Milk Chicken Bomb

by Andrew Wedderburn

  We drive into the zooming white snow. And the driver turns around and grins, and says, Okay, kid. Aldersyde, right?

  Hoyle the waitress stops, the coffee pot tilted in her hand, when she sees me.

  Kid.

  I pull myself up on a stool. Hi, Hoyle, I say.

  You can’t just turn up here in the middle of the night.

  It’s not that late. Probably, what, nine o’clock? Ten? Not that late.

  It’s nasty out there. Were you hitchhiking?

  Well, I was walking, and some teenagers picked me up. I didn’t ask them to, though. They just stopped.

  She starts to say something and stops. She picks up a dishtowel and twists it in her fists and then throws it down on the counter.

  Kid, she says, you can’t just turn up here. Okay? You’re a long way from home and it’s late and that’s no good.

  That’s what everybody keeps telling me, I say.

  Kid – She stops. She sighs and picks the dishtowel back up. Then she leans over the counter. She has a black apron on over her red and grey Petro–Canada shirt. A pen behind either ear. Leans right over, hands on the napkin box. Her chest on the counter.

  I get off work in two hours. You live in Marvin, right?

  Yeah.

  Okay. I’m going to get off work in two hours, and then I’m going to drive you back to Marvin. You can sit here in the meantime. They’ve got some magazines in the convenience store. And comic books. You like comic books?

  Yeah.

  Okay. Go grab some comic books. I’ll get you something to drink. Okay?

  Okay.

  The doorbell chimes and the man with the wide–brimmed straw hat walks in. Sets his big black book down on the counter, muttering to himself. Starts to take things out of his pocket and arrange them: some coins, a ballpoint pen, some foam earplugs, a pile of paper clips. He arranges them all in front of him, then scoops them all back up and puts them back in his pocket.

  What did you do with all the money the bank gave you? I ask him. The Hat Man starts a bit. Looks down at me. Drums his fingers on his heavy book. Mutters to himself and rustles his napkin. A milkshake, please, he says when Hoyle looks up at him. He jerks his head at the milkshake machine. Vanilla.

  Hoyle rolls up her sleeve and opens up the little freezer. Leans down inside, roots around, then reaches over for the ice–cream scoop. You can see her breath. She grunts and digs in the freezer, grits her teeth. Eventually stands back up with a scoop of ice cream. She pushes the milkshake cup up into the machine, digs the long mixer spindle in and props the cup on the ledge, starts to blend the ice cream. Pours in a little milk. The Hat Man stares. She pours in a little more milk. The cup gets frostier.

  What’s your book about?

  He keeps staring at her, pulling the cup off the machine. Pouring the milkshake into a tall glass. White milkshake drips off the end of the blender. She pops a straw into the glass and sets it down in front of him.

  The Hat Man takes a long slurp of milkshake. Then he looks over at me. Jesus is four hundred feet tall, he says. Has another slurp through the straw. That’s forty storeys. No one knows how heavy Jesus is. Some speculate He’d weigh the same as any person, expanded to that scale. Others hold that while the reincarnated Christ may occupy space, to claim a mass for Him is blasphemous. Mass, they say, implies the prevelance of force, namely gravity, and to assert the dominance of any force over any part of the Trinity is a sin. Flies in the face of reason.

  He watches me for a while. Slurps on his milkshake. Then he leans a little closer.

  After the resurrection, Jesus becomes an infinite series of anecessary possibilities. The divine privilege, however, is the maintenance of identity in spite of a simultaneous infinite progression across infinite dimensions.

  Infinity, I say. Like going on forever.

  He claps. Hoyle jumps, spills a bit of her ginger ale. On forever! he hollers. Slaps his thigh. Then he gets serious. Leans over, all secret–like.

  My …. I am the four–hundred–foot Jesus. I see Him. If I keep the four–hundred–foot Jesus – His massive feet, His arms, how high He can reach – if I keep all these things at the fore–front, all the time … Alone on the prairies, the highway’s tiny lines. He steps over valleys. I have to think, all the time, about the four–hundred–foot Jesus. To keep the place in the series, you see. A marker.

