Milk Chicken Bomb (10 page)

There's a longer, slower groan, more of a sigh, which tapers off into a thin hiss out of the radiator. The hiss fades into a low hum. Solly comes back out, sets the hammer down on the window sill. Sits back down and starts to cut more wedges of the pie.

A house is under pressure, he says. Water, steam, gas, air, shit. More delicate than you think.

We hold out our plates and he dishes out hot red pie. Mullen reaches out across the table for the water jug and winces. His dad puts down his fork.

Let's see.

It's fine, Dad, come on, says Mullen. Blows on his pie.

Did the bandage come off?

Can I have the water, please? asks Mullen. His dad reaches over and pulls his sweater down over his shoulder. The tape has pulled off the top of his arm. Hot, puckered pink skin underneath. Mullen's dad pulls the white bandage back over and pushes down the gummy tape.

How'd that happen? asks Pavel.

My son has the good sense of a washtub. Took it into his tiny head to find horizontal fireworks and stand in front of them.

Schblaow, says Mullen. Holds his hands up, fingers spread. It was blue. Bluest thing I ever saw. Right close-like. He squirms away from his dad's hands, pulls his sweater back up. We all blow on our hot red pie.

At school we play kickball. Kids stand at the bases or sit on the bench, all wearing jackets and complaining about the rain. Can't we just say inside? ask all the kids. The rain is cold and gets right inside your jacket, inside your boots. It drips out of your hair. Mr. Weissman wears a yellow rain slicker. Blows his whistle and waves his arms. Come on, he says, you've got to keep moving. Keep that blood going! The pitcher rolls the big rubber kickball down the wet diamond, water spinning off in beads, and kids kick it off into the field. It splashes when it hits the wet, frozen grass.

Pete Leakie walks up to home plate. Takes his wet round glasses off, breathes on them. Rubs them on his shirt. Puts them back on and squints.

The pitcher rolls the ball down the icy diamond and Pete steps into it and misses. His boot flies off. He rubs his glasses and stands there on one foot while the pitcher walks out, picks up his boot. Throws it back to him. The pitcher bounces the ball while Pete puts his boot back on. He runs out toward the second pitch and misses again. Kids sit on the bench getting wet. Out in the field kids stamp in the wet grass.

The third pitch rolls down over the thin wet ice and Pete kicks the ball, it makes a solid thwopping sound and flies out between second and third base. Pete looks pretty surprised. He runs out to first base and kids yell and whistle. He runs out to first base and there's this big crack and all of a sudden I can't see. Everything turns black and white and I can't see, it's like when you close your eyes after staring into a bright light, and I can't see anything except Pete Leakie, a foot up in the air, not quite at first base. Up in the air with his arms and legs sticking straight out like a starfish, black against white.
There's a huge crack and crash and then we're all standing around, confused, kids screaming and crying. Kids stand around with their hands over their ears and Pete Leakie lies there on the ground. Mr. Weissman shoos all the kids away. Pete Leakie lies there and the ground is dry all around him, and you can see his lips moving, like he's talking to himself, steaming there on the ground.

Mullen's dad looks at his watch. The pitcher. The No Dogs Please sign. Us.

Come on, you guys. It's the middle of the day. What are you trying to pull? asks Mullen's dad.

School's closed.

He looks up into the sky. Not so cold, he says. Hardly any snow. What is it this time? Teachers' strike? Gas-line break?

Call the school, says Mullen.

What did you do this time? Did they send you home?

Just call the school, says Mullen. I don't want to talk about it.

Pete Leakie got struck by lightning, I say.

What?

You know, Pete Leakie, I say. Draws on the sidewalk, wears glasses. Lives a few blocks up the hill.

You can't get struck by lightning in October, says Mullen's dad. There's no cumulus clouds. No thunderstorms. You need the heat on the ground for the pressure difference, to make the static electricity.

Go call the school, says Mullen.

Mullen's dad goes inside. Later he comes back out.

We all walk downtown to watch them knock down the grain elevators. Old farmers with high–peaked hats and mouths full of chewing tobacco stand around watching. They spit on the ground. Mullen and I sit over on the curb watching all the old men. An
RCMP
constable gets out of his car and waves his arms to get everybody's attention. Talks to them for a while, pointing up at the elevators. The old men nod and they all take a few steps back.

