The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “Thanks, Fred,” said Rachel. “You smell like a dressing room.”

  “And there is nothing quite like that smell so how would you know unless you were in there with all the naked hockey players?”

  Walter kept an eye on Fred when he hugged the girls. There had been another incident when Fred had grabbed a handful of bum, the girl had screamed and Walter had yelled at Fred. It was all fairly harmless, but as Jack pointed out, it was her bum and Fred had no business touching it.

  Even after Rachel broke from Fred’s embrace he stood there swaying, smiling, intoxicated. “Let’s sit you down,” she said, “and get your mind on other things.”

  “Dynamite, you have said the magic words because I am as hungry as the next guy.”

  After the orders went to the cook, Fred was up and wandering. Jack, looking every bit like a livestock dog, kept a protective eye on him.

  Many of Jack’s neighbours told him that the most difficult part of taking Fred to a hockey game was eating at O’Malleys, or more to the point, trying to keep Fred in his chair. Fred’s uncontrollable desire to roam and mingle with strangers was a mysterious byproduct of his brain injury.

  Fred was like a toddler, going from booth to booth. Most of the patrons received his enthusiastic intrusions with grace and humour. But there were some people, usually pretty women, who didn’t see Fred as a curious toddler at all. They saw a two-hundred-pound, limping man with a beard who smelled.

  It was the escort’s job to anticipate trouble and steer Fred away before it started. But tonight Jack had spotted Badger at the bar, waved him over and become distracted.

  Fred stared admiringly at two jackets hanging from a hook beside a booth. One was soft leather and the other was a local hockey team jacket. Fred’s fingers traced up and down the hockey jacket.

  “Don’t touch those,” said the young man who belonged to the hockey jacket. His girlfriend stole a glance at Fred and reacted as if he were a bug that had crawled near her shoe. When her attention returned to her boyfriend, she giggled.

  “Um, um, sorry,” said Fred. “Have you ever scored three goals, three assists and had three fights in a single hockey game? It’s a Gordie Howe hat trick times three.”

  The young man turned. “Go bother someone else.”

  Fred’s left foot stroked the floor like a bull getting ready to charge. And then he made a terrible sound in his throat and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The young man turned again. “I said, beat it.”

  Jack arrived, grabbed Fred’s arm and smiled at the young couple. “Sorry, folks.” Jack didn’t notice the back of Fred’s hand trailing behind.

  Badger waited at Fred’s booth. Fred stopped when he saw him. It took a moment for him to remember who he was, but when he did he blasted his double-barrelled laugh. Several forks clattered to the floor. The young man and his girlfriend stood up to leave. Jack saw a nasty smear across the back of the hockey jacket and glared at Fred.

  Fred flopped onto the long cushion beside Badger, launching Badger up a few inches. “Um, um, do you think I am nuisance to society?”

  “All great revolutionaries began their careers as a nuisance to society.”

  “I would rather just be a nuisance.”

  Rachel brought the food. The french fries were smothered in gravy and Fred forgot all about expensive jackets. Badger quickly excused himself, saying that the smell was making him sick. Fred leaned in for a sniff. The fries smelled delicious and he started picking up one at a time, licking the gravy off first and then savouring every bite.

  Badger drove his Georgie Boy from O’Malleys to the arena. Fred and Jack walked because Jack still had parking privileges at a nearby police station. He hated the congestion of the arena parking lot. Fred hated the walk, especially on a full stomach. He also resented the fact that Jack wouldn’t let him ride with Badger and meet up at the arena. Jack told Fred the exercise was good for them. Jack didn’t trust Badger’s talking, and he trusted his driving even less. It seemed every time Jack set eyes on that motorhome there was a new dent in it.

  In spite of his concerns, Jack still let Fred stay at Badger’s house when there were games on consecutive nights. Fred hadn’t yet been catapulted through Badger’s windshield or lobbed a stick of dynamite at any fast-food restaurants. It was an arrangement that made Jack queasy, but it saved him from driving into the city two days in a row.