  Like a bookmark.

  He looks at me. Then he slaps his thigh again. Analogy is the key to philosophy, boy. A bookmark in an infinite book.

  Do you know how to make The Milk Chicken Bomb? I ask the Hat Man. Hoyle stops wiping the counter and looks at me. The Hat Man coughs. No one will tell me, I say. I’m not even going to make one. I just want to know.

  We find the world stranger as we leave than as we arrive, says the Hat Man. He slurps his milkshake in long, thick slurps, his cheeks sucked in. I’m through, he says. Through!

  You owe me a buck twenty–five, says Hoyle. He snorts. Throws a pile of change onto the counter. Looks at me. Stranger as we leave, he says. Rushes out the door. Everyone turns to watch him.

  Over in the convenience store I flip through the magazines. Lots of hunting magazines: men in green overalls with big long rifles, or crossbows, standing in the forest, grinning. They don’t have any really good comic books in the convenience store. They have a few superhero comics but nothing I haven’t already read. Nothing new. The only new issue is The Mysterion, there in the back row. I never read The Mysterion comics, ’cause all he does is talk and talk, long made–up words with nothing to do with anything. Sometimes there’s wizards or devils, which ought to be exciting, but instead of blasting each other they just talk and talk. I don’t know how many issues of The Mysterion comics you have to read before a devil blasts somebody, but it doesn’t seem worth it to find out.

  I pick up the new issue of The Mysterion and what do you know, there on the cover, her face full–size, her mouth open, her eyes closed shut, the Under Queen. I knew it! I knew she’d be back.

  Eventually the last trucker finishes his coffee, crumples up his napkin and leaves his five–dollar bill on the table. Everybody waves as he wanders out the door, out across the long, quiet parking lot, to the dark row of trucks. One of the gas jockeys wanders through the convenience store with a broom, sweeping up the dirt and gravel that got tracked in from the winter all day. Hoyle goes around wiping all the tables down. She takes all the money out of the till and sits at the counter with an envelope and a calculator. Adding up numbers and counting bills. She makes sure that all the queen’s faces on all the bills face the same way.

  The Under Queen wakes up on the beach, driftwood, seaweed, all bleary–eyed and confused. She isn’t even her old blue colour, more of a pale green. She lies there on the beach all confused. Takes her time, panels and panels. Yeah, this sure is a Mysterion comic. No fun at all. I flip ahead a bit. No blasting anywhere to be seen.

  At the dock she tries to talk to the longshoremen in their watch caps. They see her in the light all bluey–green and slippery, and they panic and run away. Her speech balloons full of …s and sort–of words, to show how confused she is.

  How’s your comic book? asks Hoyle.

  I shrug. It’s one of these super–villain–becomes–amnesiacal–and–does–good–for–a–while stories, I say.

  Those happen a lot?

  It’s bunk, I say. You have to wait two or three issues for someone to treat them badly enough for them to go back to their evil ways. What’s worse is, not only have they made my favourite villain lose her memory, they’ve put her in this Mysterion story, and he’s boring enough already.

  What’s a Mysterion?

  He’s this boring old wizard in a stupid cape that says a lot of made–up words and never blasts any devils.

  Sounds pretty dull, says Hoyle. She closes up the cash register. Okay, she asks, you ready to go?

  I guess so.

  Hoyle drives a big brown van. A round bubble window in the back. Lots of
bumper stickers: radio–station call letters and ski–resort logos. She pulls open the heavy door and I climb up, onto the running board, inside. Her van is all padded with carpet; in the back I can see wood–panelled countertops, a sink. Hoyle climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the van. We sit in the dark while it warms up. There’s enough of a moon out that you can see the dark sky coming down to meet the flat prairie way out in the east. There’s no landscape, out in the east, no hills or mountains, no red blinking radio towers. Just the flat grey ground running out to the grey sky. Hoyle yanks the gearshift down. We drive out of Aldersyde.

  When we get into Marvin, if you don’t mind, I’d like to check something out, she says. It’ll only take a minute.

