Milk Chicken Bomb (17 page)

Six, says Mullen.

Six o'clock. At the Red Rooster parking lot. You can take me out, show me around, then I'll give this back. See you tomorrow, she says.

Yeah.

We watch her walk away.

If you get sent up one more time, I say.

Mullen digs around in the snow. Won't much matter, if my head's on a stake on her lawn.

Mrs. Lampman said if you were late with your social studies report you'd be in detention until after Christmas.

Discapitating, that's what they call it. Kid Discapitated, all over the newspapers. They'll have a picture of my head on the stake. I need to find my boot.

We sell lemonade in the morning. Mitts and boots and two pairs of socks and the snow falls all over. Mullen sits with his arms crossed, doesn't say anything. Cars drive by, windshields scraped, the side windows with wet melts in the white frost. No one buys any lemonade.

We fold up the tablecloth, lean the planks against the side of the garage. Mullen picks up a cinder block to take inside. Here, I say. He stops at the garage door. I unzip the top of my backpack and pull out a duotang. I changed the title page, I tell him. Look, it's your name. I figure I get sent up a lot less, so I'll do less time. When Jenny Tierney gives back your report, I can hand it in.

Shut up, says Mullen. Remember when we had to hand in our outlines? I got six out of ten for not using enough capital letters. Your report's about Father Lacombe, and mine's about David Thompson, and the teacher already knows that.

Come on. I wave the report at him. Look, I used white-out to change the name.

Shut up. He tugs his mittens down on their strings. Tugs and tugs. So I get sent up for a while. That's nothing new. I'll just do something else anyway, even if I don't get sent up for this. I'll just run my mouth off or something and it'll all be just the same. He tugs his mittens and bangs on the garage door. Dad! he shouts, hands cupped around his mouth. Dad, we're going to school now and I can't open the garage door so we're leaving everything here.

It's a real good report, I say. Father Lacombe and the Blackfeet. They had treaties. Look, I numbered all the pages. And there's your name.

Father Lacombe isn't David Thompson, though, is he? Just 'cause you never hear about it for anything doesn't mean the rest of us won't. Hey, Dad! Mullen's dad comes out, takes a second to fit the zipper on his jacket together. Look how shaky I am, he says, fumbling with the zipper. You should wear your jean jacket, says Mullen, with the buttons. Too cold, says his dad. Fumbles and then zips up the jacket. Too cold. He looks at the plank, the blocks. You guys go to school, he says. I have to warm up the truck. Go to school and I'll put that stuff away. Thanks, Dad, says Mullen.

Mullen's dad gets down on his knees, zips Mullen's jacket all the way up. You come right home after school, all right?

Dad, I have stuff to do.

Sure, you have a lot of stuff to do. But I want you to come right home. Your teachers say you never have anything done on time. Right? You need to start coming home earlier, to get everything done.

You never come home on time either. Solzhenitsyn never even knows where you are.

Well, I don't always have everything done on time either. Not far from the tree.

From the what?

Just go to school.

Don't forget to change back that name, Mullen says to me.

At school all the kids pull off their boots in the dark hallway. It's hard to see after all the bright snow. Kids hang up their jackets on their hooks, pull off boots and stack them by the wall, try not to step in wet puddles of melting snow while they slip on their running shoes. The hall smells damp and hot. Kids file down the dark hallway to class, yapping and laughing.

In class all the kids line up in front of Mrs. Lampman's desk. She sits in her chair holding her hot coffee mug under her chin in two cupped hands, and kids line up and lay their
reports on her desk in a pile. Duotangs and manila folders, and some kids even have clear plastic sleeves. Title pages, the date and a kid's name and a title: The North West Mounted Police, The Riel Uprising, Mackenzie and the Northwest Passage. I put my folder on the pile, and Jenny Tierney puts hers on the pile: Fort Whoop-Up, by Jenny Tierney. She doesn't have a folder, or the date. Stapled in the corner twice, because the first staple didn't go through all the pages. Mullen stays in his chair.

Mrs. Lampman sips her coffee and all the kids sit down, rattling their chair legs against the sides of their desks.

Mullen?

