The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  Jack stepped out of his truck and faced the motorhome like an ambitious highway patrol cop. He stalked to the driver’s window, which was already rolled down. Badger smiled. “I’m sorry, officer, did I miss a stop sign back there? You know these country roads, it’s too tempting to just roll on through.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Making my way to Penticton. Thought I might rent a canoe and pay someone to paddle me around the lake for a few hours.”

  Jack couldn’t believe that Badger was not only upright but driving so soon after being on death’s door. A cannula was attached to his nose. The tubing wrapped around his ears and ran to a lightweight portable oxygen tank that sat on the passenger seat. His breathing was loud. To Jack, he looked like a sick geriatric who shouldn’t be driving—sick in the lungs and sick in the head.

  “You know, I’d sometimes run into guys I used to work with, guys that remembered you. And they’d say bad things. And I spoke up for you. That was the past, I’d say. He’s mellowed. But you haven’t changed at all. In fact, you’re meaner than ever. This thing at the arena that you wanted everyone to see. That’s a sickness.”

  Badger reached behind his seat. Jack stepped back, thinking he might be grabbing a gun. Badger lifted up another oxygen tank, unfastened his tubing and refastened it to the fresh tank.

  The tube around Badger’s ear had fallen down and was hanging over his cheek. Jack wanted to put it back in place but this was Alfred Hoffman, leader of the Flin Flon Five. He could do it himself. “I know your health’s not too good and I don’t take any kind of satisfaction in that but I don’t want you coming to see Fred no more.”

  “Fred’s a smart man. He can decide for himself.”

  “He doesn’t know the things I know.”

  “He knows more than you do, Jack.”

  Badger put his Georgie Boy in gear and slowly rolled forward. He rumbled past Jack’s truck with a few inches to spare. Jack hadn’t blocked the road as well as he’d thought. It made him hate Badger even more.

  A little square box, wrapped snugly in brown paper, sat cradled in Fred’s big hand. Fred knew what was inside, which was why he held it with such reverence.

  Nobody on the ice had thought to scoop up Fred’s gift. It had sat there near the blue line. A player from the opposing team had eventually flipped it onto the blade of his stick and tossed it to the referee.

  The referee had tried to leave with it but had been stopped by a home team player. The present had been grudgingly tossed from the referee to the player, who had tossed it to the trainer, who had given it to the equipment manager, who had visited Badger at the hospital three nights later.

  The equipment manager had shown Badger what the trainer had tossed him and boasted that the team was keeping him on and he might sell the prized possession on eBay for a tidy sum after they moved to the States. Badger had decided the equipment manager wasn’t his friend any more and, summoning just enough strength from his weakened arms, had snatched the item. When the equipment manager had tried to grab it back, Juliette had clobbered him. He had left with a split lip and had had it stitched up in the emergency ward.

  The next night Juliette had smuggled in some red wine and Badger had held Fred’s gift and boasted that it would find its way to its rightful owner. And then he and Juliette had hoisted their paper cups and toasted Fred Pickle.

  With his mouth gripping the box, Fred pulled apart the wrapping paper. Inside was a hockey puck and a short note: The last puck for the last fan. Your friend, Badger.

  Fred was so delighted he did not move. His fingers traced the hard rubber. His eyes searched the room, looking for a special place to put the puck.

  Eventually he tied some string around it and, after balancing precariously on a chair, hooked it into the ceiling above his mattress with a big thumbtack. That way he could watch it dangling above his head before he slept.

  fourteen

  The ewe was agitated. She pawed the straw with her leg. The strain began to show in her head, which she tilted back. Her eyes closed. The top of her lip curled. Jack and Fred sat on folding chairs, waiting. Jack twitched and twirled a hay bale string. Fred slurped milk noisily from a mug.

  Jack had his gear assembled on a small table: lubricant, a bucket of warm water, mild soap, a one-metre length of thin cord, a bottle of iodine, a baby bottle, a flashlight, hypodermics, stomach tube, packs of colostrum, towels, long rubber gloves, scissors, plastic bags, a Thermos of coffee for Jack and a Thermos of hot milk for Fred.