Just like Deke said. Two Bobcats. Steel mesh over the windows. They drive the Bobcats into the wall. The wood splinters, cracks all the way up. The Alberta Wheat Pool logo cracks in half. One side caves in, broken lumber crashes on the steel roofs of the Bobcats. The elevator leans, you can hear it crack and break, all the wood. Is a grain elevator hollow? Are there stairs, drywall, light bulbs inside? The whole top half crashes down in one piece, topples over and crashes into the gravel. Can't see anything for the dust. Deke was right, saying it was like dry toast.

Workmen in hard hats walk through the wreck. Walls and parts of walls that didn't fall they hit with sledgehammers. The Bobcats push broken boards into a pile. Some of the old men flick their cigarettes at the wreck, turn away.

The rain turns to snow after school, around four o'clock, before the school buses even get out of town. Cars slide around in the slush; they stall in intersections, in front of Town Hall, at the railroad tracks. Somebody tips over a shopping cart in front of the Alberta Liquor Control Board. School buses drive slow up the hill, their back halves at wrong angles, take up the whole street. In the windows kids scrape at the frost.

Mullen stomps his feet, looks into the sky. Slaps his hands on his hips. You see that? The real thing, he says. Look at those clouds. Look how low they are. Mullen picks up some soggy snow and packs it into a ball. Tosses it up and down. We'll have to wax the toboggan, he says. We'll keep snowballs under the porch. He runs and slides in the slush, arms held out.

We head down to the river to throw some rocks. The water's too fast to skip rocks, but we like to throw them anyway. We like to sit down by the old rowboat we pulled up from the bottom last summer. Mullen gets a big chunk of concrete and heaves it into the river. I find some flat rocks and throw them at trees on the far bank. The snow comes down wet and steady. All the rocks around the river are slick with ice and covered in snow. We walk carefully on the slick rocks, arms out for balance, trying not to fall over.

If we had a pickup truck we could rob McClaghan's store, Mullen says. Go late at night, park in the back alley. I bet we could get that door open with a file. We could get all the fireworks we wanted and fill up the truck and drive away before anybody even heard. Nobody would say anything 'cause nobody likes McClaghan anyway.

We can't drive, Mullen.

Lots of people know how to drive, he says, and nobody likes McClaghan, they all talk about what an old jerk he is and how he's always raising the rent.

I bet you couldn't get his back door open even with a file, I say.

Mullen throws some rocks in the river. Nobody likes McClaghan so much, we could throw a rock through his front window, says Mullen, break his front window and people would hear and not care. All the fireworks we wanted.

Hey, you hear that sound? asks Mullen. We listen. It sounds like somebody digging, I say. It does, Mullen says, it does.

A little bit up the river, Deke, digging a hole. Wearing just jeans and a T-shirt, even though it's cold and snowing. His mesh Skoal hat. All covered in sweat. Deke is digging a hole about ten feet up from the river, where the bank is shored up with big grey rocks. All around, the brush and shrubs have been hacked down. There's a wheelbarrow, with a pickaxe and hedge trimmers.

Hey, Deke, what are you doing? Deke looks up, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Get out of here, you kids. What are you digging, Deke? asks Mullen. A hole? A trench? Deke leans his shovel against the wall of the hole, already about four feet deep. You kids are going to get me found out. Step off. He sits down, drinks out of his water bottle.

I stay at Mullen's house for a while. We sit in the kitchen and read comic books while Mullen's dad makes us macaroni and cheese. Across the street Deke comes home, pushing his wheelbarrow, with all his muddy shovels.

In gym class we play dodgeball. Everybody runs around throwing balls at each other. Dodgeball isn't much fun because Dead Kids like to come right up to you and throw the ball as hard as they can at the top of your head or your stomach. We all run around and Mr. Weissman waves his arms. It's about reflexes, he shouts, not brutality. Be considerate. I'm pretty much the slowest – the slowest except for Pete Leakie maybe. But Pete Leakie still isn't back at school, so mostly I get hit with the ball. Mullen likes dodge-ball but isn't allowed to come to gym class these days, on account of his detention backlog.

Dave Steadman walks up to Jenny Tierney while everybody is playing dodgeball. Leans in and whispers something in her ear. She turns a colour. Everybody stops. The ball, mid-throw, slaps against the wall and rolls into the corner. She stands there, that colour that Jenny Tierney has never turned before, and then she walks out of the gym. Dodgeball, says Mr. Weissman. Let's not forget about dodgeball!

