Milk Chicken Bomb (16 page)

Hey, Ed, Mullen says, rattling the tin can. They're about to get going on that next rink there. Who do you like, the Chamber of Commerce or the Pentecostals?

Haven't got any money left, dickhead.

That's too bad, 'cause I figure the Pentecostals will make a real mess of the Chamber. Throw them around.

You're full of it, Shithouse Boy. Mullen shrugs, rattles the can.

You could bet your marbles, one of the other kids says. The other kids are up or down a quarter maybe, or a dollar, but the can is full of Ed's bills. Ed throws some more chocolate into his mouth. He opens the drawstring and pours a handful of cat's eyes, a giant creamy, into his palm.

Mullen looks at me. What do you figure?

I figure those aren't worth shit.

He's right, says one of the second-graders, those aren't worth shit.

Mullen rattles the can. Come on, they're about to start. In or out?

The king cobb steelie clangs in the can. Almost knocks it out of Mullen's hand. Churches can't curl, says Ed.

Yeah, says Mullen, churches.

The Pentecostals curl like robots, like someone built them in a factory just to win at curling. They curl better than the Russians. Other curlers, their matches finished, stand around not talking, leaning on their brooms. The Chamber of Commerce curlers shut their eyes at every crash. They turn away when the Pentecostals throw. They cover their faces when the Pentecostals sweep. Out here on our side of the glass, all you can hear is the muffled bang of rocks knocking into one another, the Pentecostal skip barking, hand held up rigidly, finger pointed in the air.

Your dad works at the shithouse, Mullen.

Yeah, well, look at all the money in this can here, Ed. You see that? Here, listen to it rattle. You hear that? A shithouse. Next time I'll take your goddamn running shoes. You can walk home barefoot.

Mullen goes to the concession, buys a pack of chocolate cigarettes. Peels off some of the paper, pops one in his mouth.

In the second-floor lounge the curlers laugh and shout at each other, and smoke cigarettes and drink beer. The air is clogged with cigarette smoke, and if you sit inside too long you smell like a wet ashtray, but it's fun to sit at the big windows and watch them curling down on the ice. Mullen and Pete Leakie and I sit on the carpet by the window and pull at the loose threads around cigarette-burn holes.

Hey, hey! shouts Vaslav. Hey, everybody, give me a second. One! somebody shouts. Everybody laughs. Vaslav waves his arms. The crowd quiets down and he picks up his plastic cup, splashes a bit of beer foam over the side.

My friends, says Vaslav in his loudest voice, my excellent good friends. Today I am a very happy guy. Everybody claps and whistles. He holds his hands up. Very happy! Firstly, and not least because myself and my prodigious friends are one step closer today to being the best curlers, not just in this town, but across the region. Everybody hoots and claps and
people knock their plastic cups together and slosh beer. The whole room smells like beer, that doughy, wheaty smell.

Vaslav raises his hands again. Yes, today would have been a good enough day for all of that. But, my friends, today I am doubly blessed. Now, I don't often talk about my work. But as a few of you know, I am an author of books. People whistle. Although I've never liked to use that term, author, says Vaslav, because it's usually affixed to writers who have actually had their work published, which does not describe me. Everybody laughs. It's okay, somebody shouts, we'd still call you a curler even if you didn't win.

Vaslav's smile takes up his whole red face. He spreads his arms open wide. Today I heard from Toronto. From the publisher in Toronto. And they said yes! A tentative yes!

People stamp, slap their hands on the tables. More beer splashes everywhere.

So here's to next month in Okotoks, when we cross brooms with Their Holinesses. We can only hope that the Good Lord is otherwise occupied that day.

The door opens and Jarvis Lester comes in. Everybody quiets down a bit to watch him hobble across the room, his steel cane thumping heavily on the floor. Solzhenitsyn gets up and pulls over a couple of chairs.

Much obliged, says Jarvis. Grunts and settles himself down in the chair, then reaches down and pulls his leg up onto the other chair. Jarvis Lester is the only black man in High River, and when he comes to Marvin, he's the only black man here too. Wears a white shirt and blue tie, his pants pulled up over the wooden leg to the middle of his thigh. The leg is ashy, a steel joint in the knee, more steel at the ankle disappearing into his sock. Hard to Kill is written down the front of his calf in woodburnt letters, like on a baseball bat.

