Milk Chicken Bomb

by Andrew Wedderburn

  Stullus puts on some mitts, pulls the earflaps of his big black hat down. We all get out of the car and walk up to Deke’s door. Stullus knocks with the backs of his heavy knuckles. Howitz, he shouts, Howitz, you have to let us in. I have someone from the federal government who’s interested in seeing you. He bangs again. We wait quite a while. We wait, and Stullus rattles the door handle. He twists up his face. Leans over to try the closest window; it pushes right in. He reaches inside, grunts, strains.

  Say, he says, is your arm long enough?

  The accountant sticks out his tongue, reaches through the door, stretches as far as he can. The door unlocks and swings open.

  Deke’s house is a mess: the sink full of dishes, IGA bags full of empty ravioli cans, red sauce dried, lids folded back. Dust; white sawdust on the counters, marked with fingers, coffee rings. Dirt on the floors, brown bootprints and dried puddles.

  Stullus steps past the open dryer door and the halffolded ironing board and opens the door to Deke’s cellar. He reaches into the dark and pulls a string. Somewhere down the steps a light bulb comes on. Exposed studs with no drywall, old bricks, cobwebs. We walk down the narrow wooden steps.

  The cellar isn’t so much a room as a big hole. Dirt floors that curve up into old brick walls, nothing flat. The accountant has to duck his head. A light bulb hangs on a wire.

  Stullus pulls his big black flashlight off his belt. Passes the beam around. There’s piles of dirt all over, scraps of wood. Sawhorses, a circular saw, the cord just lying on the ground. Two–by–fours and what’s left of forklift pallets. Dirt everywhere, some of the piles as high as the cellar roof.

  In the corner there’s a hole. No, a tunnel. Stullus shines his flashlight on the dark gap. Narrow and rough, heading a little down. Some two–by–fours wedged between the top and bottom.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, says Stullus.

  I’ve never seen a tunnel. Tunnels on TV and in comic books, but I’ve never seen a real tunnel. Wood beams, four–by–eights, hammered together, brace the ceiling, the walls. The flashlight shows rough walls, tree roots. The tunnel narrows, none of us can see where it ends up. The accountant peers down the tunnel.

  How old is this town? he asks. I mean, it can’t be more than ninety years old. There haven’t been any floods or landslides. Surely nothing overtly geological in the last hundred years.

  Absolutely unbelievable, says Stullus.

  Do you think he’s down there? asks the accountant.

  I am not crawling into a tunnel dug by Deke Howitz into the gullet of hell. Spelunking? He shakes his head. I never thought he was actually going through with it.

  He can’t be far. You’ve got a flashlight. How far back can he have dug?

  It’s not how far back he’s dug, says Stullus. God knows where he is.

  What do you mean? I ask.

  Stullus looks at me kind of funny. Shines the beam down the tunnel. Well, he says, depending on who you believe around here, Howitz wouldn’t be the first Marvin resident who’s taken to digging over the years.

  Deke Howitz, shouts the accountant, hands cupped around his mouth, down into the tunnel. Mr. Howitz, my name is William Rutherford, I’m from Revenue Canada. Mr. Howitz, we need to discuss irregularities in your accounting practices. I need information from you, to forward to the Alberta Securities Commission. Regarding a company called Davis Howe Oceanography.

  We wait. The cellar is cold, even colder down in the tunnel. I almost think that I hear ringing, somewhere in the distance, in the dark.

  Can’t we just go loot his filing cabinet? asks Stullus.

  The accountant shakes his head. Hardly ethical. Of course, he says peering into the dark, most tax frauds don’t escape underground, either.

  Get out of here, kid, says Stullus.

  Thanks for all your help, says the accountant.

  I blink. Oh yeah, I say. Right. Well, anything to help Revenue Canada, I say.

  They stare down the tunnel, the flashlight beam not quite reaching far enough to see.

  The mailman comes up the street, whistling. Stands on Mullen’s porch and digs in his bag. Drops in a few letters and a rolled-up flyer. Hitches up his sack and walks up the street. I stand on the opposite sidewalk, hands in my pockets. Sometimes I shake around to get the snow off my shoulders. Sometimes I blow on my hands and rub my cheeks.

