The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “Excuse me for living, buh, buh, did you tell the boy wonder that his team just lost and they are out of the playoffs because he would not pass the puck and then started a fight when they still had a chance to tie or did you just pat him on the back and say, well done, young superstar in the making, and we’ll see you in September?”

  Fred limped away. Mo was hot on his heels. “Not so fast.” Mo parked himself in front of Fred, looked him over. “Fred Pickle.”

  “Um, um, that’s my name, don’t wear it down.”

  “Number ten, Brandon Wheat Kings. Two years in the B.C. junior league, Vernon Vipers. MVP second season. First year major junior, seven goals, five assists, ninety-eight penalty minutes. Second year, twenty-eight goals, forty-three assists, one hundred and sixty penalty minutes, recorded a Gordie Howe triple hat trick, three goals, three assists, three fights, in one game, not sure it’s been done since, season cut short due to injury.”

  Fred was having trouble catching his breath, “It was forty-four assists, buh, buh, who’s counting?”

  “You did a hell of a job with Ryan. He’s a much better hockey player than he was two months ago.”

  Fred didn’t know what to say.

  “You’re always welcome back in Brandon, Fred. Once a Wheat King, always a Wheat King.”

  Fred still didn’t know what to say. Mo winked and strolled over to Mrs. Feniak. Kenton caught up to Fred as he was limping toward the doors. “You going outside?”

  “Shhh.”

  As soon as Jack finished checking on the ewes first thing in the morning, he jumped in his truck and headed to the nearest service station. It had a small counter with four seats for truckers who wanted a quick cup of coffee.

  The owner knew Jack well. It wasn’t a problem to dig up yesterday’s newspapers. The two local papers had nothing on Badger. He found what he was looking for in one of the two national papers. And it took some searching because there wasn’t a big headline that said, BADGER IS A TERRORIST.

  There was, however, a story on the community effort to save the hockey team. Included were five paragraphs on Alfred Hoffman, nicknamed “The Badger.” Jack blew smoke through his nose and read the paragraphs twice. There wasn’t much new in the story for Jack. He was aware of the truck at the uranium mine, the Flin Flon Five, a two-week sit-in at the Primrose Lake Air Weapons Range in Alberta, and the stick of dynamite at the McDonald’s in Red Deer.

  Jack remembered the McDonald’s incident best. Somebody had thrown a stick of dynamite through a plate-glass window. It happened early enough in the morning that the police were convinced the culprit had meant no physical harm to the employees. Badger was questioned but never charged. Most of the police, including Jack, thought it was him because Badger had burned an American flag outside the same McDonald’s the day before. Missing from the story was the fact that Badger had never been convicted of anything and was still a practising lawyer. And, of course, they failed to mention that he took kids to hockey games.

  The newspaper ran a photograph of Badger. It must have been taken following one of his arrests. He had long hair, a beard and a moustache and looked a little like Charles Manson. If the editor’s intention was to make people afraid or suspicious of Badger, they had succeeded. The article made Jack queasy. It almost felt like treason.

  He knew the timing was no coincidence. The boys were almost to the top of the mountain. Badger had said as much in the article. So a counterattack was critical. Jack knew enough retired cops who would have gladly dug up dirt on Badger for Andrew Madison. If the price was right.

  eight

  Fred carefully ran his fingers through the money, both notes and coins, on his mattress. He dumped it all inside a plastic bag, stuffed two notes in his pocket and stood up, proud as hell. He looked at his watch and lumbered out the door. Time was ticking.

  The teller had finished counting Fred’s seventy-three dollars and had filled out his deposit slip, but Fred hadn’t finished with his story. “I was walking, walking, with my thumb in the air before I said, hey, maybe these drivers think that a man who is limping is drunk so I stopped, stood still and stuck out my thumb, um, um, perfect, because the next car that came was a minister and his wife and I asked him for a donation, buh, buh, he said he wouldn’t support terrorism and we stopped at Tim Hortons anyway and I ordered four glazed doughnuts to go because I said I have to get to the bank before it closes and I did.”

