The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “I bet most people already have their firewood.”

  “Sure they do but this is one heck of a cold winter. I bet they start running out soon.”

  “I don’t know how much use I’d be.”

  “I’ve seen you work a tractor. That’s half the battle. I’ll do the pulling and the pushing. You just sit back and work the lift.” Mrs. Feniak’s breasts brushed against Jack’s chest. A moment passed before they realized the song was over. They untangled themselves as discreetly as possible.

  Jack followed at Mrs. Feniak’s heels, a devotion so complete, if unexpected, that had Mrs. Feniak commanded, “Down,” and lowered her hand, Jack might have obeyed and dropped to his belly on the floor.

  Fred assumed he and Bridget were going back to where she had been sitting but she followed Jack and Mrs. Feniak. Fred had no choice but to be a gentleman, clasp his hand under her elbow and walk with her. Bridget sat herself down and Fred was left standing nervously. Kenton looked away. Claudia smiled once and then scowled. Mrs. Feniak pulled a chair beside Claudia. “Why don’t you sit down, Fred?”

  “Everyone seemed so happy before I got here and, um, um, now it looks like they have had something bad to eat so maybe I should find somewhere else to sit, okay, bye.”

  “Kenton, go fetch Fred a drink.”

  “Mom,” said Kenton in a pleading voice.

  “Buh, buh, he doesn’t have to get me anything.”

  “Yes he does.”

  Kenton looked at Fred reluctantly. “What do you want?”

  “A Schweppes raspberry ginger ale, please, buh, buh, if not that then anything that doesn’t have poison in it.”

  Kenton went to the bar and ordered a ginger ale.

  “I thought you weren’t going to talk to him,” said Ryan, teetering a little.

  “Mom made me.”

  “The gimp gets to do anything he wants and then all he has to say is, buh, buh, buh, buh, I don’t remember.”

  “He’s handicapped.”

  “He’s a retarded punk with a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  Kenton shrugged. Ryan grabbed the can of ginger ale while Kenton was distracted by a cute girl at another table and shook it fiercely. “Traitor.”

  Kenton carried the can back to Fred. “Um, um, not Schweppes, thanks.”

  Fred tried to pull the tab while the can was still on the table and it skittered onto the floor. Claudia picked it up and put it between her legs. And there was a lot of leg to put it between; her skirt barely hid her panties, but Fred couldn’t see them any more because the can was in the way. Fred watched, mesmerized, as she popped the tab. The foam exploded across her thighs. “Fuck!” shouted Claudia.

  “Claudia!” yelled Mrs. Feniak.

  “Wowee,” said Fred.

  Claudia grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the ginger ale on her nylons.

  “Um, um, thank you and I always liked warm ginger ale.” Fred took two big swallows and belched. “You pig.”

  The sounds of the hall barely penetrated the silence around the Feniak table. Fred shifted his chair, sniffed the air and eventually tilted his head to the ceiling. “So, God, why do I smell marijuana at this table?”

  Mrs. Feniak looked suspiciously at Claudia, who looked down guiltily. Bridget noticed, smiled and raised her hand. “That would be me.”

  Mrs. Feniak frowned and Claudia smiled at Bridget when her mother wasn’t looking.

  Fred tilted the ginger ale can to his ear, pretended it was talking to him and nodded. “I don’t believe it, that is just what I was thinking.” He grabbed a spoon and clacked it on the table. “I would like to make a toast.”

  “Oh brother,” said Claudia.

  “Yes he is your younger brother and he doesn’t always get to hear what a good boy he is because everyone talks about his high-class older brother, buh, buh, he should know that hockey players sometimes grow up to be service station attendants and smart little boys who do well in school sometimes grow up to be rich men with expensive cars that need gasoline from time to time.”

  Fred leaned over and kissed Kenton on the cheek. Kenton almost fell out of his chair, but before he could run, everyone at the table was raising their glasses and toasting. “To Kenton.”

  Claudia grabbed her purse. “I’ll be in the bathroom. I think I’m gonna puke.”

  Fred watched Claudia’s bum all the way to the bathroom. At the last second it veered right and headed outside.