  The ewe struggled as she stood. The water bag, a transparent membrane containing the birth fluid, squeezed out from between her legs. It hung there like a miniature, upside-down hot-air balloon. Fred stifled a squeak of excitement. Jack had warned him enough times that double-barrelled laughs were not permitted.

  Fred leaned forward, eyes shimmering, his rubber glove–covered fist curled around a mug of milk. After several minutes the bag burst. Fred reared back, spilling some milk on his pants. “Um, um, here they come,” whispered Fred, his eyes riveted on the ewe.

  “Shhh,” said Jack.

  “Shhh,” said Fred.

  The ewe dropped and rolled onto her side with an exhausted sigh. The lamb’s nose and front feet came first. Fred patted Jack. The lamb slowly slid from the ewe onto the straw. The ewe continued to strain. A second lamb was on its way. The first was still wrapped in its transparent shroud. Jack moved calmly but quickly, and with a clean towel gently rubbed the membrane away. The lamb started kicking and coughing just as the second lamb presented. The ewe struggled to her feet and licked away the membrane of the second lamb. Both were now breathing normally.

  Jack gently pulled his thumb and forefinger down the ewe’s teats to break the seal and went to check on two other ewes that were close to birthing. Fred stayed where he was because he didn’t want to miss his favourite part.

  The lambs struggled on the straw. The first one had its front legs tucked under its body while its back legs fought to push up. This effort to stand lasted a long time. Each success affirmed that all things were possible. It wasn’t the joy of birth that brought Fred to the barn; the birth was sticky, messy and uncertain. It was the joy of standing and walking.

  The first lamb struggled to its feet and, with trembling legs, made its way to the ewe. Its mouth locked on her teat and the first spurt of milk was sucked into its hungry mouth. After the second lamb was also nursing, Fred grabbed one of the black garbage bags from the table and, with a look of indignation, delicately picked up the afterbirth. He had barely walked it outside the barn when Jack yelled.

  Fred rushed back inside. Jack was on his knees assisting another ewe. A lamb had presented itself with both feet forward but with its head back, the most difficult position to deal with. Jack could probably save the lamb because he had done one head-back delivery before. A second ewe was lying nearby.

  “Wash your glove.” Fred did as he was told and dipped his gloved hand into a bucket of warm, soapy water.

  “Get some lubricant. I’ll tell you what to do.” Jack fastened a thin, disinfected rope to the feet of the lamb he was working on. “Rub the lubricant between her legs.”

  “How dare you.”

  “C’mon, get at it.”

  Fred came over to Jack. He bent down to start rubbing. “No, not her. The other one.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jack pointed at the other ewe. “She needs help.” Fred stood frozen. “Get over there and tell me what’s going on,” barked Jack angrily.

  Fred looked sick as he limped to the other ewe. He knelt down. “Um, um, I see a nose.”

  “Feet?”

  “No.”

  The situation was rare. Most of Jack’s deliveries were uneventful. He rarely had to assist a birth. To have two ewes with malpresentations at the same time was a cruel twist. “Rub the lubricant.” Fred did as he was told. Jack was working on his own ewe and looking over at Fred when he could. “Okay, now listen carefully, I want you to re
ach inside and gently pull the head.”

  “Buh, buh, I don’t have both my hands.”

  “You don’t need them.”

  Fred stood over his ewe. “I will hurt it.”

  “It won’t be the end of the world if I lose one. There’s gonna be lots this year. Do your best.”

  Fred, grimacing, bent forward and stuck his hand inside, wrapping it around the lamb’s head.

  “You got it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Now, gently pull.”

  Fred tugged on the head and it slowly squeezed out. “The head is out.”

  “All right, reach inside, very carefully, and find one of the front legs.”

  “Reach inside, very carefully,” said Fred as he pushed his hand inside the ewe and started feeling around. He shook his head. “This is no good. I don’t know what I’m feeling, there’s all kinds of bumpy things.”

  “Keep looking.”

  Fred continued probing, his tongue jammed between his teeth in fixed concentration. “I think I have a leg.”

