Milk Chicken Bomb (6 page)

Solzhenitsyn is the skip, and Vaslav is the third, and Pavel is the lead. Their new second is a bald man with a moustache, he comes over and shakes their hands and mumbles behind his moustache and they all slap him on the shoulder and shake his hand. He signs the forms with the stubby pencil. Vaslav passes him the flask.

You going to win today, Vaslav? I ask.

Vaslav makes a hacking sound. People in this town, he says, they don't know from curling. Couldn't give a damn. They don't even name their brooms.

Does your broom have a name, Vaslav?

He reaches into the back of the truck and pulls out a curling broom, long and white-handled, a black cloth sock pulled over the bristles. This here, he says, is Anna Petrovna, the best curling broom in southern Alberta.

Hey, Pavel, Mullen says, does your broom have a name? Yeah, Pavel says, Broom. He takes a drink out of the flask and laughs.

Inside it's hard to hear, with all the overhead fans and people talking, and everything smells like cigarette smoke and chlorine from the swimming pool. Some Dead Kids from the sixth grade stand around the pay phone by the concession stand, take turns listening and snickering. They flip through the phone book and make phone calls with nickels, say things I can't hear and then laugh and hang up.

In the rink curlers wander around, stretch with their brooms, rub their sliders with the sleeves of their jackets. The United Church curlers stretch on the floor, with purple stickers on the chests of their sweaters: My Name Is and the Alberta Natural Gas genie, like they make us wear at school when we go on field trips. They laugh and eat cookies. And the Golden Oldies hockey team that Mrs. Lampman's husband plays with, in their high-topped sneakers, laughing and holding their beer guts. Steadman's Drugstore always has a team and Ackmann's Arena and Mill Store always has a team. They slide up and down the ice, some of them with flat black-bristled brooms and some of them with yellow long-bristled brooms.

When do you play, Solly? asks Mullen. Solly sits on a bench, stretches out and touches his toes. Touches his forehead against his knees. You know, he says, eventually. Go get some snacks. Go play marbles or something. He sits up, reaches in his pocket. Pulls out fifty cents and catches it back in his fist.

Out-turn, says Solly.

Come on, Solzhenitsyn, just give us the money.

I hold up my arm, like he does when he wants Pavel or Vaslav to throw an out-turn.

Good, he says. Okay, take-out.

Mullen shoos me aside. He sticks out his tongue and pretends like he's got a curling broom. Taps it on the ground in front of him, then heaves it up like a baseball bat and swings.

Right, perfect, says Solly. He opens his hand and Mullen grabs the quarters. Vaslav and Pavel pass the flask around. Who are you playing? I ask. Solly points over to the
RCMP
team, all of them drinking coffee out of paper cups. The tips of their moustaches get damp. You going to beat the cops? asks Mullen. Yeah, Solly says, we're going to beat the cops. Their second's got no shot and their skip ought to stick to desk work.

What about the United Church? I ask. Will you have to play them? Just one match today. We'll play them in a few weeks. Today the posties are going to make a mess out of the United Church, says Solly. All that ideological moderation is bad for your concentration. It's the Pentecostal church you've got to watch. Mullen rubs his hands together. Right, the Pentecostals. Right.

Some second-grade kids play marbles over by the water fountain. Flick their glass cat's eyes and speckled eggs at each other. You hit a marble and it's yours, and if the other marble is bigger you've got to hit it more than once. All the kids keep their marbles in purple bags with drawstrings – they get them from their dads once the rye whisky is all gone.

Mullen watches them playing marbles for a while. He starts flipping one of his quarters. Flips it and catches it, like he's going to call heads or tails. Eventually the second-graders stop shooting marbles and look up at him.

United Church match is about to get going, says Mullen. Against the posties. Gonna be a good one.

The second-graders look at him funny. What?

They're just about to start. How many ends do you think it'll go?

The kids keep on looking at him, really confused. The kid with the most marbles snaps his fingers. Come on, let's play marbles. Hey, come on.

What are you doing? I whisper to Mullen.

Well, we've got a good hand here, he says. We can stand to lose a few until we spot out the way things are going.

What are you talking about?

You know, he says. Covering our bets. Doesn't Deke always talk about covering bets? All right, he says to me, you've got to drum up some interest. You know, get kids running their mouths about the matches. Who's throwing how many ends and all that stuff. Get their fingers itchy. Hey, grab that empty can of nuts, he says to me.

Mullen, kids don't want to bet on curling.

Sure they do. He shakes the last few crumbs out of the can. Think of all the jerky and chips they could buy if a big score comes in.

Curlers start to shove all the rocks from the house back down the ice. They get down and stretch, up off the ice, their brooms down flat on the floor. The United Church reverend has a big yellow beard, round wire glasses. Pats the other curlers on the shoulders. The post-office skip slides down to the other end of the ice, a quick step and then a long slide, leg trailing behind her.

I dig in my pocket. Pull out a dime. I drop it in the can beside Mullen. Tell you what, I say, I bet the posties really sock it to them in the first end.

Ooh, Mullen says, big bet. That's some tough talk. Some tough talk.

The kid with all the marbles starts to say something, but one of the other second-graders cuts him off. What, all those ladies? With the sweaters? You think they're going to win?

I think they'll at least finish the first end ahead.

No way, says the kid. They're all girls. The other team only has one girl. No way they'll win.