  Sure thing, I say. I try not to yawn. My eyes are heavy and stinging. I shake my head to keep them open.

  I want to drive past that new music school, she says. You know where that is?

  Music school?

  Yeah, says Hoyle. There’s a music school opening up in Marvin. You hadn’t heard?

  I guess not, I say. Blink my eyes out at the white fields.

  A few of the farmers were talking about it, says Hoyle. She drives with one hand and digs in her purse with the other. Finds a pack of gum, unwraps a stick one–handed. They were planning to enroll their daughters. I was thinking I might enroll myself.

  We drive into Marvin. Hoyle leans forward over the steering wheel, trying to see through her frosty windshield. So where am I headed anyway, kid?

  Oh, you know, just anywhere.

  Come on. Don’t be stupid. I’ll drop you off at home.

  Down that way, I say. I make sure not to follow the street with my eyes when we drive by.

  Everything is quiet, all over town – no other cars. We drive down the snowy streets and look at all the Christmas lights, up on every house. Red and green and blue, some of them blinking on and off. Strung in the trees and along the roofs. We drive down the hill. Marvin seems even quieter than usual, under all the white snow.

  We stop at the four–way in front of the post office. Hey, she says, it’s your dad.

  I lean forward over the dash. Heart beating and beating and beating. Then I see Mullen’s dad, sitting on the sidewalk across from the junk shop. Take a deep breath and sit back.

  That’s not my dad, I say.

  Oh, says Hoyle. She starts to say something else, then stops herself. She claps her hands on the steering wheel and points. Look, she says, this is it!

  There’re two moving vans parked out front of the junk shop. The four–way blinkers light up the front windows, all orange and then dark, orange and then dark. Inside, the front room still looks pretty empty, but there’s a sign now. A wooden sign, painted very carefully, hanging over the door: Music Lessons.

  I’m going to learn to play the piano and get the hell out of here, says Hoyle. I’m going to move to Vancouver and play jazz music in nightclubs. She spreads her hands out over the dashboard, fingers spread apart like it was a keyboard, and starts to play, thumping her fingertips up and down on the plastic. No more prairies, no more gas stations, no more men in trucks, she says. Just a giant city where you can stay up all night and sleep all day.

  Mullen’s dad looks over at the vans. We both wave to him. His shoulders slump a little bit. He shakes his head and pinches his forehead. Then he nods and waves.

  You want me to leave you with your friend then?

  Yeah, I say. He’ll look after me.

  Okay, says Hoyle. Hey, I’ll probably see you, though, when I come into town. When I learn to play the piano.

  Okay, Hoyle. I put my hand on the door handle and then she grabs me by the shoulder. She pauses for a second, and then leans forward, all secret–like.

  You need a jar, she says. Leans right over close, so that I can smell her peppermint chewing gum. You need the biggest jar you can find, with a lid that’ll screw on real tight.

  Now you’re going to have to fill it really, really full, and make the lid as tight as you can. So that if whatever was inside there were ever to expand in any way …

  I nod. Why’s it going to expand, Hoyle?

  Well, when what’s inside of it turns bad enough. Starts to really go off. You need that lid tight, though. And don’t pick too thick a jar. It needs to break, see. At that climax.

  I nod. Right, Hoyle. Got it.

  But you can’t do it, she says, Because it’s too awful. No one’s ever going to live there again, wherever you put it. Okay?

  I’m not going to do it. I just need to know how. Just in case.

  Okay, go see your friend.

  I open the door and get out of the van.

  Mullen’s dad holds his finger up to his lips. Points across the street with his chin.

  Hélène stands by the door, arms tight around her chest. A long white scarf, a knit white toque. Long cigarette, no hands, out of the side of her mouth. Five men in grey jumpsuits are in and out of the vans. Cardboard boxes, taped shut. Wooden chairs stacked in twos. A bookcase. They use a dolly to haul out filing cabinets, the drawers held closed with black electrical tape. One of them brings a piano bench, hugged against his chest.

  Did you see the licence plates? he asks. I squint across the dark street. I can’t read that. Je me souviens, says Mullen’s dad. Digs in his pocket for a yellow pencil. Chews.