  “Okay, slowly, bring it forward.”

  “I will break it.”

  “You’re not gonna break it.”

  Fred pulled the leg forward and it slid out beside the head. “Leg is out.”

  “Okay, grab the leg with your left hand and grab the head, behind the ears, with your right.”

  “That is not even funny,” exclaimed Fred. “You know my right arm does not work.”

  “It’s just to guide it,” said Jack as he frantically tried to free his own lamb.

  “That is easy for you to say.” Fred lifted his right hand with his left and put it on top of the lamb’s head. He gripped the leg with his left. “Now what?”

  “Pull.”

  Fred barely tugged. “No good, it won’t come.”

  “Yes it will, just pull harder.”

  “And snap it in two just like that.”

  Fred yanked more forcefully. The body started to slide. “Um, um, I don’t believe it, c’mon down, Charlie Brown.”

  The lamb squeezed out onto the straw. Fred let go and it lay there, eyes closed, tongue out, face blue. He poked it with his finger. “Okay, it is deader than a stick. I knew it. I’ve killed it. Um, um, why did you make me do this?” blurted Fred, on the verge of tears.

  “It might not be dead. Pick it up.”

  Fred wrapped it under his arm and carried it to Jack who was still struggling mightily to free his own lamb. “You remember that time you saw me swinging a lamb and you said I looked like a crazy man who had lost his temper?”

  “Buh, buh, how dare you.”

  “You don’t have to remember. Just grab its hind legs and start swinging.” Jack looked up at a wooden beam just as Fred started rocking the lamb back and forth in preparation for a first mighty swing that would smash the lamb’s head straight into the beam. “Not here!”

  Fred scurried outside and steadied himself like a shot putter. He began rocking the lamb gently back and forth. “Don’t be dainty!” yelled Jack from inside the barn. “Swing it like a wet towel!”

  Fred took a deep breath and spun the lamb in a circle. It did not break in half so he swung it again and again. Taillon sat nearby, concerned, his own head rotating in small circles as he watched intently.

  The lamb started to cough. Fred swung it one more time and held it. It started to breathe. Fred kissed its wet head. “I am sorry that I had to scare you, buh, buh, now that you are alive you can forgive me today and thank me tomorrow.” Fred brought the lamb back inside and lowered it beside its mother.

  Jack had finally pulled his lamb free but he didn’t leave it beside its mother. Instead, he put the stillborn lamb inside one of the garbage bags. Fred saw this and offered Jack a consoling smile. “I am sorry that yours did not work out so good, buh, buh, as you can see, mine is quite happy now that I gave it the swing of life.”

  Jack came over and checked out Fred’s lamb. He picked it up and washed the short navel cord with a bottle of iodine. “It’s a girl. That was good, Fred.”

  “I could not have done it if you had not been there every step of the way and I wonder how happy I should really feel because in five months she will be put in a trailer, taken to the butcher, and cut up into pieces for dinner, maybe even our dinner.”

  Jack winced and looked down at the lamb being caressed by its mother’s tongue. “I tell you what. You can keep her.”

  “Um, um, that is not fair at all because you are a sheep farmer and this is how you keep a roof over our heads and today I just did my job and I will enjoy watching her grow up a little bit and not get too attached.”

  “It’s okay, you can get attached.”

  Fred watched his lamb as she struggled to stand. “Did you hear that, little lady, the king has called the sheriff five months early and you will not have to go to the guillotine.” Fred patted Jack on the back. “Nice king.”

  fifteen

  Kenton’s last two red pieces were easy prey for Fred’s king. One jump. Two jumps. The game was over. “Um, um, sorry, can we play again?”

  Kenton pondered the question with the same startled expression he had worn the fifteen other times Fred had asked after beating him. “Sure.”

  Fred pushed Kenton’s red pieces to his side of the checkerboard. Kenton plucked the four black pieces he had won and tried to hand them to Fred. But Fred was transfixed.

  The sound was off but the television was on. The sports network rotated the same stories in twenty-minute cycles. Fred watched video of moving vans parked outside the arena for the third time.