  The teller licked her lips because they had gone dry. “You didn’t need to come all the way to the city. You can make a deposit at any Bank of Montreal. I’m sure there’s one closer to where you live.”

  Fred swayed to the side. “I did not know that.”

  “There you go.”

  “And here I am, wowee.” Fred saw there wasn’t anyone in line. “It was more crowded last time and I will tell Papa Joe he didn’t need to drive all this way, buh, buh, he should have known better and I would have had more time for getting money today.”

  “You realize that twenty percent of this is non-refundable?”

  “That was just a trick up Andy’s sleeve and we are wise to that, so there.” Fred winked and walked away. He stopped at the easel—$16,849,362.51—fished in his pocket for a note. “Um, um, what is eighteen million minus sixteen million, eight hundred and …”

  “One million, one hundred and fifty-one thousand …rounded up,” said the teller immediately.

  Fred glanced fearfully at the clock that ticked past one o’clock. The deadline was only three hours away. A small girl walked in with her father. Fred noticed a piggy bank under her arm, blurted, “We are almost to the top of the mountain,” and blasted his double-barrelled laugh. The girl screamed, her piggy bank shattered on the floor and coins clattered everywhere.

  The glasses weren’t champagne glasses but at least they were clear. Fred’s tongue hung from his bottom lip as he tipped the small bottle of champagne over Badger’s glass. It was a small bottle because, as Fred had already explained twice, it was all he could afford. As the clock above the fireplace struck four, Fred offered his glass to Badger who clinked it delicately.

  Fred and Badger sat and waited. Well, Fred waited. Badger just sat. “Um, um, if you had a television we could see the celebration.”

  “Said Mr. Micawber, convinced that victory would be miraculously snatched from the jaws of defeat.”

  “Said Fred Pickle who does not give up as easy as the next guy, buh, buh, you think you could turn on your radio?”

  The phone rang and Badger picked it up. Fred looked on expectantly, licking his lips.

  “Hello?” Badger looked at Fred. “Yes he is. He had a bit of a fall.” Badger coughed into the phone. “On some ice outside a liquor store.” Badger smiled forlornly at Fred. “He bought some champagne to celebrate.” Badger sat down, cleared his throat. “No, cementhead’s fine.” Badger’s brow wrinkled. “You don’t have to do that. He can stay here.” Badger grimaced, then nodded compliantly. “I understand. Fred can’t stay with the terrorist.” Badger let out a funnel of exasperated breath. “I know you didn’t mean it that way. Doesn’t matter. I’m not up to driving so I’ll take him to the bus station.” Badger’s eyes suddenly seared with anger. “He gets it all, Jack, the hockey team and three-and-a-half million.” Fred’s chin dropped to his chest and the hot water bottle filled with ice cubes fell from the top of his head to the floor. “It dried up as soon as the newspaper hit the stands.” Badger’s hand was gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles seemed as if they might burst through his skin. “Of course it was an ambush but there’s no rules when you play his game.” Badger nodded. “Yeah, the Spindletop, I’ll tell the driver.”

  Fred was already at the front door putting on his jacket when Badger hung up. “Um, um, that’s it then?”

  Badger went over to where Fred was standing, staring at the floor. He put both hands on Fred’s shoulders. “Fred, look at me.” Fred looked up. It had been a long time since Badger had seen a face look so crushed.

>   The sound of car doors slamming caught Badger’s ear and he glanced outside. “The troops have landed.”

  “Huh?” asked Fred, looking up to see Juliette and three other old people climbing out of a taxicab and making their way up to the house.

  Badger’s eyes were burning bright. “We’ll have our day.”

  nine

  Virgil McLeod sat at his kitchen table as a forty-watt light bulb struggled to shine through a grime-covered plastic casing. A strand of greasy hair hung across his reading glasses. He was finishing up a bowl of tinned mini-ravioli while holding a letter steady in his left hand.

  “So, Gerald, you want to hear what he had to say?”

  The mouse was near the edge of the table, nibbling on a pile of crackers that Virgil had rolled into crumbs.

  “Dear Virgil. What a little world that ou should find me after all these ears. I guess that Feniak kid is good for something. Ha-ha. Just kidding. He is going to be a big star on our team. I have just trained him to be a great hocke pla er. When he scores lots of goals, well, please call and thank me.”