  Mullen’s dad comes out of the house. Stops to take off his plaid scarf and retie it around his neck. He looks in the mailbox and makes a face, lets the lid clang shut. He pulls his toque down further on his forehead and walks out to his pickup truck. I watch him roll up the extension cord. He sits in the truck for a while, exhaust puffing out the back. Once the truck is warm he drives away.

  I knock on Mullen’s door. Kick at the new snow. He opens the door with a spoon in his mouth, barefoot. The sleeves of his grey sweater down past his hands.

  Hey, do you want to sell lemonade today?

  Mullen thinks about it. Takes the spoon out of his mouth. I guess there isn’t much else to do, is there?

  I guess not.

  Well, let me get dressed then.

  We sell lemonade. I cut up lemons with the long knife and drop them in the pitcher. What I do is, I cut up a bunch of lemons into wedges; cut them in half, then halve the halves and put the wedges in the pitcher with the ice. We have this other jug, and I put in a little bit of water, and then the sugar. I stir the sugar into that little bit of water ’cause it dissolves easier, when it’s cold, a bit at a time. We learned about dissolving in science class, and that’s when I thought of lemonade. Mr. Weissman said that water is the universal solvent, which means it can dissolve anything. I squeeze about a third of the wedges out into the thick syrup until it turns yellow. I pour in more water, stirring with the wooden spoon, and then I pour the whole jug into the pitcher, with the ice and other wedges.

  Mullen sits in his snowpants on the step, the fuzzy white snow not too hard on the steps and on the sidewalk. Mullen blows a bubble. Kicks his boots on the porch. I sit down beside him on the step. We watch it snow. Mullen reaches a foot down onto one of the lower steps and stamps in the new snow. It puffs out, like ripples in a puddle. White flaky ripples. We watch it snow.

  You walked all the way to Aldersyde?

  I got a ride most of the way.

  That sure would take a while, walking all the way there.

  Yeah.

  Much going on in school?

  Not so much. I don’t follow geometry very well.

  Right.

  Hey, says Mullen, do you think you can take some books back to the library for me? I’ve still got all these books about David Thompson. All the good they did me.

  Yeah, I say. I’ll take them with me tomorrow morning. Are they pretty overdue?

  He shrugs. Probably.

  Right, I say. Probably.

  Sometimes it gets cold in Marvin, real cold. Low sky and windy, snow drifts over driveways, cars stuck. Country kids miss school when the buses can’t make it down their road. It gets so cold you need to be inside, even when you don’t want to be.

  Sometimes you can sled, with a scarf, with snowpants. You get wet socks, your nose turns pink and runs and the snot freezes to your face. Sometimes the wind blows down off the mountains, out of that chinook arch, and it’s like fall again: snow melts, people walk around with their jackets open. We throw snowballs. But sometimes it gets cold.

  Halfway to Mullen’s house I stop, pull my scarf tighter around my face. I pull my coat sleeves down over the tops of my mitts. If I’d worn long johns, my legs would be warmer, but I didn’t. The cold stings my face numb, makes it hard to move my legs. I hunch my shoulders up around my neck and try to walk as fast as I can. The cold burns inside my chest when I breathe.

  Most places on Main Street are already closed, although it can’t be much later than five o’clock. Hardly any cars parked on the street. The credit union locked up, and the post office.

  Someone in a heavy parka walks up to
McClaghan’s door, hammers on the wood with his fist. Maynard! he hollers. It’s Morley Fleer. He hugs his parka tight, waits at the door. I step back into a closed doorway, peek around.

  What’s so damned important, Maynard? shouts Fleer at the door. It’s subarctic out here. What’s the damned rush?

  McClaghan’s door crashes open, he pushes out onto the sidewalk, no jacket. Wet up to his ankles, feet squishing in his shoes. He runs right into Fleer.

  I’ll kill him, says McClaghan. I should have killed him years ago. It’d be self–defence, Morley. I’m entitled.

  What the hell are you on about?

  McClaghan pushes past him, looks all up and down the sidewalk. The wind blows at his loose shirt. Howitz’s trying to murder me! You’ve got to help me get him, Morley.

  You do not make an ounce of sense.

  The goddamn … He flooded my basement, Fleer. There’s water everywhere. Inches! He holds up his foot, yanks on his soggy pant leg. You see that? In this weather? Do you know how much stock I’ve lost? It’s sadistic.

