The Horn of a Lamb

by Robert Sedlack

  “I never asked you about Brandon because Mom told us not to.”

  “Okay, shhh.” Fred aimed carefully, winced from the explosion and smiled when he saw the second can disappear. “Buh, buh, why would she do that?”

  “She said you get too upset.”

  Fred squinted and pulled the trigger. He was so angry that the third can was still standing, he didn’t notice that Ryan was smiling. Fred set two more cans on the shelf and handed the gun to Ryan. “I remember that every boy wonder is in for a day of reckoning when he finds out that there are lots of boy wonders from midget hockey who don’t do much when they play junior and junior is not even professional hockey, so stop dreaming and start shooting.”

  Ryan raised the gun and aimed. “Hey, hey, hey, wrong hand.” Ryan switched the gun to his left hand. “I don’t believe it. Trying to cheat a handicapped man.”

  Ryan fired off a round and a can spun into the air.

  “Um, um, rookies will be taken inside the rink late at night and you will be told to take off all your clothes.”

  “That’s it?” Ryan steadied the gun.

  “Hold on, hold on, it is a race and you have to put a jellybean between the cheeks of your bum and if you have ever tried to run with a jellybean squeezed in your bum it is not as easy as it sounds and the boy who finishes last has to eat all the jellybeans.”

  “I won’t be last.”

  “You better stop smoking.”

  Ryan fired a shot. Another can pinged off the shelf.

  Fred growled. “That’s not all. They’ll make you get naked again and march you out to centre ice. At centre ice is a piece of bread, um, um, you have to stand in a circle and masturbate onto the bread.”

  Ryan lowered the gun. “Fuck you.”

  “You asked.”

  “I’m not doing that shit.”

  “Buh, buh, that’s the whole point. If you stand there when everyone else is busy and say, ‘I’m not doing that shit,’ then guess who eats the bread?” Fred squealed with delight.

  Ryan fired and missed. “You’re making that up.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think, just close your eyes and think of a pretty girl and try and forget that there are nine smelly boys with their peckers in their hands, oh, by the way, we are tied, so let me fire the last bullet and if I hit that can then you can give me five dollars, not ten.” Fred grabbed the gun from Ryan, who was visibly nauseous. “Um, um, goodbye cruel world.” Fred put the barrel of the gun to his head.

  “What are you doing?!?” Ryan lunged at Fred, but Fred pulled the trigger quickly. The click was loud and raw. Ryan’s momentum carried him into Fred and they both tumbled to the ground. Bonnie and Clyde started barking and circling. Ryan ended up on top of Fred.

  “You are not such a bad fellow,” said Fred, “you tried to save me from myself.”

  Ryan rolled off Fred and sat up, stunned, seething. “You are so fucking stupid.”

  “Guns only shoot six bullets, buh, buh, you did not know that, so who is stupid?”

  “How did you know all six bullets were gone?”

  “I counted.”

  “You can’t even remember what fucking day it is, how the hell are you gonna remember how many bullets are left?” Ryan jumped up and dusted the dirt from his jeans. He whistled at his dogs and tramped away.

  “I think you use bad words because you are upset and that is nice because it shows you care, buh, buh, aren’t you even going to help me up?”

  Fred fished in his pocket for the remaining bullet. All he found at first was a crumpled note from Jack reminding him to pick up the mail. He continued his search, pulling out other notes, some of them torn.

  One in particular was especially well worn. It was the back of the dime novel cover. Fred read the words again. They reminded him that his hockey team was gone. Badger was right: A sacrifice was required if justice was to prevail.

  Fred finally found the bullet. He held it above his head and inspected it, admiring the smooth metal with his fingers. He thought about shooting it straight into the sky. He imagined where it might land. Maybe it would fly all the way through the clouds and into outer space where it would float for all eternity.

  weaning

  one

  Jack had cleared the barn of sheep manure, had started laying down fresh straw bedding in the sheep shelters and had worried on and off for hours since Fred had pedalled away on his bike, refusing to tell Jack where he was going. Jack normally didn’t worry about Fred. But whatever had been bothering him before Mutt’s visit was still causing a faraway look in Fred’s eyes that Jack didn’t trust.