Mullen looks over at Jenny Tierney. She raises an eyebrow. He takes a deep breath and stands up. Didn't do it, he says. David Thompson isn't so important I guess. Besides, the library is full of books about David Thompson. Dozens of them: what he did and where he went, which rivers he fell in, how many canoes he built, how many jackets he wore. I figure the world knows enough about David Thompson and doesn't need some dumb kid going on and on.

Mrs. Lampman sips her coffee. Hunches her shoulders and lifts both cupped hands right up to her face. Nods. Mullen stands behind his desk. Mrs. Lampman nods and doesn't say anything. Everybody waits.

Every year at Christmas I get my husband a subscription to
National Geographic
. I think he likes the maps. I think he looks at the articles: tidal changes in the Solomon Islands, or the secrets of the Mayan calendar. They pile up around the house, all these facts. But does he read them? She sips some coffee and stares down at her desk, not really at anything. Everybody waits. Some of the front-row girls hold their pencils, ready to take notes. Mullen stands behind his desk, confused, like he doesn't know if he should sit down or not.

I could –

I don't want your report on David Thompson, says Mrs. Lampman. You're right. Who cares? What do you know? Do whatever you like. David Thompson isn't good for young people to be learning about anyway. Nearly spoiled his vision by staring into a candle. If he'd just shut his eye, he'd have seen fine into old age, but he wonders, What would happen? What else is there to see? Not much of a role model. The exploring itself is mostly bloody-minded macho work fantasy. Imagine a glorified trucking company, whose dispatch records get taught centuries later in university literature classes. But the eloquent, almost effeminate care with which these drunk brigands dragged themselves back and forth across the continent with their oily rodent carcasses in hand for some reason inspires the male imagination today still in this country. You're right: now's as good a time as any to break the chain. Sit down. She sips some coffee. Stands up.

One of the front-row girls puts up her hand. How do you spell … ev – eminate? she asks. Never mind, says Mrs. Lamp-man. Have we talked about Simon Fraser yet? The front-row girls nod. Who haven't we talked about? The front-row girls shrug. Mrs. Lampman taps her chalk on the blackboard. Little white ticks. What about Louis Riel? We talked about Louis Riel last week, someone says. She nods. I always like the Louis Riel part, she says. Such a good story. Why do we glorify cranky geographers who don't even get to the mouth of the river first, and hang Louis Riel? You want to hear about the Red River Rebellion? Doesn't that sound exciting? We learned about Louis Riel last week, someone says. Right, says Mrs. Lampman. Taps the chalk. Last week.

Jenny Tierney sits under the pay phone at the Red Rooster. Her knees tucked up against her chest, her chin on her knees. She doesn't wear a toque, no gloves, pink cold fingers wrapped around her ankles. Pink ears.

Wait a minute, I tell Mullen. He rolls his wrists, makes his mitts swing in circles at the ends of their string. What? he says. We'll be late. She'll tear up David Thompson. Just wait a minute, I say.

Jenny Tierney is tall but skinny. Her arms seem too long, longer than she knows what to do with. She folds and unfolds and taps her knuckles on the concrete. Rubs the back of her neck. People park their cars, blue station wagons, half-tons with dirty bed covers. People park and go into the Red Rooster, buy cigarette cartons or a litre of milk, plastic bottles of pop. They lean over the counter and rub nickles over scratch-and-win lottery tickets. Some of them leave their engines idling. Jenny blows on her hands.

Hey, Mullen.

What?

What's a rendering vat?

I asked my dad. He didn't want to tell me at first.

So what is it?

He says it's this great big vat, full of boiling fat. They take all the leftover meat, all the parts they can't use, and they boil it.

Oh.

Yeah.

It doesn't have a lid?

I guess theirs doesn't, no.

Jenny puts a cigarette in her mouth, rummages through her black purse. One of the straps frayed, held there with a safety pin. Rummages. A man in grey cowboy boots gets out of a grey truck.

Hey, mister, you got a lighter?

The man looks down at her. Walks past her into the Red Rooster.

How tall do you think she is?

She'll see us, says Mullen.

Yeah, but how tall do you think she is?

She puts the cigarette back in her mouth. Rummages in her purse some more. Then she looks up, across the parking lot, at us, leaning against the credit union wall.

Are you going to stand there and stare at me all night? she shouts. Jesus, don't they teach you any manners in Sunday school?

We rush over. She sits under the pay phone, looks up at us. Frowning. Mullen digs in his pockets. Let's get candy, he says. I've got forty cents.

