t see much issue with some hole.

  Stullus pulls a pill bottle out of his pocket, a plastic bottle like from the drugstore. Pops off the top and takes out a toothpick. You know what I heard, Howitz? I heard you plan to divert the river into the basement of the credit union.

  That’s a funny thing to have heard.

  Yeah, says Stullus, I hear you drove out to the Black Diamond Hotel last week. Got real drunk and ran your mouth off about diverting the river into the basement of the credit union. How it’d serve them right, getting washed out to Saskatchewan. I also hear you punched Glen Trottner in the nose and broke the pistachio machine.

  I never said I was going to divert anything anywhere, Deke says. Just thought I’d dig a hole. I wanted to show these kids here the rock stratum. You know how keen these kids are on finding stuff out. The riverbank there, it’s a wealth. All them different layers of sediment and rocks. Isn’t that right?

  We want to be archaeologists, Mullen says. Digging up old skulls and stuff.

  Stullus stands up, puts his pen in his shirt pocket. Don’t dig holes on municipality land, Howitz. And leave these kids alone. They’re growing up warped on account of you. He waves and walks over to his car. Drives away real slow.

  Archaeologists, says Deke.

  Asilver minivan drives up to the main doors. A woman gets out of the driver’s seat, walks around to the other side. She opens the door and there’s Pete Leakie, sunk down into the seat. She says something to him and he shakes his head. Looks up over top of his round glasses at the sky and shrinks further into the seat. She talks to him and strokes his hair. She rubs his cheek. Eventually she undoes his seatbelt. He nods and takes her hand. The two of them run from the minivan to the school door, Pete holding his backpack over top of his head.

  At recess I find a dry spot outside behind the dumpster and read comic books. The Under Queen gets more than she bargains for when she frees the Tomorrow Nazis from their prison on the moon. Seems pretty stupid, thinking that the Tomorrow Nazis would do whatever you asked them to out of gratitude. They smash open the dome of her city and the water floods in and all the Under People scream and run and drown. The issue ends with just black panels. I fold up the comic and stick it back in my bag. I really doubt the Under Queen drowns. She always comes back. I bet she’ll be back in five issues at the longest.

  Pete Leakie stands in the doorway by the second–grade hall, leans on the door frame. Holds his hand over his eyes and watches the grey sky.

  In comic books, when kids get struck by lightning they get superpowers: X–ray bolts or bampfing through walls or lifting dumptrucks over their heads. Pete Leakie stands against the door frame and looks at the sky with his hand over his eyes. If he’s got any superpowers, he sure isn’t letting on about them. The bell rings and all us kids line up to go back inside. Mullen and I always line up last, or at least we do when Mullen is allowed to go outside for recess. We all line up behind Pete Leakie, hunched in the doorway, drumming his fingers on the door. The teacher opens it and he runs inside.

  In Uzbekistan I’ve got it made. I live by myself in this old train car in the desert. A caboose, I guess, or a dining car. Wallpaper on the inside and empty light fixtures. I’ve got a hole dug in the sand, in the shade, down to where there’s water. In the morning I fill a bucket, down in the hole. Sit at my table, in front of the train car, in the shade, the bucket covered with an old trashcan lid. Sure is hot, here in Uzbekistan.

  They come on a ship, sailing in the sand. With masts and rigging. I watch it come out of the distance, churning up the sand. The ship leans in the sand. They climb down on ladders. Russians in tall hats and thick jackets, patches on their shoulders. Old men with goggles and scarves, Arabs with mirrored sunglasses. On the deck of the ship are their biplanes, tied down with cables. They line up, holding tin cups. I get them water out of the bucket with a ladle.

  The sailors swap me everything I need for the water that I get out of the hole. Aviator sunglasses and heavy leather boots too big for my feet – I have to wrap and rewrap the laces around my ankles. Mirrors in brass frames I stack in the corner. They bring me railroad ties, a wheelbarrow, steam kettles that whistle. They bring a cardboard box full of rubber balls, all different colours; I like to sit on top of the train car at night and throw the balls out into the desert. If the moon is bright you can pick them out in the white sand.

  In the desert, the sailors shoot rockets into the sky. Up a hill, where the sand is all packed and hard, we drag the rocket down off the ship on old logs, with ropes. It’s the sort of rocket that’s fat in the middle, with red stripes, and fins. You’d expect a rocket to be shiny and clean, so you could see your face in the side. But their rocket is tarnished and riveted, you can see where it’s been welded, where it’s been hammered into shape. We build the bleachers out of wood and wire, we sit there in the desert night drinking water out of tin cups.

  I ask the sailors if any of them know how to build the Milk Chicken Bomb. They all shrug. None of them have even heard of it. They pull the rocket upright with ropes, grunting. They run a fuse to a plunge box. An old man in a welder’s mask stares at his watch. The rocket fires and we all cheer, hands over our ears. Bang! it fires, steam and sand and everybody coughs, the rocket off into the sky, we crane our heads and watch it shoot off into the desert, where it’ll crash, out there somewhere.

  Hey, Solly, can we get popsicles?

  Kid, it’s winter. Look around.

  Hey, Mullen, I ask Mullen, you want a popsicle?

  Yeah, he says, but one of those ice cream ones. With the orange outside. That frozen orange kind. Hey, Solly, let’s get popsicles.

  Solly claps his hands together. Look, kids. Road salt on parked cars. Dead leaves in piles. Frost on power lines. Winter, you see that?

  Please, Solzhenitsyn. Come on.

  Well, I’ve got to go see McClaghan. I guess the Red Rooster is down that way.

  Solly drives us in his little red hatchback. One of his windows is knocked out and covered with a taped-on garbage bag. In the Red Rooster there’s mud tracked all over the floor. Mullen scratches in the mud with the tip of his boot. We get up on tiptoes to look in the popsicle cooler. What flavour you want, kid? Solly asks. You want grape? I want the frozen orange kind, with the ice cream, Mullen says. Me too, I want that one too, Solly. Solly gets us some popsicles. He gets a grape one for himself, just the plain kind, without ice cream or fudge or anything. Pays the teenager behind the counter with
a taped-together two-dollar bill.

  Hey, Solly, are you Russians going to beat the Pentecostals tomorrow?

  The Golden Oldies. We don’t play the Pentecostals for a while.

  Yeah yeah, says Mullen, are you going to win, though?

  Solly scratches the back of his head. Well, Pavel’s been throwing his draws something fierce. Pulling in tight spots like he’s parking a sports car. And so long as Vaslav doesn’t drink so much he can still sweep.

  How’s the new second? I ask.

  Solly thinks about it. The new second is all right, he says. More patient than the last one. Does what he’s told.

  Mullen sticks his tongue out. Hey, is my tongue orange?

  That stuff doesn’t come off, you know, Solly says. It’ll stay that colour. When you grow up and try to kiss girls they’ll run away the second they see that thing. Orange.

  Mullen curls his tongue around the popsicle. Maybe I ought to get a different colour next week, he says. Maybe next week I’ll have a purple tongue. Or blue.

  Hey, Solly, I say, are you the skip now because Vaslav drinks too much?

  Solly sucks on his popsicle. I’m the skip now because Vaslav calls shots like a choirboy even when he’s sober. Always hedging. Never figuring the other guy can put the rock where he wants. The guy can put the rock where you want if you want it in the right spot.

  Do you know where the right spot is, Solly?

  Solly laughs. He’s got a purple tongue now.

  At the hardware store all the old men stand around watching McClaghan’s new television. It sits on a little rack up in the back corner, above the bike locks and the Keys Cut sign. McClaghan sits on his stool behind the counter and flips channels with the remote control.