  It was just after ten when a car pulled up and a hunched-over stranger climbed out. The visitor walked around Jack’s house, reached up and knocked on the front door, the one with no porch. He stood a moment, staring up, looking lost. When Jack realized the visitor was making a dash back to his weather-ravaged 1977 Cadillac, he shouted.

  The visitor saw Jack running and cowered. It wasn’t until he discerned Jack’s smile that he seemed to relax a little. But he was still hunched over and his hand remained on the door handle, poised for a quick getaway.

  The muscles in Fred’s left thigh burned. A strong tailwind left him no slower than thirty kilometres an hour when he was coasting. He reached close to fifty when pedalling. He had stopped once for water, and was determined not to stop again.

  —

  Jack was fixing a fresh pot of coffee when he noticed Dink hovering near the visitor. Dink started to climb up his pant leg, eyes black and wide, trying to get at something in the visitor’s pocket.

  Jack picked Dink up and took him into the living room, but he tore back into the kitchen. Jack finally had no choice but to put Dink outside, a relocation effort that resulted in some painful scratches. “I don’t know what’s gotten into the little bugger.”

  “Oh, I think I know what it is,” said Virgil McLeod, as he folded his pocket down so Jack could see some whiskers poking out.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You always carry a mouse around?”

  “No, but seeing how I was gonna be gone for a few days I didn’t feel right about leaving him. Kinda silly I guess.”

  Virgil mumbled something and Jack looked over to see if he was talking to him. He wasn’t. He was just mumbling to himself. Jack brought the coffees over to the table. “I feel bad you’ve come all this way and I can’t tell you where Fred is. Heck, I can’t even tell you when he’s coming back.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, I was just passing through and thought I’d pop my head in, say hello.” Virgil sipped his coffee. “That’s a good coffee, what kinda beans do you use there?”

  Jack pulled the coffee can from the fridge and showed it to Virgil. “Just Maxwell House, already ground up, I don’t go for those whole beans. Too much bother.”

  “That’s a darn good coffee.”

  Jack put the can back in the fridge and grabbed some eggs. Virgil mumbled some more, then bowed his head and sipped his coffee. “I only make instant.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Jack poked around the cupboard. Virgil stood up. “If you’ve got things to do I can get moving on here.”

  “Oh, I’m just making a cake.” Jack found a large plastic bowl and pulled it down to the counter. “You can crack some eggs if you want.” Jack slid three eggs over to the bowl, grabbed a box of Betty Crocker cake mix from a grocery bag and two eight-inch baking pans from another cupboard. “I don’t suppose you know how to make a real cake, do you?”

  “I’ve never even made one of these.”

  “I guess it’ll be all right.”

  “Are you kidding? That looks delicious.”

  Jack peeked at the picture of the cake on the box. It did look good. All creamy and chocolatey and swirly. Virgil started cracking eggs and mumbled and Jack peeled open the box. “You know you’re more than welcome to stay over to see Fred. Knowing him, he might not be back for a while.”

  “That’s awful nice but like I was
telling you we’ve got to be back in Brandon. If it doesn’t work out it weren’t meant to be.”

  Jack almost asked if his wife or someone else was waiting for him somewhere. And then he saw the mouse moving inside his pocket. Jack dumped the cake mix into the bowl where the three cracked eggs jiggled at the bottom, and measured out the vegetable oil. Virgil poured the oil and some water into the bowl and Jack grabbed a big spoon from a drawer. “You wanna beat that while I get the pans ready?”

  Virgil grabbed the bowl and then stopped. “As long as you don’t think I’m gonna wreck it.”

  “You’re not gonna wreck it.”

  Virgil took the bowl of batter to the table, sat down and started spinning the spoon.

  Jack grabbed some butter from the table and began greasing the pans. A bouquet of flowers sat at the centre of the table. Marilyn had brought them to Jack the day before. Fred had seen them and thought they were for him. Jack didn’t tell him otherwise. The smell of the flowers and the slippery butter brought thoughts of the former dairy cow maiden waiting on the other side of the fence. In lavender.