Fireworks, says Jenny Tierney. Mullen swings his mitts. Schablaow, he says. She leans forward and stands up, careful not to bump against the pay phone. Tugs down her black T-shirt. Leaves her short black jacket unzipped. A faded print on the shirt, someone with messy hair and a guitar. Johnny Thunders, it says. Not really black anymore, like it's been washed too much.

We walk around behind the Red Rooster, down the alley. It's not really an alley like in movies, with walls on either side and clothes hung on lines and men in hats lurking and smoking. It's just a road behind the buildings, with potholes and washboard, weeds and frost and thistles. Just sort of where the town stops. On the other side of the alley the weeds grow up into bushes along the river. Okotoks has a river and High River has a river, and they're both deep and fast, but the Marvin river is just like everything else here, it just sort of
slugs along. You could probably swim across it no trouble if grown-ups weren't always yelling at you not to.

You have to think pretty hard to imagine Main Street from the other side, to remember which back doors and parking lots and blank brick walls go with which buildings. Behind McClaghan's are heaps of cardboard boxes, some of them broken down flat, but some of them stacked into one another. Some of them big enough to sit inside. Mullen and I slow down to stare at the boxes, but Jenny Tierney shoves us both between the shoulders and we stumble and keep walking.

Jenny Tierney whistles while she walks. When she isn't smoking. Not a round whistle, not loud like Lou Ellis, whistling along to McClaghan's radio. Lou Ellis can whistle the
Hockey Night in Canada
song, and all the country-and-western songs on the
Top Six at Six
. Jenny Tierney has a skinny between-the-teeth kind of whistle, real quiet. I don't think she whistles any songs, just sort of up-and-down scales.

Icicles hang off the footbridge, down toward the river, the snow shovelled just enough to walk single file. Jenny Tierney whistles and shoves us when we slow down and nobody says anything on the walk up the little hill to the junior high school.

The prairie comes right up to the junior high school, you can follow the snowdrifts, against fence posts, how the wind comes down all the way from the mountains, drifting snow across the parking lot, up against the long yellow brick walls, the squat windows. Sometimes we come to the junior high for a science fair, or a play in the auditorium, but I've never been to the junior high parking lot at night.

They sit in the boxes, up on the box rails and wheel wells of the trucks, or lean standing against the back windshields. Floppy toques, black hoods pulled over their faces, ball caps with mesh backs. Held together here and there with duct tape. Roman candles laid across their laps. Clouds of truck exhaust drift out into the snowy pastures.

Teenagers talk and laugh; some of them smoke, some of them drink slurpees. All of them tall, some pimpled and too skinny. Junior high girls share a slurpee cup and giggle, their thick neon coats open, their legs long, hair teased up, high bangs. They talk and laugh and some of them look over at Jenny Tierney and whisper to each other. They flick their cigarette ash on the ground. They don't wave. Jenny stands next to us, real quiet, not even whistling. Stares straight ahead.

Paul Grand sits on his creaky skateboard on the sidewalk, rolls side to side. He sees us and waves us over. We walk through all the teenagers, they stare at us but no one says anything. They stare at Jenny Tierney.

How's your shoulder? Paul asks Mullen.

All better, Mullen says. Pulls his jacket open, tugs down his shirt to the pink mark on his shoulder. Paul whistles. You sure did have us panicked when you took that. Straight on, bang, he says. But all better now, right? All better, says Mullen. Zips his coat back up.

Hey, Paul, I say.

Paul stands up, picks up his skateboard. In a minute, kid.

I just wanted to ask –

We've got to get started, says Paul. He puts both his index fingers in the sides of his mouth and whistles. Loudest whistle I ever heard. All the teenagers stop talking and turn around. Paul gives us the thumbs-up, then jumps into the back of a truck. We stand under a light post. Jenny Tierney still doesn't say anything, but her eyes are real wide.

Paul puts his hands on the roof of the truck, then huffs and pulls himself up. Stands on the roof. All the teenagers stop what they're doing; they whistle and clap. Paul waves.

Well, he says, just watch out for people's faces I guess. No shooting at anybody's head. And if somebody shoots at your head, then duck. Okay? Keep the music off, and no jumping out of moving trucks. Unless they're on fire.