  Fred carried his right hand in his left as he limped along, dragging his right foot. If he didn’t do this his right arm would swing wildly. He was self-conscious enough about his limp. He didn’t need his arm attracting even more attention. It also hurt his shoulder if his arm swung back and forth for too long. And it might hit someone.

  “You can’t be doing things like that,” barked Jack. “There’s times when people want to be left alone so don’t be stupid. Just walk away.”

  “You don’t know how it feels when they look at you like that.”

  “Then don’t go over.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  As they neared the arena Fred could see the fans with their caps and shirts and jackets and flags—all adorned with the logo and colours of the home team. A few horns blew. Fred’s eyes blazed.

  Jack was left behind as Fred pounded ahead and charged up the concrete stairs, chirping excitedly all the way.

  The usher assigned to Fred’s section was the same one who had worked his section the previous year. Wendy had red hair in a pony-tail and was dressed in a simple green jacket forced upon all the ushers, a jacket that turned even the most attractive woman into nobody’s fantasy. Except Fred’s.

  Wendy saw Fred coming, wobbling through the tunnel. She smiled and shadowboxed to make his entry special. “You ready for the big game, Pickle?”

  “Oh, you little devil.” Fred examined the gold pin on her lapel, a pin with her first name on it. He didn’t remember her name but he remembered her nickname, invented by Fred because she occasionally put her hands on her hips, bent forward and rotated to stretch her tired back muscles. It was the only time Fred was able to see her bum. He pulled her close and nearly suffocated her. “Hey, hey, Bendy Wendy, you sure look wonderful this evening. If you undo my jacket I will love you ’til tomorrow.”

  Wendy smiled bravely. “Are we gonna win tonight?”

  “Um, um, only if you kiss the frog for good luck.”

  Wendy untangled herself, being careful to keep her breasts and hips away from Fred’s twitching hand. She unzipped his jacket. Fred kissed her smartly on the cheek and started to pull his zipper up again but Jack pushed him along.

  Their season tickets were in section 225, on the second level, halfway between the blue line and the faceoff circle. Good aisle seats with a great view of action at their end and a decent view of the other.

  They used to be higher up in the middle of a row. This meant that Fred and Jack had had to climb twenty stairs and then bulldoze their way through ten sets of legs. Those were now Badger’s seats. Badger had watched Fred struggle for half a season before he couldn’t take it any more. He came to Jack, offered to swap tickets and quickly became Fred’s new best friend. When Fred remembered.

  The new seats meant that Fred could leave the concourse, emerge from the tunnel, make a sharp left and be at his seat. No stairs. No stumbling over legs. Fred was grateful, but it was a mixed blessing for Jack. Easier access meant smoother departures, which meant Fred could disappear from Jack’s sight a lot quicker than before.

  Most of the fans who sat near Jack and Fred were season ticket holders and they greeted the pair warmly. Fred stood and bowed to everyone and there were quite a few who called out his name.

  They had arrived just in time. The teams had completed their pre-game skate and the ice was just about to be resurfaced. Fred sat quietly and waved off any attempt to engage him in conversation. He felt a special kinship with the ice crew and talked to them from time to time. On one occasion Fred had received a valuable reprimand. He had repeatedly referred to
their ice resurfacer as a Zamboni. It was explained that Zamboni was a company name, and that the machine they used was manufactured by Olympia. Fred had the crew member write the facts on his ticket (the note read: It’s an Olympia, not a Zamboni, stupid).

  Whenever Fred overheard someone refer to the “Zamboni” his tongue pinched between his lips as he rustled into his pocket to pull out the old ticket, confirm the real name and offer a reprimand of his own. It was up to Jack to apologize if Fred also called the person stupid.

  The puck dropped. The crowd cheered. Another season was underway.

  Fred watched each game in a vacuum. He barely remembered the names of the players. He had to be told that “this is a big game because it’s against a division rival” or “this is going to be good, don’t you remember all the fights in the last one against these guys?” Fred sometimes pretended that he remembered so as to not spoil someone else’s enthusiasm.

