The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  Fred remembered how he and his thirty classmates had jumped up from their desks and shouted and kept shouting, long after Henderson scored. And there in the back of the classroom, his teacher, a burly man with a beard, had wiped tears from his eyes. Burly men with beards were not supposed to cry, so Fred knew that what had happened was very special.

  With his belly full of pancakes, Fred waddled over to the corral where two of Jack’s rams were humping ewes. Each ram wore a harness with coloured crayon. This way Jack would know when the mating took place and when the marked ewe would give birth. Fred thought harnesses with coloured crayon would be a good thing for cheating husbands. “Wowee,” said Fred, mesmerized by the frantic thrusting. As soon as he heard Jack’s boots coming he snuck off behind the garage like a teenager hiding a dirty magazine.

  Fred was dropped back inside the oval for the afternoon. Vertical. Horizontal. Diagonal. Tromp, tromp, tromp, turning carefully, regaining his balance, tromp, tromp, tromp.

  It was late afternoon by the time Jack checked on Fred. He was a little concerned because Fred hadn’t yelled once for a hot chocolate. Fred was completing the final phase of his preparations. Unlike the snowshoe packing there was no need for brute strength, just dexterity and mulish patience.

  Fred was filling every hole that insulted the magnificence of his labour. These small cavities were found along the perimeter of the snowbank. He’d spot one and, flick, flick, he’d fill it. Then, thump, thump, thump, he’d pack it. Each one of the hundreds of holes was filled and packed with the same loving care.

  Every square metre of the packed base had been crushed under Fred’s weight at least fifty times. The surface was so flat and firm that Jack almost told Fred he could have rolled a bowling ball across it and seen no trace of its path. But Fred’s face was so constipated with concentration that Jack knew not to speak.

  Jack went to the house to get dinner ready. On his way, he snagged two fifty-foot garden hoses from the garage. The timing was working out for Fred. Jack had heard it was supposed to go down to minus thirty.

  Fred couldn’t be talked into waiting until morning to begin the flooding. Jack told him there was no snow forecast overnight. Fred wearily reminded Jack that he respected and trusted Mother Nature but he had little faith in the radio’s weather reports.

  Fred was so tired he could hardly eat. A postcard had arrived from one of his brothers. He barely read it because he wanted to get back outside.

  “What did Mutt say?” asked Jack.

  “Um, um, it’s a postcard, didn’t you read it?”

  Jack lied and said he didn’t.

  “He is in Mexico. He is having fun, buh, buh, so am I even though I am ready to sleep for fifteen hours.”

  Fred had two brothers, Mutt and Steven. Both older. Mutt wasn’t his brother’s real name but this is what Fred called him and the name he used when corresponding with Fred. Both brothers worked on the west coast. Well, Mutt worked. Steven didn’t send postcards either. Fred hadn’t spoken to him in six years.

  Mutt worked for his dad. George Pickle grew up driving a cab and told his friends that one day he was going to buy the company so they had better be nice to him. He was now running a successful taxi operation in Vancouver and had expanded his business to Kelowna. This was not as lucrative, but it meant that George had an excuse to live in the Okanagan, away from the winter rain and the “invasion of Asians.”

  Mutt was a manager and sometime driver with a wife and three children. He was his father’s main tie to the Vancouver business. Mutt didn’t have to drive, but he liked to. Not during the mornings or early evenings when the traffic was heavy, but once or twice a week he worked the graveyard hours when the streets were empty.

  Fred never forgave his father for divorcing his mother. She painted landscape watercolours in her bare feet, had moved to Prince Edward Island after the divorce and Fred had only seen her once more before she died of a stroke. Fred didn’t like his father’s new wife. She was only a few years older than Fred, wore expensive but ugly earrings and drove a Lexus with heated front seats.

  A lot of the people who came in and out of Fred’s life assumed that his family had abandoned him after his accident. Even a few of Jack’s neighbours whispered questions about Fred’s family. Jack knew plenty about what they never dared ask about. And he knew that the reality of who had abandoned whom was, like all good family conflicts, muddled at best.

  eleven

  Several neighbours who watched Fred’s labours every winter suggested he find a frozen pond near the farm and just clear the snow off. Surely, they thought, it made more sense to use what Mother Nature provided.