  Virgil took a gulp of apple juice, scooped up the last of the tomato sauce.

  “I wish ou had written me ears ago. I build a big rink out here ever ear and ou sound like the kind of man who would know a thing or two about making ice. But I know a few things as well. ou need an tips? Ha-ha. I guess it is possible I will see ou in person one da . Papa Joe said ou could visit an time ou wanted, our friend, Fred.”

  Virgil shook four antacid tablets into his mouth, picked up the letter and read it a second time. His eyes went back and forth, “You need any tips? Ha-ha.”

  “Think he’s being wise?” Gerald’s tiny eyes blinked rapidly as he ate his cracker crumbs. “You’re right. I’m probably reading too much into it.” Virgil’s eyes looked just like Gerald’s as he munched on his antacid tablets.

  ten

  Living on a farm was supposed to make Fred somewhat used to the birthing, living and dying of things. Jack joined him for the somber process of dismantling the magic of the rink. Jack dragged the nets to the garage. Fred went into Eddie Shack and carried out a stack of sticks and a bag of pucks.

  Fred slowly lowered his homemade puck flag and folded it as carefully as a Marine at a funeral. Jack hooked up the Canadian flag and cranked it up the pole until it hung limp in the still air. It looked as depressed as Fred felt. “How long until winter?”

  “Six, maybe seven months.”

  Fred put his lips together and whistled. “How many days?”

  eleven

  O’Malleys was packed but the mood before the last game was all doom and gloom. Fred’s heart pounded as he tried to hold a scrap of paper in place with the dead weight of his right hand and scribble on it with his left. And the whole time he looked over his shoulder to see if Jack was coming out of the bathroom. If Jack saw the note all hell would break loose.

  The note contained privileged information that Fred had just received from Badger. And that’s exactly how Badger had described it: “This is privileged information, Fred, I’m only telling you because you sometimes go wandering and I don’t want you to miss it.”

  Fred had seen the Georgie Boy pull up outside the restaurant as he was roaming it like the family dog, tail wagging, making everyone feel somewhat better. Juliette sat in the passenger seat and Fred could see three other heads silhouetted behind the curtains in the back of the motorhome.

  Right then Fred had become dizzy because someone in a booth was talking about Bobby Clarke and Fred remembered Josiah Flintabbatey Flonatin, though he didn’t remember him by name, he just remembered a man diving into the cold depths of a lake in search of a sunless city, and a van with five people preparing for war.

  Badger had walked in alone and spotted Fred, frozen between two booths. He had asked where Jack was, and seemed pleased to hear he was “having a poop.” That’s when Badger had told Fred his secret. From his inside breast pocket Badger pulled out his lamb’s horn, carefully wrapped in velvet. “Tonight’s the night.” Badger hadn’t been much more specific than that, but he had been precise about the location and the time. And those were what Fred was writing down after Badger left.

  Something’s cooking.

  First whistle after ten-minute mark of third period.

  Owner’s box or better yet Jumbotron.

  Public execution.

  Fred stuffed the note in his pocket and waited. “Eat up,” said Jack when he returned to the table.

  Fred’s stomach rumbled and a few beads of perspiration sprouted on his forehead. He knew in his gut that behind the curtains that hung over the tobacco-stained windows of Badger’s motorhome, five old people were planning something primitive and rotten. He pushed his mountain of french fries away. “Um, um, I am not feeling well so we can go.”

  Fred and Jack put on their coats. Rachel came running over and gave Fred a hug. She knew she might not see him again. “Oh, Freddie, take care of yourself.”

  “You little devil. It would be easier with you by my side.” Fred was so distracted by the sudden show of affection he didn’t even notice the tears in her eyes.

  The game was a rare sellout. And the normally placid crowd was charged with an excitement that hadn’t been there since the last time the team made the playoffs.

  Fred sensed the significance of the game when he limped into the concourse with six minutes left in the first period and found it virtually empty. So empty that he didn’t have time to stand in line and feel around for the large coins before he ordered his Pocket Dawg.