  “Fred,” said Mrs. Feniak, “when Ryan and I were in Brandon there was a man who said to say hello. I think he was the rink cleaner. He said he remembered you.”

  “Um, um, you don’t clean a rink, you resurface it.” Fred clambered up, bumped a few chairs as he limped away, put his shoulder hard into one of the doors and was outside before Mrs. Feniak apologized to Jack for bringing up Brandon.

  Claudia stood off to the side with her back to the doors. She exhaled a big plume of smoke from a cigarette she had just lit. “Hey, hey, you are too young to smoke.”

  “I’m old enough to suck cock, I’m old enough to smoke.” Fred’s lips moved but words did not come out. Claudia smiled at him wickedly. “You better not tell my mom.”

  “I have never been a tattle-tale, buh, buh, please don’t smoke because your lungs are so pretty and pink and you are just a young girl who will end up as a street prostitute if you take three bad turns.” Fred glanced down at Claudia’s legs.

  “Stop staring at me.”

  “You like to be looked at every now and again, buh, buh, you are so strong and you don’t even know it because without lifting a finger you could put a grown man on his stomach in a jail cell while another prisoner has his way with him.”

  “Freak.”

  “Slut.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Um, um, um, why does Ryan hate me?”

  “Hey, Claudia, are you okay?” Four young guys in hockey jackets strolled up from the parking lot.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is he bothering you?” asked Tod, the largest of the four. Tod looked at Fred with a sneer that caused the caked acne cream on his face to crack. Between the pimples and the large freckles that speckled Tod’s face there wasn’t much room for plain old skin.

  “No,” said Claudia.

  Fred’s face contorted with exasperation. “We are just standing here like brother and sister and you think because I am handicapped she can’t talk to me even though I talk nice to her all the time, which is more than I can say for you horny teenagers with your expensive jackets.” Fred whistled and touched Tod’s sleeve. Tod jerked his arm away.

  “Is Ryan here?” asked Tod. Claudia nodded. “You going in?”

  “Sure.”

  Tod escorted Claudia through the doors. Fred’s path was blocked by the other three. “I would love to stand here and talk shop with you rugged boys, grrrr, buh, buh, I have promised not to share my secrets of the game with anyone who does not have potential, okay, bye.”

  Fred tried to get by. One of the players grabbed Fred and pushed him against the wall. “Not so fast, chief.”

  “You are lucky I am not Indian because I might take that the wrong way and get out my can of whoop-ass, um, um, I saw an aboriginal fellow with a T-shirt that said Custer Had It Coming and I told him his shirt was funny and smart at the same time.”

  “We might have made it to provincials.”

  “And maybe the Mac Cup,” said another.

  “Now that you cheap-shotted Ryan we’re gonna be lucky to make the playoffs.”

  “Um, um, um, hockey is a great game and it is best enjoyed when everyone works together so if you all play as a team I think you could do better than you think.”

  “Start looking over your shoulder. Payback’s coming.”

  “Okay, okay, I guess nobody explained when you were little peewees so I will tell you one secret, um, um, what happens on a hockey rink gets settled on a hockey rink or did you boys think that you would break with tradition, buh, buh, guess what, not tonigh
t because the veteran Aryan has arrived just in time.” Fred raised his arm and blasted the three hockey players with his double-barrelled laugh, the second instalment of which created a shower of spit that forced them to step back.

  Jiri strolled up from the parking lot. “Hello, Fred. Hey, guys. How’s the party?”

  “Um, um, just getting started.”

  The three hockey players kept Fred surrounded but tried to look casual in doing so. Jiri, a quick study of gang dynamics, nodded to Fred. “C’mon, it’s cold out here.”

  “Um, um, you are so smart it hurts.”

  Fred tried to push his way through, but one of the hockey players pushed back. Jiri grabbed his shoulder. The player spun around, raising his fist. Jiri’s voice and eyes were deadly calm. “If I was you I wouldn’t do that.”

  The owner of the fist recognized something ominous in Jiri’s dark eyes. He slowly dropped his arm and turned to Fred. “It’s coming.”

  “So is Christmas and the ewes are getting fat.” Fred muscled his way through the three hockey players, locked his arm around Jiri’s elbow and cooed. “Shall we?”