After school the country kids wait for their buses. Town kids stand around in the rain, muttering. Every kid knows what's coming. Steadman and his friends stand around by the blue dumpster, waiting. Looking nervous, for Dead Kids. It's too bad Mullen's in detention, Dwayne Klatz says to me, I bet he'd appreciate seeing Steadman get murdered. I tug on my mitts. Yep. He'd sure like to see that, I say.

Dwayne points at the front door. Here she comes, he whispers. Figure she'll murder him right now? Guess so, Dwayne, I say. We sit down on our lunch boxes. Dwayne draws in the snow with his finger.

Jenny has her keys on a bit of shoelace. Spins them around, the way Mullen's dad does. Steadman and his friends stand up and puff out their chests. Girls from the sixth grade huddle by the gym doors, whisper and point.

I'm going to murder you, Dave Steadman.

Steadman puts his hands in his pockets. Takes them out. I'd like to see that, he says. Some real tough girl. He folds his arms across his chest. Go on, he says, I'd like to see that. I'd like to see you try. He juts out his chin.

She presses the point of her keys into her palm. Now? Of course I'm not going to murder you now. How would that be fun? She reaches out, casual-like, and grabs one of Stead-man's friends. Twists his arm up behind his back. He yelps. Falls down on one knee. Steadman sticks his chin out further. You don't get it, Steadman, she says. You still think life will turn out all right.

She holds the Dead Kid like that, one knee in the snow, sniffling. Staring at Steadman. With her free hand she gets out her cigarettes, shakes one out and puts it in her mouth. She pulls out a yellow plastic lighter. Light my cigarette, she says. Steadman blinks at her. She twists the arm a bit, the Dead Kid whimpers. I'm not going to light your cigarette, Steadman says. The kid in the snow starts to say something but she gives him another twist and he chokes up. I'm going to murder you if you light my cigarette or not, she says. You don't get any more choices, Dave. Things are pretty much finished.

Steadman takes the lighter. Cuffs his hands around her cigarette. Everybody holds their breath. The insides of Dave's hands flicker. He has to flick the lighter a few times before Jenny can get a puff. Then she blows out a thick cloud.

Jenny lets go of the whimpering kid. He just lies there in the slush, moaning. Steadman puts his hands back in his pockets. Jenny smokes. Remember, Dave, she says. Murder. Like in the Bible. Any day now. She blows smoke off to the
side and walks away. We all stand still and don't talk, just watch her walk away across the playground, smoking.

Too bad Mullen couldn't have seen that, says Dwayne Klatz. Too bad, I say. Nobody goes anywhere. I don't know why, but I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, Some kind of real prizefighter, Steadman.

Nobody goes anywhere until Jenny Tierney is out of sight. The country kids take their backpacks and get on their buses. Steadman and his friends stand around, like they don't know what to do.

Dwayne Klatz kicks the snow. Spits. Hey, Dwayne, I say, aren't you going to catch your bus? Dwayne watches Jenny Tierney disappear over the hill, the last puff like a cartoon train behind her. Yeah, he says, the bus. What about you? You just walking home?

Well, Mullen won't get out of detention for another twenty minutes, I say.

Right, says Dwayne. Looks back to where Jenny vanished. Well, I guess I'll see you around then. He hitches up his backpack and gets on his bus.

Mullen's dad gives us ten dollars. Go to the
IGA
, he says, Get some laundry soap. The kind without bleach. He writes No Bleach on the back of a crumpled receipt. Can we get popsicles? Mullen asks. Mullen's dad flips through the newspaper, not really reading. Don't get popsicles, he says, get Christmas oranges. Wouldn't you rather have some Christmas oranges? They don't have those yet, Dad. It's only October. Mullen's dad rustles the pages. See if they sell them individually, he says. So that you don't have to get a whole box.

We do up our jackets and pull our toques down over our ears. We run and slide on the frozen sidewalk, like curlers, arms out. Mullen runs and slides into a light post. Staggers away, rubs his nose. We get wet, our toques get soggy and drip.

At the
IGA
they've got a picture of town, blown up as big as a tabletop, taken from an airplane. Must be a few years old. There's only one rink at the recreation centre. And three grain elevators still, down by the railroad tracks. Must've been taken in the summer – you can see tiny hay bales in the square fields around town. Marvin sure looks funny, all made of roofs sticking out of those brown and green squares.