Somebody get me a drink, he says.

Who is that? whispers Pete Leakie. That's my dad's boss, says Mullen. He owns the meat-packing plant. What
happened to his leg? asks Pete. The hide-ripping machine, says Mullen. Pete makes a face. What's a hide-ripping machine? I don't know, says Mullen, but that's what it did.

Here you go, boss, says Solzhenitsyn. Hands Jarvis a plastic cup of beer. Why, thank you. Jarvis has a long drink, then sets the cup down on the flat top of his leg, like it's a table.

Well, we're one step closer to our new career as professional curlers, says Vaslav. You'll have to find yourself a new pipe-twister. We're going to take him away from you.

Solly laughs. I wouldn't worry too much about it, boss. That's the least of your worries, I imagine.

Jarvis's face gets really serious, really hard. Closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. The least of my worries, he says.

Everybody standing around gets quiet. Jarvis has another long drink of beer. The Russians all lean in a little closer.

What do I have to do to keep you hicks from dismembering yourselves? asks Jarvis. We make meat. We kill animals and chop them up. We chop them up and square them and steak them and rib them. We freeze and boil them. It's not the post office. You have to pay attention.

What's going on, Jarvis? Come on, spill it.

Jarvis sighs, a really heavy sigh. Milo Foreman fell in the rendering vat, he says.

Nobody says anything for a long time.

What do you mean, fell in the –

I mean, fell in the rendering vat, says Jarvis. This afternoon, the weekend shift. Slipped on the flyover, went right through the railing, you know how heavy he is. Plop, into the rendering vat.

You can't fall into the rendering vat from the flyover, says Solzhenitsyn, it doesn't even go overtop.

Plop, says Jarvis. He finishes off his beer in one more long drink. Holds up the empty cup. Somebody takes it from him. Somebody hands him a new one.

Did you see him?

I saw him, says Jarvis. Makes a whistling sound. Splash.

And you couldn't –

You know how high the sides of that vat are, someone says. Everybody thinks about it. Everybody gives Jarvis's wooden leg a long look. People slurp down their beer. At the counter the bartender is already setting out cups and cups full of beer.

Last week, Milo comes into my office, says Jarvis.

Solzhenitsyn holds up his hands, shaking his head. You can't fall into that vat, he says. The flyover doesn't go anywhere near over the top of it. You just couldn't.

You'd have to take a run at it, says someone in the back of the crowd.

A run? You'd have to climb into the rafters, shimmy out jungle-gym style above the air intake, walk along the duct and then drop straight down, says Solzhenitsyn.

Let me just say, Jarvis points a long finger at all of them, that I will stand on the roof and pour hot pitch on the heads of the first sons of bitches that talk union. This is a freakish, aberrant incident. I'll brick up the doors. The merest mention of any three-letter acronyms will be met with gunfire.

So, Milo comes into your office.

I recall every detail, says Jarvis. Sharp, like it had happened to me. You know when someone tells a story, and it sticks? The details? This thing happened to a friend, you always start out. And as the years go by you start to change this or that, because this detail makes it funnier, a better story like so. And eventually you don't start with This thing happened to a friend, because by then it's happened to you.

Milo comes into my office and says, Jarvis, I have this dream.

We should get these kids out of here, says Pavel. They don't want to hear this.

We can stay, says Mullen. We don't mind.

Vaslav slaps Solzhenitsyn on the shoulder. Solly leans
forward, elbows on his knees, fists out in front of him, clenched tight. Eyes wide, not blinking. We'll take the kids home, says Vaslav. Solzhenitsyn nods. Jarvis turns in his seat and waves to the bartender. We're going to need a lot of beer here, he says. The bartender nods.

I dunno, I say. That snow is pretty heavy. I think we'll get stuck.

Mullen thumps the bottom of the old toboggan on the ground, knocks snow out of the seams. Don't worry, I greased it up good. He runs a thumb over the wood, it comes off shiny. Mullen's Secret Toboggan Grease, he says. It's the best ever. One coat makes it all new, like it'd never ridden over any gravel or ice or spent time in a garage. I figure I'll make up a few buckets and sell them to McClaghan. He could have a display, you know, a cardboard sign next to the sleds.