  Howitz didn’t flood your basement, Maynard. McClaghan grabs Fleer by the front of his coat. There’s a smashed water main with a shovel blade sticking out of it, Morley. He dug into my basement and flooded me out.

  Come on, man. Howitz didn’t dig into your basement. He’s one man with a shovel. How far can one man with a shovel dig in a month?

  McClaghan lets go of Fleer, staggers out into the road. He wanders out into the middle of the street, kicking at the snow. McClaghan kneels down in the street, digs at the brown snow around the manhole. Hammers on the iron cover with his fist. Howitz! he shouts. Howitz, I know you’re down there! You’ll never see the sun again, Howitz! I’ll plug up every goddamn hole!

  A car fishtails, pulls to a bad–angle stop in front of McClaghan. Sits, idling, waits.

  And you’re evicted, says McClaghan. He cups his hands around his mouth, puts his face right down on the iron. Evicted! Another car comes up the other side of the street, comes to a slow stop. Fleer puts out his arms, walks in between them. Yanks at McClaghan’s arm. More cars stop. Someone honks their horn.

  Solzhenitsyn’s hatchback slides to a stop, just misses the back bumper of the car ahead. The door opens, Solly looks out the side, past the black garbage–bag window. Winces at the cold. Kid, you can’t be walking around in this weather.

  I was going for a walk, I say. Maybe out to Aldersyde.

  What? Kid, you can’t be out walking a block, let alone fifteen fucking kilometres to Aldersyde. You can’t be out at all. Feel that wind? Your skin will freeze. You’ll get pneumonia. Get in the car.

  I sigh and sit down. Pull the door closed. Inside it’s cold. I cough, my eyes swim. I cough and he revs the engine, pulls down off the sidewalk.

  It smells like gas, Solly. I cough. The whole car is thick with fumes.

  It does?

  The air in the car wavers under the street lights. Gas fumes dance like hot pavement, my head reels, breathes. I feel my stomach clench and rise, like when you swallow cough syrup.

  I’m having a bit of a problem, says Solzhenitsyn, with the fuel line.

  I look down at the floor between my feet. The mat is soggy, but I don’t think it’s the slush from my boots. Gas fumes swim all through the car.

  Why are we stopped? What’s going on up there? Solzhenitsyn cranes his neck up, can’t see over the car ahead of him. He rolls down his window.

  McClaghan is evicting Deke, I say.

  Howitz is out there?

  McClaghan thinks he’s under the manhole. Where are we going, Solly?

  Hell, I don’t know, he says. He puts his stick into reverse, backs up a bit. Turns the wheel hard around all the way and turns into the other lane. Drives back the way he’d come. I just wanted to go for a drive.

  We drive down Main Street, faster and faster. The white street lights bleed in front of my eyes, like through a foggy window. The light spreads out all in front of me. Solzhenitsyn drives faster and faster. We drive right through a stop sign.

  Damned if I know how it’s getting into the car. Where it’s seeping from, he says. Must have eaten through something.

  Solly, I say.

  He goes to roll down his window, but it’s already down. The car lurches. I take deeper and deeper breaths and the lights bleed further out across my eyes, running watercolour paints, squinting. My chest gets heavy. Solly drives faster and Main Street narrows down. The Short Stack swims by, red, dark. I fight for breath in the heavy gasoline air.

  Solly opens and closes his mouth.

  What? I shout. Cold air blasts in the open window.

  It gets easier to breathe when I drive faster, he shouts. All the fresh air.

  The slow rise, up the hill, out of town. The scrubby little trees, dead, everything dead all around us. Everything white and grey and the air, the ice, the not–quite fog. Nothing separated from anything else. Up the hill, the road, grey and white and ice, black wheel tracks, sometimes you can see the painted lines on the road, under the snow. We drive not quite in a lane. The flat, long road, the fences, under snow. Patches of long grass, out of the white. We drive faster and faster. Red lights blink, sometimes farmhouses, sometimes signs. Speed limits, and deer, in triangles, and how far to Black Diamond. Nothing separated from anything else.

  What’s going on, Solzhenitsyn? I shout.

  He opens his mouth. The car leans into the other lane. He slowly veers it back. I want to open my window, but on my side it’s the taped–on garbage bag.

  I said, he shouts, I lost my job.

  You lost your job?