  Fred noticed moments that few of his neighbouring fans saw. A pass. A move. A faceoff victory. None of them went undetected. The good ones resulted in a raised fist and a blast of laughter. Those who didn’t know Fred assumed he was cheering the taste of his popcorn. His spasms of excitement made some fans uncomfortable. Surely this dimwit in the aisle seat didn’t actually understand the game.

  For those who challenged Fred’s hockey knowledge, and for the few who were successful in sifting through his stammering and rambling explanations, there awaited an inevitable shift of perception, the inescapable conclusion that the man with the limp knew more about hockey than they did. Probably as much as the players and coaches themselves.

  Most did not rejoice upon making this discovery. Most felt as if a bucket of warm manure had been dumped on their heads. And then it was Fred’s turn to rejoice. He usually celebrated by elbowing Jack in the ribs and winking.

  Fred watched ten minutes of the first period, patted Jack on the wrist, announced, “I’ll be back” and was gone.

  He wandered the concourse, saying hello to everyone he saw. Most of the employees who worked the food booths and sold the programs knew Fred. The night was as much about talking to people as it was about watching the game.

  For reasons that Jack found perplexing, Fred had refused countless opportunities to meet the players. Badger had his connection to the equipment manager and it was there for the taking. Fred just said they had better things to do.

  He timed his socializing to the latter stages of each period, saying he wouldn’t be caught dead in the concourse during the intermission crush. It was hard enough getting around when there weren’t many people, but the going became treacherous once the hungry, thirsty mobs arrived.

  Fred made his way to a set of stairs and, using the handrail, pulled himself up to the top level. By the time he arrived sweat was beading on his forehead. An usher at the top of the stairs smiled when he saw Fred.

  “Um, um, is Andy here?” Fred strained his eyes down the upper concourse, past all the luxury boxes that stretched around the bend.

  “I haven’t seen him yet, but you know you can’t come up here if you don’t have a ticket.”

  Fred unfolded his ticket and held it up for the usher who didn’t need to look at it. “Yes, that’s for section 225, which is down the stairs and to your right.”

  “Buh, buh, you wouldn’t mind if I went to Mr. Madison’s box and knocked on his door would you?”

  “Nobody’s allowed up here unless they have a ticket.”

  “I have been in Andy’s box.”

  “I know you have, that must have been fun.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m not four years old.”

  Fred turned and negotiated his way down the stairs. The usher was visibly relieved. Keeping Fred Pickle from Andrew Madison’s luxury box was a once-a-night chore, and things didn’t always go as smoothly. Fred had made many a scene on many a night. And there were plenty of other times when he just slipped right past. Fred was an expert gatecrasher.

  Fred arrived back at his seat just as the first period came to an end. Jack sprang up, “Be right back.”

  Fred never joined Jack outside with the smokers. As a result, he never had to witness the depressing themes of conversation: dwindling attendance, high taxes on the team, the Canadian dollar, the possibility that the team might move. Nobody ever talked much about the game itself any more. They talked about small markets and exchange rates. Fred was better off where he was, watching the ice resurfacer.

  Badger strolled toward Fred with an eight-year-old boy in tow. He tapped Fred on the shoulder. “Your stomach growling for anything?”

  Fred pounded his fist on his thigh. “Badger, Badger, I think I would like a Pocket Dawg.” Pocket Dawgs were boiled wieners stuffed into a french roll and packed with mustard and melted cheese. They were Fred’s favourite snack at the arena after he’d loaded up on popcorn.

  Fred noticed the boy standing nervously behind Badger. “And who is that hiding there?”

  “This is Danny.”

  “I am Fred and I would shake your hand if I could, buh, buh, one bang on my head, and are you Badger’s kid?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “Danny’s a friend,” said Badger.

  “Okay, um, um, does his mommy know where he is?”

  Badger leaned closer, “His mom and dad are dead.”

  “Huh? Why didn’t you say so?”

  Fred pulled himself out of his seat and hugged the boy. “Now Badger will tell you what he has told me when things don’t look like they will work out, you know, when times are tough, so give it to him, Badger.”