  —

  Fred’s left leg was spasming so much he could barely stand. He pounded his fist on Badger’s door. The easy part had been making it to the city limits in under seven hours. The hard part had been finding Badger’s house. It took the help of seven strangers and a lot of wrong turns.

  Fred remembered something and frantically pulled a creased paper hat from his back pocket. He stretched an elastic band over his jaw and the hat snapped onto his head. It had balloons and stars on it. Fred banged his fist again. Then it hit him. Maybe he should have called first.

  Fred limped around the side of the house into the backyard and found Badger asleep in a lawn chair. Fred didn’t want to wake the old man so he stood where he was and watched his friend sleep. He was only faintly aware of a beeping sound from inside the house as he thought of the time that Badger drove out to the farm for his birthday and brought him the model kit for the log cabin as a gift.

  It took Fred three months to finish. It was frustrating work to construct with one hand, and in spite of Jack’s repeated offers to help Fred was determined to build it alone. Fred did call Badger several times for encouragement. When it was done he showed it to Jack, who had never seen him look prouder. Fred credited Badger, just like he had always credited Mutt for teaching him to skate.

  The beeping sound persisted and Fred noticed that Badger’s breathing had become laboured. Fred leaned forward and adjusted Badger’s nasal cannula. It was fastened tight. Badger’s lips started to turn blue. Fred stood rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do. He leaned forward and poked Badger in the ribs. “Um, um, are you dying? If so, tell me and I will call 911 just like that.”

  There was no response. Before Fred could rush into the house, Badger’s eyes fluttered open. He saw Fred with his paper birthday hat grinning at him. “Buh, buh, you had me scared for a second or two.” Badger, turning paler by the second, dropped his eyes to Fred’s feet.

  “You’re standing on my fucking tube,” Badger gasped.

  Fred looked down. He saw that the plastic tubing ran from Badger’s nose, across the grass, through the open back door and inside the house. And sure enough he was standing right on it. Fred lifted his foot, the beeping stopped and Badger filled his lungs with fresh oxygen.

  “Are you trying to kill me, Fred?” asked Badger, coughing and hacking.

  Dink inched his way to the barn, belly low to the ground. He had previously made short forays around the house, but the sight of the white giant had always sent him scuttling to a hiding place underneath the back porch. This time there was no white giant and he was feeling bold.

  Dink stopped at the barn door. His nose twitched. There was a cat in the barn and he was very close. Dink stepped cautiously inside. He did not see Tom, coiled inside a window frame, watching his every move.

  Badger took Fred into his house to show him the oxygen concentrator that fed his lungs. It was big, so big that Fred whistled. Badger wagged the tubing and told Fred it was his umbilical cord to Mother Earth. Fred was so impressed with the metaphor he wanted to write it down, but Badger pushed him into the backyard and told him he had an important phone call to make.

  Fred waited outside and worried. There was something wrong with Badger and it wasn’t just his lungs. It was the neglected state of his home. There were dishes, dirty for three weeks, piled high in the sink. A fridge that no longer worked. Spoiled food. Small plastic pharmacy bottles, some empty, some filled with heart medication pills, strewn across the kitchen counter. A Mr. Potato Head box but no Mr. Potato Head, just parts and pieces on the kitchen floor. Badger used to get out twice a week, to meet Fred at the library. Now he didn’t go anywhere. Or do anything. And it showed.

  Fred waited a long time before Badger returned to the back-yard. And while he had been waiting the doorbell had rung. Fred hoped that Badger had ordered pizza.

  “Um, um, I couldn’t help but notice that you have not made Mr. Potato Head, which was a gift from me.”

  “That wasn’t a gift, that was a foolish notion.”

  “What was?”

  “That I’d build the model and forget all about riding on the troop train. It’s a gift for a child. It’s completely inappropriate for a grown man.”

  Fred shook his head, unimpressed by Badger’s insults. “Tell that to Mr. Potato Head who lies in pieces, unmade and unrealized.”