  This was a notion that Fred rejected without hesitation. The ponds around Jack’s farm were small. And even if they were big enough, they were too far away, and because he couldn’t tie his own skate laces he’d have to ask Jack or someone else to come along.

  Fred liked the idea that he could skate whenever he wanted to and he knew his rink was where it was meant to be. Right behind the house.

  The challenges facing Fred during the flooding phase were daunting. One mistake and a frozen pipe could burst, which would ruin carpet, appliances and possibly furniture, create huge repair and replacement costs and quite possibly bring an end to Fred’s rink-building enterprise.

  The solution was notes. Lots of notes. All written neatly by Jack. These weren’t the hastily put together reminder notes. These were in bright red on index cards.

  Above the outside tap, illuminated by Fred’s unsteady flashlight, was the first note, Step One: Shut off the outside tap. Once Fred had done this he went down to the basement where the pipe from outside ran along the ceiling, eventually connecting with a network of pipes. At this confusing intersection were a lot of valves, but only one controlled the water supply to the outside tap. Another note, Step Two: Open this valve and this valve only.

  Jack had succeeded in getting Fred so rattled about the possibility of a disaster that whenever he turned the valve Fred looked as if he was defusing a bomb. The water, emitting an eerie whine, rushed down the three metres of pipe. Fred returned to the outside tap where another of Jack’s notes waited beside his first, Step Three: Connect the hose to the tap and turn it on.

  Fred did exactly as instructed. Water surged into the hose, which twitched and shuddered like a dying snake. He dragged the hose to his oval, his breath shrouding his head in a misty haze. What he saw when he arrived nearly made him scream. Jack had cut a metre-wide gash in the snowbank perimeter. It was where Fred always put the entrance to his rink but it was never cut until after the flooding.

  There was a good reason for this: Pearl. She loved romping around on the ice when it wasn’t set, just crusty, and her paws left nasty holes. Jack said it was revenge for all the times Fred had called her a garbage hound. Fred, nearly devastated, stared at the tractor that was supposed to hoist him into the oval. The bathroom window cracked up. “It’s thirty-two below,” announced Jack sharply. “Tractor wouldn’t start.” The window slammed shut.

  There was no arguing with that. Fred moved awkwardly across the packed snow and steadied himself at the centre of the oval. The moment of truth was upon him. He pulled the trigger on the nozzle and a glorious hiss of water steamed into the night.

  Jack had told the truth about the tractor. Fred could tell by the water that dripped from his nozzle. On a not-so-cold night he’d be lucky to get a three-inch icicle hanging from the handle. He had already seen that piece of ice reach seven inches.

  Fred finished glazing the snowbank and started on the base. He knew, if he sprayed long enough, he could get the base to freeze by morning. And now that Jack had cut the entrance it was crucial to get it set before Pearl came scampering out after breakfast.

  The bitter, silent cold that surrounded Fred only meant that he would be out there longer. This was the critical time. To get this blast of Arctic air was a blessing and he had to take advantage of it, no matter how cold it was or how late into the
night he had to work.

  There was one creature who did not share Fred’s enthusiasm for the bitter cold. Tom had chased a mouse outside into the snow. By the time he had it crunched in his mouth, Jack had locked down the barn. He tried to find shelter in various nooks and crannies near the barn, but instinct was telling him he wouldn’t make it to sunrise.

  Desperation drove him to make the long, slow walk to the sheepskin-crowned watchtower. Taillon noticed the small creature emerging from the darkness. He picked up and identified the scent immediately. Warily, he watched as Tom moved tentatively toward him. Taillon recognized the old tomcat’s distress.

  Tom stood, cowering and shivering, waiting for a sign. Just as the cat turned to find shelter elsewhere, Taillon rolled onto his side. Tom crept slowly forward. Such was his desperate need for warmth that he didn’t allow Taillon even a courtesy sniff. He dove straight into the dog’s thick, white coat and curled up in a ball.