  At the meat–packing plant. Jarvis fired me yesterday. He said – Solly takes a hand off the wheel, roots in his shirt pocket – he said I’ve become unreliable.

  Your ice–smashing job?

  Solly looks down at me. I’m a mechanical engineer, he says. I do plumbing and heating. I’m really good with coolant. He coughs.

  Solzhenitsyn pulls a cigarette package out of his pocket. Looks over at me. We swerve out, then back. I started smoking again, he says. When I breathe in he gets bigger, when I exhale he shrinks, maybe blurs.

  Solly, I say.

  How many years ago did I quit smoking? You get so far in life, you know. You get on top. I had a house. I kept all that fucking meat frozen. And then, all these little things.

  He pushes the package open. Pushes out a cigarette.

  Solzhenitsyn, I say.

  He leans down with his mouth open, closes his lips around the filter. Pulls it out of the package.

  Solzhenitsyn, I say. I try to be loud but my chest closes up.

  He pulls a plastic lighter from his pocket. I reach over and grab his hand. I grab his hand and he startles, lurches, and then the hatchback jumps over into the other lane. He drops the lighter and there’s headlights ahead. He jerks back into his lane, we skid, and then the sky spins around and fenceposts and my head bangs against the car roof and all of a sudden we’re stopped, backward, in the ditch. I reach out and wrap my fingers in the garbage bag, yank it off the window. Cold air pours into the hatchback and we sit and try to breathe, a funny angle, backward in the ditch.

  Solzhenitsyn holds his hands out in front of his face, fingers spread apart. Stares at the backs of his hands. There’s no feeling, he says, in the tips. He screws up his face like he’ll sneeze, tilts his head back, a deep breath, waits. Face red. He doesn’t sneeze. Tries to put his face back in order.

  We went out with Milo Foreman back in October …

  I don’t want to hear about Milo Foreman, I say.

  Goddammit, says Solzhenitsyn, his fists up near his face. Won’t somebody please just listen to me?

  We sit there, in the car, in the ditch, for a long time.

  Why did Milo jump in the rendering vat?

  Solzhenitsyn coughs and coughs. He squeezes his cheeks with his fingers.

  I don’t know, he says.

  We sit in the car, in the cold. The windows open, the fumes mix with
the cold, cold air. Our breath blows through the fumes. I feel my feet get cold, my legs, I rub them with my mitts. Solzhenitsyn takes long, deep breaths.

  You can’t go out walking around when it’s cold like this, he says. It’s too cold. You’ll get sick. You have to take care of yourself, kid. There’ll be times, people won’t be around to look after you.

  Sure, Solly. Take care of myself.

  He breathes, as deep as he can. He breathes and waits for his chest to get regular, up and down. His nose pink, his cheeks red. Twitches his fingers.

  I had this dream. I’m with all these old men with white hair, trimmed moustaches, sweater vests. We walk through the forest in the autumn, and in a meadow there’s this big hollow tree. What’s inside? the old men want to know. So we all climb in.

  It’s big inside this hollow tree. They’re always bigger inside. And at the back there’s a tunnel, we crowd around the opening and peer inside. You ought to see what’s at the bottom. Food – hot, lit–up food: roast turkeys, racks of lamb, melons and bananas, a barbecue pig with an apple in its mouth. The old men drip at the mouth and crowd around and they jump down the tunnel, and me, the last one to jump, I think, This is not good.

  Now the tunnel isn’t a tunnel anymore, but a chute.

  We all slide down the chute and it’s long and dark, and right before the tunnel ends there’s this screen, this wire mesh screen. We all shoot right down and schuck, right through the screen, and it’s like we come out of a garlic press, minced right up. Schlup. And all our wet, minced, pulped bodies fly out of this chute, and into this lake, this big, slurried lake.

  So I wake up, in this dream, I climb out of the lake –

  Wait, I say, I thought you were minced.

  I was minced, says Solzhenitsyn. Minced and stewed around, and when I climb out, soggy and dripping, I’m not me anymore. I’m a bit of all sorts of people, all the other pulped people who ever jumped down that chute after that barbecue pig. I’m this whole other guy now. I remember, dimly, that I used to be someone different.

  We live underground. In a dark city, underground. The city has windows and aluminum siding and auto–body shops and all the rest of it. And all of us who live in the city are sad, because we all dimly know that we used to be someone else, and now we’re not, and we can’t be the same.