  “Have fun, faggots,” sneered one of the players.

  Jiri opened the door but Fred made Jiri go first. The three ambled back to the parking lot. Fred waited until they looked back and then he raised his middle finger with as much satisfaction as when he raised his rink flag. His finger was lowered just as Jack came outside.

  “Fuck you, retard!” yelled one of the players.

  Jack burst past Fred and started running after the players. They jumped in their truck and spun wildly through the snow. Jack packed a snowball and whipped it at the rear window. He missed.

  Fred and Jiri waited by the doors. Jack hustled back, out of breath. “What the hell was all that about?”

  Jack’s heart sank when he saw the look on Fred’s face. The insult had hit him right between the eyes. Others had called Fred a retard, but it never seemed to affect him as much as when hockey players did, no matter how young or stupid. Jack put an arm around Fred and walked him inside.

  “You sure are fast when you want to be, Papa Joe.”

  four

  Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen,

  When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.

  Fred heard the singing, lumbered down the steps from the kitchen and threw open the front door in his long underwear.

  Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither.

  Fred was beaming. The seven carollers stood just beyond. He recognized Kenton and Mrs. Feniak and almost recognized the other five. He began to conduct the singers with his left hand. Their breath billowed out and disappeared at sporadic intervals, creating tiny clouds of rhythm to accompany the notes.

  Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,

  Ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.

  Fred slapped his hand against his thigh to show his appreciation and Kenton came forward with a little parcel. “Merry Christmas, Fred.”

  “What is it?”

  “A bomb.”

  Fred rattled the parcel beside his ear. “Um, um, a broken bomb.”

  Mrs. Feniak waved as the carollers set off on foot. “Those are from Bridget. Tell Jack, Merry Christmas.”

  “Um, um, what am I? Chopped liver?”

  “Oh, Fred, you too!”

  Fred looked at his gift triumphantly. “Papa Joe!” There was light in the barn. Fred limped over, singing, being extra careful in his smooth-soled slippers. “We three kings of Orient are, tried to smoke a rubber cigar, it was loaded, it exploded, now we are seeing stars.”

  Taillon came around the corner, ears up, alert. “Hello, little puppy.” Taillon’s ears drooped, he yawned and went back to his snowy mound.

  Fred lurched into the barn, “Hey, hey, hey, you missed the singers.” Pearl scrambled out of his way.

  Jack was sitting at the far end on a hay bale. He quickly rubbed his work glove roughly on his eyes. “I heard ’em just fine. It was nice.”

  Fred sat beside Jack. He started to rip the brown wrapping paper from the parcel, stopped and looked around. The roosters were sitting on top of the pens, heads bowed, trying to sleep. Something was missing. “Please don’t tell me that you are sitting here watching the sheep because there is not one to be found and if you say you are watching the roosters I will know that you are telling me as big a lie as you have ever told.”

  “Nah, I’m just thinking.”

  Fred found a decorative tin inside the brown paper. He popped the lid and his shoulders slumped. “Broken cookies.” Fred picked a piece out and chewed. A smile contorted his face. “Bridget’s cookies, buh, buh, what kind again?”

  “Shortbread, made with brown sugar.”

  “Exactly.” Fred picked out a cookie that wasn’t broken. “These are so good they make me feel like a rocket man.” He savoured every bite, pressing each piece against the roof of his mouth with his tongue until it melted. “So what are you thinking about?”

  “I was thinking it’s about time we went for our skate.”

  Fred raised his arm and blasted his trademark laugh. The roosters squawked. “If you want more time to think about the good days you had with Aunt Vera then say so and I will go to Eddie Shack and wait so patiently for you to finish.”

  Jack smiled. Fred stood and then swayed and pointed to an empty place in the hay. “Um, um, I just remembered what you said about that lamb I found last year right there in the corner after the mother had stomped him to death and your sad face made me remember.”

  Jack took a deep breath.

  “Buh, buh, you said it was nature’s way.” Fred grinned from ear to ear. “Have a cookie, you’ll feel better.”