  “I wish I had a good reason for not remembering like getting smacked in the head but I’m just getting old,” said Badger, erupting into a coughing fit that caused him to turn away and Fred to grimace.

  “You remember, we are down a goal, there are twenty-five seconds left, um, um, we have pulled our goalie and you sneak down to where I am sitting and you say …”

  Badger remembered and slowly opened his arms like Moses, “We’re almost to the top of the mountain, boys.”

  Fred started shaking his hips from side to side. Danny remained stoic. Fred shook his body even more and poked Danny in the stomach. Danny managed a smile. Fred sighed with relief, put his hand over his heart and then saw Badger unwrapping a cigar. “I don’t believe it, you’re going outside to congest your lungs before you bring me my Pocket Dawg, buh, buh, I better be quiet or I will get nothing at all, okay, bye.”

  Even Jack had to admit that even if Badger had congested lungs and a dubious past his heart was sometimes in the right place, at least when it came to the seat beside his at the hockey games. It was always occupied by a boy or girl who couldn’t afford to go to a hockey game. It was the one redeeming feature that kept Jack from telling Fred he shouldn’t talk to Badger any more.

  At the conclusion of the game Jack and Fred stayed where they were and watched the arena empty. The chaotic rush to the parking lot was something neither of them wanted to be a part of. Fred had the sheen of somebody who had just enjoyed a big meal and was going to sit back and enjoy its effects for a little while longer.

  “Your dad called,” said Jack. “He said he’s thinking about coming out at Christmas.”

  “He always says that. Did you tell him I need money?”

  “You don’t.”

  “He doesn’t send enough and he is rich.”

  “He sends what I ask him to send. And he’s not rich.”

  “Well, ask for more.”

  “You don’t need more.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’ve got a roof over your head, enough to eat and plenty left over.”

  Fred looked to the rafters and pointed at Jack. “I am so lucky to have such a smart uncle.”

  Fred received eight hundred dollars a month from the provincial government as part of an assured income program for the severely handicapped. He also received one hundred and seventy-five from his father. From this nine hundred and seventy-five d
ollars Fred paid three hundred to Jack for rent. The remaining six hundred and seventy-five, less a good chunk to help pay for the season tickets, was money that Fred managed to spend every month.

  Jack deposited the money from both cheques into Fred’s bank account. Jack had signing privileges on the account because it was easier that way. Jack could have written himself a cheque for the rent, but Fred insisted that he withdraw the three hundred dollars in cash, in twenties.

  Jack brought this money home and Fred kept it tucked away for a few hours, sometimes for a few days if he forgot. He would then appear with the money in a plain white envelope and proudly present it to Jack. “Um, um, here is my rent.” Jack would then take the three hundred dollars back to the bank and make the deposit. None of it made any sense, but Jack didn’t complain. It made Fred happy.

  What didn’t make Fred happy was the fact that he couldn’t withdraw a dime without Jack’s signature. It hadn’t always been that way, but after Fred blew five hundred bucks on used skates a week after getting new ones from his father it was decided he needed some assistance with his banking.

  The drive back to the farm made Jack think of coming home from his police shift and finding Vera waiting in the kitchen with a cup of hot cocoa.

  Vera never wanted to be awakened from a sweet dream by a doorbell that would signal the arrival of one of Jack’s friends in uniform. If bad news was coming she wanted to be alert when it crept to her door.

  When Vera’s bad news came, Jack sat beside the hospital bed and held her hand. He listened as her doctor talked of patients who had committed suicide and in doing so had lost the opportunity for survival should a cure be found. It was a speech Jack ignored as much as Vera did. Vera was a fighter. Right to the end.

  Jack missed her not being there when he arrived home. It made the cold, dark drive a little longer than it really was. On these nights Jack didn’t sleep in his bed. He slept on the recliner and cuddled with Norman the Great until morning, when Norman would crawl back under the couch.

  The farming life had always been Jack’s dream. It was a seed that had been planted when Jack was a teenager and his best friend at school lived on a farm. Jack spent his summers working there. The lifestyle was so agreeable that he almost quit school.