  He watched the team photographs being taken down from the walls. But there was one sequence that intrigued him the most: the removal of the team’s logo from centre ice. “Um, um, how do you think they do that?”

  “What?” said Kenton, turning his attention in time to see the moving vans departing the arena.

  “The logo, buh, buh, they took it off.”

  “I don’t know,” Kenton said as he rearranged his pieces.

  Fred made the first move. “Do you think that maybe they have a new logo in store for us next year?” Kenton countered Fred’s move, taking a black piece. “You’re good, okay, so what would you draw for a new logo, c’mon, think about it.”

  “A new logo for what?”

  “The team.”

  The game continued. The pieces, mostly Kenton’s, were plucked away. “The team’s gone, Fred. That’s old footage.”

  Fred frowned, “I knew that,” lost a piece, then took one of Kenton’s. Kenton moved a piece to the last rank of the board. “King.”

  Fred carefully put a red piece on top. “Um, um, crowned, your excellency.” Fred’s eyelids fluttered as he looked back to the television, which was now showing an interview with Andrew Madison outside an impressive arena. The naming rights had been sold to Northrop Grumman, its logo prominently displayed behind Madison. The weather was warm. Madison wore a collared, short-sleeved shirt. He appeared as high class and confident as ever. Even with the sound off.

  “It’s your turn,” said Kenton.

  Fred was just about to move one of his black pieces. “Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing?”

  “I moved.”

  “Where?”

  Kenton showed Fred where his red piece used to be. “From here to there.” Fred studied the board. The move. Kenton watched a scarlet rash spread from Fred’s neck to his face. And then, to his disbelief, he saw teardrops on the bottom of Fred’s eyelids. “Um, um, how am I supposed to learn tough lessons and move into a little log cabin in the woods if everyone treats me like a special-needs visitor? I thought you played me straight.”

  “I do.”

  “Then how come you didn’t do this.” Fred took Kenton’s king and jumped his four remaining pieces.

  “I didn’t see it.” Fred put Kenton’s king down, sat back and stared at Kenton, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Fred, I didn’t see it!”

  “Okay, okay, so take your kin
g and put him back where he belongs and make the move that wins the game.”

  “I already made my move, it’s your turn.”

  “I don’t want charity. I want a house I can call a home.” Fred lunged forward, grabbed Kenton’s empty pop can, crushed it in his hand and threw it against the wall. “How dare you!”

  “I never let you win!” shouted Kenton, his voice cracking. Now Kenton was on the verge of tears.

  “Do it right,” said Fred.

  Kenton’s hand was shaking as he took his king, jumped Fred’s four pieces, claimed them and bolted.

  Fred heard the back door slam, the wheels on Kenton’s bicycle crunching the gravel, and then nothing but a fluttering drape by a window that tapped against a lamp.

  sixteen

  Fred’s fascination with newborn lambs struggling to their feet waxed and waned as the grass grew higher in the fields and the weeks of May rolled on. His interest disappeared altogether if it was a particularly gorgeous day and he wanted to ride his bike. For reasons that Jack never questioned, this desire usually erupted on Tuesdays and Thursdays at exactly one-thirty.

  Jack didn’t mind the truancy. He took advantage of Fred’s habitual absences to make several hot-blooded leaps across the fence to the Volkswagen van where Marilyn waited, kissed, touched, and patiently insisted that women didn’t make as big a deal about sex, that sometimes it was just as nice to cuddle. So Jack held her tight and hummed in her ear and she traced the veins on his swollen hands.

  Following these afternoon trysts, Jack reassured himself that she was sincere about the cuddling when he scampered back to the barn, his balls just as full as when he had left.

  The ewes and lambs needed to be checked every two hours. Jack set his alarm for midnight, two o’clock, four o’clock, and again at six o’clock to start his day. It was, he told others, why he got paid the big bucks.

  In between his dusk-to-dawn patrols he slumped in his reclining chair and tried to catch an hour or so of actual sleep. Dink was now in tune with his routine and curled up on his chest. He wasn’t Norman, but he did purr.