  Made it all the way out to the truck stop again, eh?

  I sit there and don’t say anything. He chews on the pencil.

  When I drop you off –

  No, really, you don’t have to.

  When I drop you off, I’ll come in. Have a few words.

  Look, I say, you can’t. Okay? You can drop me off but you can’t come in.

  I’m sick of –

  You can’t, okay? It’s fine. I mean, it’s fine.

  Kid –

  Promise, okay?

  Mullen’s dad chews on the pencil. Across the street one of the movers pulls up his shirt and tightens the padded backbrace underneath.

  My wife owns a country–and–western bar in Whitehorse, says Mullen’s dad. Big jukebox, peanut shells on the floor, swinging saloon doors. Every night at last call it’s ‘Four Strong Winds’ by Ian Tyson.

  I won’t divorce her because I don’t want her to see Mullen. She won’t divorce me because she likes being married. Keeps a Polaroid of me behind the bar, on the brandy and cognac shelf. I’m pushing an Oldsmoblie out of a ditch. All covered in mud. My husband, she tells people. She sends Mullen pictures of herself on snowshoes, on dogsleds. She has a bank account for him, for school, someday. Nothing I can sign for.

  He stares across the street. Chews into the pencil. Little flecks of yellow paint on his lips.

  I don’t know why she even has cognac in the bar. I doubt she’s ever sold an ounce.

  Promise, I say.

  The men in jumpsuits all go up the ramp into the second van. The whole van rattles. She paces around, watching them, shakes her head, says something angry in French. Holds her hands up. They shout back. She points and hollers.

  Upright? asks Mullen’s dad. Baby grand?

  They start to wheel the piano down the ramp. A brown upright, on wheels, a black blanket half–draped over the top, not quite covering all the keys. They huff and heave it down the ramp. Stop to get their breath, clap their hands, find their grips. Brace their shoulders and huff, push it down to the street, then they all squat and catch their breath, and hup the piano the few inches onto the curb. Clap their hands. She smokes and smokes. Then grunt and up, they stop mid–heave, wait, one second, two, then up more and the whole thing onto the sidewalk. They pant. Hold the smalls of their backs. Then shoulders and groans and they push it up to the store.

  After a long break, they bring the second piano down the ramp, black and long, like on television, in black–and–white movies. It looks even heavier. Mullen’s dad whistles. She smokes and sometimes looks over at us but doesn’t really pay attention. Just watches, smoking, until both the pianos are inside, then she fol
lows them and shuts the door.

  After school I like to go over to the Russians’. Pavel and Vaslav sit out on the porch in their heavy coats. Pavel shuffles cards.

  Where’d you sleep last night? I ask them. Are you still sleeping at Mullen’s?

  Vaslav coughs. I’m getting a cold, he says. I just want to do my laundry. I want to shave in hot water and leave my razor on the sink. He coughs. Drums his black leather fingers on his coffee mug.

  Don’t you ever go home? Pavel asks me.

  Sure, I say, every night. Just like everybody else.

  Right, says Pavel. Just like everybody else.

  You guys are from Russia, right? I ask. Russia the country? How come you guys never talk about Russia?

  Vaslav coughs, spills some of his coffee. What is there to talk about? he asks. Pavel deals us cards. Five cards for each of us, six cards, seven cards. Slow down there, says Vaslav. Fans his cards out.

  Solzhenitsyn drives up in his hatchback, the engine rattles to a slow stop. He gets out with a paper bag from McClaghan’s. Walks up to us, sitting around on the porch in our mitts and blankets, doesn’t say anything. He pulls cardboard boxes, new ratchet bits, out of the bag. Something small, with wires and a dial. Rubs his red eyes. He pulls a little white mask over his mouth and nose, ribbed and a bit fuzzy, the elastic strap tight around his messy hair. Fills his pockets with screwdrivers, a hammer, other tools I’ve never seen. He opens the door of their house and goes inside.

  Got any sixes? asks Pavel.

  Fish.

  In Petersburg, says Vaslav, there was this guy, Ivan Mortz was his name.