  Fred loved having Jack out on the ice. He rarely skated. Christmas Eve was an exception. And a tradition. It was one of the few times Fred saw Jack doing something that was fun, or at least what Fred thought of as fun.

  Life had been unusually cruel to one and predictably cruel to the other. There was an unspoken sense of gratitude. On this night at least they had each other. And on this night, feeling the tingling effects of Bridget’s cookies, there was also giggling, staring up at the stars and a cavernous conversation about what animals dreamed of.

  They passed the puck lazily back and forth under the raven-black sky. The air was still and the sound of their blades carving the ice echoed across the darkened pasture.

  —

  Following a restful night in the recliner, Jack spent a good part of the morning picking Norman the Great’s cat hair from his sweater.

  Fred and Jack exchanged small gifts. Jack received a huge hairbrush bundled in newspaper and tied crudely with a red ribbon. Jack told Fred the brush might be too harsh for old Norman but he’d give it a try. Fred told Jack that the brush was for the llamas. Jack said Fred must have been talking to Jiri. Fred said he didn’t remember.

  Jack gave Fred a new bike. But not just any bike. It was a very expensive mountain bike. Fred couldn’t believe it and told Jack so for the rest of the day. Even while Jack was brushing the llamas.

  Fred’s father telephoned just as Fred was looking to the ceiling for inspiration. Jack and George wished each other well before Jack handed the phone to Fred. “Merry Christmas, buh, buh, your timing could not have been worse. We have just sat down to eat our Christmas dinner.”

  Jack watched Fred on the phone and waited. Fred was becoming frustrated. “Buh, buh, that is dynamite and I’m happy to hear that you are having a festive time and I thank you for calling, okay, bye.” Fred slammed the phone down and looked again to the ceiling.

  “You didn’t have to get off so fast.”

  “He always calls when we are eating. It is inconsiderate.”

  “What do you mean, always?” said Jack laughing. “He calls twice a year.”

  “I forgot, buh, buh, I am starving to death, not really, sorry God.” Fred’s face looked as if he eit
her had to pee or needed to talk to God really badly.

  Fred tilted his eyes to the ceiling. Jack bowed his head a touch. “Merry Christmas, God, and how are you? I am fine and so is Jack. Wowee, we thank you for this delicious turkey that Jack has baked in the oven at three hundred and twenty-five degrees, and the mashed potatoes, and beets, carrots, and my favourite, the gravy, dynamite, and Jack’s favourite, the pumpkin pie and whipped cream, not bad, and please, please, keep the meek ones safe and snug until they inherit the Earth and in the meantime if the predators come to take stuff that isn’t theirs then rip them to pieces or at least make them feel bad and I guess if you wanted you could help Ryan’s ankle heal a few weeks faster and make sure Badger is not so lonely tonight, okay, bye.”

  “Amen,” said Jack. “Dive in.”

  Fred pushed his chair back and made a mad dash to the bathroom to relieve his burning bladder.

  five

  Fred sat near Taillon and watched Jack try to start his two-ton ’67 Chevy, a truck he hadn’t driven in two years. He watched him add antifreeze and change the battery. He watched him bent under the hood, fiddling, twisting, cursing. He saw him drag a small heater from the barn. Once the heater was under the hood he saw Jack go to the garage where he was now on his knees, replacing the chain on a saw.

  Fred sighed. “Wouldn’t it be easier if he just took her to a movie?” Taillon dropped his massive head onto his front paws. “Exactly.”

  The sound of a snowmobile engine droned in the distance. Jack hurried over to the two-ton truck. He yanked the heater out, dropped the hood with a heavy thud and jumped behind the wheel.

  Jack’s foot tapped the accelerator. The engine turned, stopped. “C’mon you dirty bitch.” The harsh whine of the snowmobile grew louder. At last the truck shook violently and the engine awoke from its frozen slumber.

  Kenton eased the snowmobile into the yard, Mrs. Feniak’s arms wrapped around his waist. Jack waved at Mrs. Feniak as she dismounted, grabbed his saw and logging chain and threw them in the front of the two-ton.

  Kenton walked over to Fred. Taillon slowly stood up and moved off. “That dog’s a big chicken,” said Kenton.