McClaghan will just rip you off. Don't you pay attention? McClaghan sticks it to everybody, 'cause he owns everything. He already owns your house, you want him to get his hands on your toboggan grease?

My toboggan grease is pretty fantastic, says Mullen.

The snow is too heavy. We'll get stuck halfway.

Mullen sits in the front and wraps the yellow rope in loose loops around his fists. Take a running start, he says.

Lift your arms, I need room to get my legs under there.

I cough on my mitt and sniffle. Some kids try to slide down the hill on plastic carpets and get stuck halfway down in the heavy snow. Sit there dug into a drift. I take a deep breath and run at the sled.

I hit Mullen's back with both arms outstretched, his head whips back and he whoops. The sled pushes over the lip of the hill. I keep pushing, expecting the sled to bog in the snow, but it shoots away, I have to jump forward to catch up. I land on top of the toboggan, stick out my legs, and Mullen grabs one and gets it around under his armpit in his lap. The other drags out in the snow and the sled veers to the right.

Jesus! shouts Mullen.

I get my other leg on top of him; the rope catches my foot. Mullen hauls us in to the left. We don't slow down. We go faster and faster and bump on all the bumps and shoot off a drift. I can't see anything, all the snow in my face. We start to lean over to the right, to the left, to the right again.

I can't see! I shout. I let go of his shoulder to wipe my face, and we crash down on the far edge, spin at a right angle, then sideways down toward a girl at the bottom of the hill, her back to us.

Mullen opens his mouth to yell and it fills with snow. Jenny Tierney, her cigarette just lit, turns around, her eyes open wide, and we crash into her.

We all sit up and stare at each other. The toboggan upside down in the middle. Mullen's face, all covered in snow, coughs, his mouth full of snow. A neat cone of snow on his head. Jenny Tierney's hair full of snow. Her cigarette, bent, drips.

That does it, she says.

I lost a boot.

I'm going to tear you limb from limb, says Jenny Tierney. Put your heads on stakes on my lawn.

I lost a boot, says Mullen. Anybody see a boot?

We all get up and shake. Mullen's Secret Toboggan Grease, he says, grinning. Jenny Tierney shakes snow out of her hair. Looks to us like she's deciding who to hit first. Mullen stands on one foot, his sock wet, half off his foot. Holds up his hands.

We'll help you get Dave Steadman.

Stakes, she says.

It was an accident. We'll get you cigarettes.

She takes a step forward. And you'll get me lemonade too, sure.

Are you going to the roman-candle fight tomorrow night? asks Mullen.

She stops. What?

The skaters at the junior high, he says. The Tuesday-night roman-candle fight.

You made that up.

It's the best thing. He waves his arms and makes a big bursting sound. Fireworks everywhere. Sparks and fire and pickup trucks.

You made that up.

He takes off a glove, rolls up a sleeve. Shows her the flash burn on his shoulder. I went out last month and watched and got this. Just winged me. I had to go to the High River hospital. She grabs his arm and yanks him forward. Leans down to look at the raw pink skin.

Did you cry?

Goddamn right I cried. Look at that, it was all blistered.

Fireworks?

We'll take you.

She thinks for a while. You have to give me a hostage.

What?

A hostage. Give me your bag.

I need to find my boot, says Mullen.

Jenny reaches out and shoves Mullen over. Then she shoves me over into the snow too. She picks up Mullen's knapsack out of the snow, shakes it dry. Unzips the top and looks inside. She pulls out a red duotang, crumpled corners. Opens it up and reads the first page.

Report on David Thompson and His River Exploring, she says. Flips a few pages. What's this here, she asks, points to a pencil-crayon map, British Columbia? Look, you labelled all the rivers. Mullen sits in the snow, his soggy sock, half off his foot, sticks out in the air. Watches her flip pages. David Thompson wanted to find the Columbia River for the North West Company, she reads, because nobody had ever found the Columbia River and it was very important for the fur trade which is what the North West Company did. This is due tomorrow, right? she asks.

Tomorrow, says Mullen.

And these junior high boys shoot fireworks at each other tomorrow night?

Mullen nods.

Well, I'll give this back to you after you take me to see junior high boys shoot fireworks at each other. She curls the duotang up and sticks it in her jacket. She opens her cigarette pack; snow drips out. She sighs and puts them back in her pocket. What time?