  A mosquito landed on Badger’s forearm. He looked down. Fred noticed and waited for Badger to swat it angrily. “I’m sorry you picked a grumpy old man to spend your birthday with.”

  Fred adjusted his paper hat, which had tilted over his eyes. “You are just sad because you have nothing to look forward to, buh, buh, just think, in a few weeks we will be happy as clams sitting in our seats and watching hockey again.”

  Fred watched as the mosquito crawled along Badger’s skin. Badger took a short breath and stretched his bare toes into the grass. “You heard they moved?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny.”

  “No, it’s true. You just don’t remember.”

  Fred studied Badger’s face. It remained gentle and calm. Fred became agitated. “You have never told me a lie except for the peasant farmer you shot so I don’t know what to say, buh, buh, maybe they will come back just like I did.”

  “I think you’re changing the subject to avoid the awful truth but I do it myself so don’t feel bad.” A lawn mower droned from a neighbour’s yard. “Why are we so stupid, Fred? We’ve made machines that should have been mothballed thirty years ago, incompetent machines that choke our air with poison. Temperatures are rising. The walrus can’t find ice any more. Our food isn’t grown by farmers. It’s made by chemists. There’s cancer everywhere. Children starving to death. Yet we eat like pigs and complain about lousy service. We’re running out of water. And the water we do have they want to sell. It’s our water. Our land. The planet’s dying because a few men want to stay rich and nobody seems to give a shit. Oh, you better get inside the house and get your birthday present.”

  Fred rolled forward out of his lawn chair, walked into the house. Badger adjusted the regulator in his nose. A slight smile creased across his face and it remained there until a breathless, startled Fred came stumbling back outside. “Buh, buh, I don’t believe it, is she for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is only wearing a bra and panties.”

  “Well, get those damn things off and have some fun, soldier.”

  Fred stood a moment, looking down to be sure he wasn’t standing on Badger’s tubing. A frown scrunched his face. “Did you pay for her?”

  “We have an arrangement.”

  Fred’s frown gave way to open dismay. “And I suppose you think that the only way I can get a girl is to have a prostitute?”

  “Well, I suppose you could always try banging one over the head but this seemed more practical.”

  Fred put his hands on his hips. “I have
necked with Bridget,” he squeaked with exasperation, “buh, buh, don’t tell Jiri or he will kill me, okay, bye.” Fred began limping away around the side of the house.

  Badger struggled up and followed until his tubing stopped him like a leash. “Fred, I love you like a son but you’re a limping monster to most women who won’t take the time to find out how priceless you are. Honestly, how many chances do you have to get laid?”

  Fred, clearly uncomfortable, licked his lips and then spat into the grass. “I have been with girls since my accident, not many, buh, buh, a few, and one girl only had one arm because she tried to save her cat from on top of a power pole and when I asked her if she hated her cat because he made her lose her arm she said she loved her cat and she wouldn’t have climbed up the pole if she didn’t, I don’t know, um, um, we did it a few times and I had to break it off because I am handicapped and so was she and I just knew if we went steady everyone would stare. Two people can’t be together if they are handicapped, and I am only talking so much because I am nervous and don’t know what to do.”

  “You could play checkers, she won’t mind.”

  “Her breasts are just about perfect, not so big that they will sag when she gets old.”

  “I don’t think she’s looking for a marriage proposal.”

  “Wowee, I am a lucky ducky to have you for a friend and what made you think to get me something like that for my birthday?”

  “I thought you could use some tender loving.”

  “No, no, you know, just hard and fast, buh, buh, not too fast because you want to make the morning last when you’re kicking down those wobblestones and feeling frisky, hey, hey, hey, I don’t have a condom and I don’t know where she’s been.”

  “She’ll have condoms. If not, there’s a pack in the table beside my bed.”

  “You little devil, okay, okay, so tell me you will plug your ears because when I work my magic it can get very loud and very upsetting for other men.”

  Fred limped back inside the house and Badger waited to hear Fred’s double-barrelled laugh before sitting down in his lawn chair.