  “Three-seventy-five.”

  Caught off guard, Fred jammed his left hand in his pocket and pulled out a fistful of change. He clanged the coins down on the steel counter. “Um, um, sorry, handicapped, buh, buh, hold on.” Fred separated three loonies from the pile and then found the quarters. The Pocket Dawg vendor scooped these up. “Okay, okay, can you push the rest back?” The vendor slid the remaining coins into Fred’s waiting palm. One clinked off the concrete floor.

  Fred stuffed the change in his pocket and wobbled off to the tunnel. The vendor darted around to the front of his stall, picked up Fred’s fallen quarter and put it in his pocket. That’s when he spotted a folded piece of paper.

  Two minutes into the third period, with his left arm trembling from the fatigue of holding borrowed binoculars, Fred finally found Badger. At least he thought he did. The old man sitting at the front of the luxury box had a cellphone to his ear. Fred had never seen Badger with a cellphone. When Fred scanned a little to the right he found a face he recognized. And it made him squeak.

  “Game’s on the ice, Fred.”

  Fred held the shaky binoculars on Andrew Madison. His box was right next to Badger’s. In fact, his seat was right beside Badger’s, separated only by a short, easily breached three-foot partition. Badger was turned, it seemed to Fred, so that Madison could not see his face. Fred looked at the Jumbotron. The game clock showed sixteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds remaining in the third period.

  Fred fought furiously to remember why the ticking game clock was scaring him. A fan sat down behind him. The smell of french fries drifted underneath his nose. Fred dug in his pocket, feeling for paper. His digging became so frantic that his elbow caught Jack in the ribs.

  “Hey,” said Jack. “What do you need?”

  The panicked look on Fred’s face told Jack that Fred was completely overwhelmed and would either bolt or explode.

  “Hang in there, buddy,” said Jack as he patted Fred on the knee. He knew how tough this last game was going to be. It was almost enough to get Jack to put his arm around Fred.

  The game clock on the Jumbotron clicked over to 9:59. The players battled on the ice for another thirty-three seconds before the whistle blew for a puck that skipped off a stick and over the opposing team’s bench.

  Badger remained motionless in his seat, but Fred noticed something happening in the rear of Badger’s luxury box. It was Juliette beside the bar. She wa
s too far away for him to remember if he’d seen her before. She opened a cabinet and retrieved something that she quickly concealed.

  There was movement in the owner’s box. Two city policemen stood at the door in the back talking to Madison’s young assistant. Fred’s arm was so tired it was nearly impossible for him to hold the binoculars steady.

  The crowd started booing. “Look at that,” said Jack. “You gotta give him credit for showing up.”

  Fred glanced up at the Jumbotron. Andrew Madison was on all four screens. It was a tight shot of his face staring up at the screens, baffled, almost amused. The assistant leaned in and said something. Madison was no longer amused. He became frightened. The boos grew louder.

  Fred held up his binoculars again and saw Juliette moving down to where Badger was sitting. She handed Badger a box. Badger opened it, grabbed what was inside, stood and turned to where Madison was sitting. Fred’s arm was shaking so much that Badger looked as if he was a monster in a movie with film stuck in the projector.

  Fred peeked at the Jumbotron. Badger wasn’t visible because the shot of Madison getting up from his seat was too tight. By the time Fred raised his binoculars again Badger had stopped dead in his tracks, confused, almost desperate. Badger saw the police. He saw that Madison was gone. And he slowly sat down.

  The puck was dropped but nobody paid attention. The fans were still watching the empty owner’s box on the Jumbotron. Arena officials were scrambling. Something was wrong. The screens on the Jumbotron were never live during play, only during stoppages.

  Fred kept his binoculars on Badger, who was slumped in his seat, pushing the box under it with his shoe, gripping what could have been a blade or a gun or his lamb’s horn. He looked devastated.

  The last thirty seconds ticked down. Fans began rising to their feet and clapping. Their team had won 4–1 but it wasn’t the score they were applauding. It was the players. No, they hadn’t made the playoffs. And yes, some of them weren’t very good and some of them were greedy. But they were still their players. And honour them they did.