  Taillon wrapped his body around Tom, providing a cozy shelter. Within minutes the old tomcat was warm and snug enough that he began grooming himself. And before too long his purring ceased and he was sound asleep.

  Taillon would not be sleeping that night. Not only was this unexpected visitor under his protection but he’d have to check on Fred from time to time.

  It was Mrs. Feniak’s idea to go to Brandon right away and make sure it was a suitable place for her son. Upon arriving, she and Ryan were given the grand tour by Mo, the team scout. Ryan had little interest in the high school where he would be taking classes. All he wanted to see was the Keystone Centre, where he would rack up all his points.

  The subsequent visit to the arena concluded late. Mrs. Feniak had already returned to the hotel. The general manager reminded Ryan to take his name listing seriously, which meant continued effort for the rest of his midget season and a summer training program. The Wheat Kings weren’t a professional NHL team, but he had better treat them as if they were.

  Ryan left the general manager’s office and wandered the concourse. He couldn’t help but imagine himself playing for the Wheat Kings, scoring a ton of goals, getting drafted by an NHL team and eventually having a street named after him.

  Ryan stopped at a wall of team pictures because Kenton had asked him to look for a player. He searched until he found the team picture from nineteen years ago. His finger traced the names. Back row, middle row. Nothing. And suddenly there it was. He counted heads in the front row until he found the face. Fred was the only player who wasn’t smiling. Ryan was smiling, though. He stared in disbelief at the photo of his gimpy neighbour. He was even more amazed that Fred wore an “A” on his jersey. Fred Pickle, assistant captain. “I’ll be goddamned,” said Ryan.

  “Watch your language,” said a craggy voice.

  Ryan turned and saw a decrepit man in overalls, stooped over a bucket. Virgil McLeod’s shoulders were sloped forward at such a severe angle that ten more years might see them touching. His fragile frame was ill-suited to carry a head that seemed two sizes too large. His face was almost boyish and it was clear he was a much younger man than his grey hair implied.

  Ryan and Virgil were alone. Their voices echoed. “So, what are you all goddamned about?”

  “Just a guy I kinda know.”

  “What’s his name? I’ve worked here a long time.”

  “Fred Pickle.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fred Pickle. He lives on a sheep farm next to my mom’s. He’s retarded. You probably don’t know him.”

  Virgil looked as if he had just had the wind knocked out of him. He leaned against a wall.

  Ryan was always too self-absorbed to notice the behaviour of others, and he didn’t notice Virgil’s. He turned and walked toward the front doors.

  Virgil was having a hard time formulating his thoughts and his throat had dried up. “He’s alive?” asked Virgil, his voice hoarse and barely comprehensible.

  “Sure. He’s all messed up though. Paralyzed and stuff. Actually, one side works okay. But he’s crazy. Did that happen here?”

  Virgil tried to speak but his words squeezed out in a quivering groan followed by, “Tell him I said …hello.”

  “Okay, later.” Ryan, spooked, jogged away. The sound of the door slamming clanged through the arena. Virgil was still leaning against the wall, his eyes wet with tears.

  The exhaustion had disappeared. The sparkling stars of the cold night and the spray of the water had magically claimed him. His warm breath evaporated into the steam from the nozzle. His jacket and pants glistened because they had long ago been coated in a lambent layer of frost. He had quite literally become one with his rink.

  Taillon had been over to check on him and Fred hadn’t noticed. His mind wasn’t registering anything outside his one-hundred-and-forty-foot by sixty-foot universe.

  At long last, Fred released his grip on the nozzle. At least, he tried to, but it had frozen to his glove. In fact, his glove and the nozzle were encased in a lump of ice. The only portion not frozen was the nozzle head, which itself was surrounded by a collar of ice that spread outward like petals on a flower.

  Fred made his way clumsily to the rear of the house and smashed his hand against the wall. The third swing did the trick and Fred was able to extract the nozzle from his glove. It was still frozen open and spraying, but at least he had his hand back.

  Jack was half-asleep, Norman the Great curled up around his neck, trying to figure out what that thumping was at three in the morning. Jack had assumed, incorrectly, that Fred had finished flooding hours ago. He rolled out of the recliner and Pearl followed him into the kitchen.

  The door swung open and Fred lumbered in. Pearl stopped in her tracks, dropped her hips and urinated on the kitchen floor. The little stray cat, who had been napping near a heat vent, took one look at Fred, ballooned his hair, hissed and took flight from the room. Jack almost followed him. “Holy Jesus Christ!” yelled Jack.

  Fred was a shocking sight indeed. He looked like a five-hundred-year-old, partially preserved Eskimo, dug up from an icy grave.

  Fred muscled past Jack and went to the basement. He flung the hose on the cement floor and went back to the intersection of pipes. He could barely see the tape hanging from the critical valve because his eyelids were almost frozen shut. Fred found the valve and didn’t need to read the note that said, Step Four: Shut off this valve when you are done.

  Jack was tearing off pieces of paper towel when Fred came back upstairs. He opened his mouth to say something but, before he could, Fred was out the door again. Jack wiped up Pearl’s accident. She had crept away to his bedroom, fearing his retribution and Fred’s return.

  Another note outside said, Step Five: Open this valve when the inside valve has been shut off. Fred did this. A few dribbles of water assured him that the inside valve had been properly closed.

  Fred returned to the basement. Near the wall where the pipe fed the outside tap was a runoff hose. If Fred did not release the water that ran to the outside tap, it would freeze. Step Six: Open the runoff valve and let it drain. At first the water came in spurts, but then it chugged from the hose in big belches and gurgled down a drain in the cement floor. He liked to see that. It meant he had done everything correctly.

  Fred tromped up the stairs. Jack was sitting at the kitchen table, hair askew and eyes puffy. “Are you okay?”

  Fred nodded. He couldn’t speak. His moustache and beard had frozen together. He tried to smile but this only made his appearance more horrifying. Instead, he waved timidly, turned and went to his room, slowly closing the door behind him. Jack sat for a moment, rubbed his calloused hand across his face and then he too went to his bedroom.

  “Oh, it’s okay, Pearl, nothing’s coming to get ya,” chirped Jack.

  The only one stirring was the stray cat. He came cautiously back into the kitchen, nerves fried, eyes wide, looking for the ice creature that had invaded his home.

  Mrs. Feniak was packing her alarm clock, some muffins and a half-read book on B
randon into her overnight bag. The sound of running water could be heard from the bathroom. “You better hurry, hon, we don’t want to miss our flight.”

  A light knock at the door interrupted a search for lipstick in her purse.

  Virgil stood, almost retreating, cap in hand, looking for the life of him as if Mrs. Feniak was going to box his ears. Mrs. Feniak had this effect on some people. The passing of time and expensive cosmetics were not enough to hide the months she had spent grieving. Her features were hardened, intimidating. Her eyes still flashed with anger even when she wasn’t angry.

  “Mrs. Feniak?”

  “Yes?”

  What could be said about Virgil could be said about most rink rats; they did not belong outside during daylight hours. He winced and bowed. “My name’s Virgil McLeod. I’m the rink maintenance manager at the Keystone Centre.”

  Mrs. Feniak grabbed a toehold on the arena reference and it helped her confusion somewhat. But only somewhat.

  “Did Ryan mention he spoke to me last night?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Virgil was taking his time. And Mrs. Feniak was getting nervous. Publicized incidents of sexual molestation involving old hockey men like Virgil and young hockey boys like her son had become a source of grave concern for mothers like Mrs. Feniak.

  “We had, uh, I had asked if he would …” Virgil lost his train of thought. He stood there mute.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Well, like I was saying, eh, I asked if he would say hello to somebody but I realized when I got home last night that I never told him my name and if he didn’t have my name he couldn’t tell ’im I’d said hello.”

  “And your name is Virgil?”

  “That’s right, ma’am, Virgil McLeod.”