Mullen shrugs. Rattles the can. The second-graders look at each other, then they all pull dimes out of their pockets.

Kids press their faces up to the glass, their runny noses make streaks. The church throws first. The reverend stands down in the house, broom forward. The organist sets up to throw, drags herself back with a little wheeze, slides out of the hack. Purple sweaters rub their black-bristled brooms, shuffling down the ice. On this side of the glass you can hear the reverend shout, Sweep! He waves his arms for them to stop. The rock slides, too fast, just outside the last ring.

We're set, Mullen, I whisper to him. Aw hell, Mullen says. What? Over there, he says, points to the back corner, by the door of the swimming pool. Aw hell, I say.

Jenny Tierney sits on a milk crate, sucking on a red straw. Chews it. She takes a box of mint dental floss out of her pocket, reels out a skinny white stretch. She ties a dental floss bow around her right thumb, loops it around the back of her hands, ties it again around her other thumb. Makes a cat's cradle.

You kids here to sell lemonade or something? Jenny asks. Tugs her cat's cradle taut. I don't think curlers much like lemonade. Mullen takes a penny out of the jar, flips it. We came to watch our friend Solzhenitsyn. He's the best curler in town. Jenny takes one of the sides of her cat's cradle in her teeth, tugs it down over the backs of her hands. What the hell is curling? Is it a sport? I see old men who drink too much. Do they fall down? Do we laugh?

The first end finishes: three postie rocks in the first two circles. The church isn't even close. All the people inside put down their Styrofoam cups to clap and whistle. Mullen rattles around the can while the curlers push the rocks back against the boards. Well, what do you know about that? He grins at
the kids. What do you think? I bet the reverend there pulls it together this time. The kids just look at him.

Uh, that was all the change I had.

Yeah. Me too.

Hey, says one of the kids to one of the others, I want to play you for that giant creamy. They walk over to the other end of the bench and get back to marbles. Mullen puts his chin on his hand and shakes his can.

Over on the next rink the Russians start up against the
RCMP
. There're quite a lot of people sitting on the benches for this one; everyone in town knows that the Russians are just about the best curlers around. Mullen and I sit right against the glass.

Curling takes a long time. Television hockey games and Sunday-afternoon football might feel long, but curling takes forever. If the Russians weren't the best curlers around it wouldn't really be a lot of fun. Every draw Pavel throws curves right in, pulls around other rocks like there's a magnet in it. Vaslav brushes real careful, hardly even totters. Flicks Anna Petrovna from side to side. At the far end he leans on Anna, catches his breath. The second stares down the ice and strokes his moustache. Rubs his bald head, slides careful up and down the ice, broom resting over his shoulder. In the sixth end Solly knocks four
RCMP
rocks out into the boards. The constables all groan and shake their heads. People on our side of the glass whistle and cheer.

Outside, Mullen hangs a chocolate cigarette off his lip. Lets it stick there by the paper. He upends the nut can: a dollar-eighty. Next time, Mullen says, I guess we'll have to plan it a bit better.

Jenny Tierney throws some rocks at the side of the building. You should have bet their marbles, she says. Jenny Tierney throws rocks like she doesn't much care where they end up, just pitches them underhand. But hard. They leave little chips in the paint of the wall. She stops and lights a cigarette.

What you got there, she asks. Chocolate? Real tough kid.

Real tough girl, says Mullen. Next time you should bet on some curling. Get a bit of the action. I mean, I don't know if it's a sport or not, but you could at least have the guts to put some money down on it.

Jenny cocks an eyebrow, bites her tongue like she's thinking about something. Then she spreads her feet and hits Mullen between the eyes. He yells and falls down. Slowly, like she isn't in a hurry, she sits down on his chest. Grabs his wrists and wedges them under her knees. Mullen hollers and she hits him a few times in the face, her fists coming right up above her shoulders. Then she stands up. Rubs her hands on her jeans and goes back inside.

Hey, Mullen, you okay?

My nose is bleeding.

Yeah, your nose is bleeding.

Is my lip bleeding?

Your lip is bleeding. Come on, we'll go inside. We've got to clean that up before it gets on your shirt.

Mullen sniffles, rubs his eyes. Blood drips on the concrete. How come it never snows in this stupid province?

We sit in the bathroom, he sits up on top of the sink. I mop his face with a wet paper towel. In the curling rink people whistle and clap.

It starts to rain. Rains and rains, for days. Nobody can say why. On Main Street people stand around under the eaves of their shops, in heavy winter jackets, holding newspapers over their heads. People watch the rain and talk about it. No sign of stopping, they say, no sign at all. It rains and the rain freezes; ice floats in puddles in the gutters. Ice on the picnic tables. The doors of people's cars won't open, on account of the ice. Mullen and I get a patio umbrella from the Russians, for the lemonade stand. A picture of a sunset on top.

And then there's the Ant People. The Ant People come and twist the tops off all the fire hydrants. The Ant People bite trees in half with their giant ant jaws; the trees fall and cut power lines, crush cars. People run around in the street, Help! Help! they all scream, while the Ant People storm through the aisles in the supermarket, smash all the ladders at the fire hall. The Ant People start fires. Their six buggy, hairy legs and their squishy, slimy abdomens. They build an anthill in the parking lot of the recreation centre out of mattresses and car seats, chesterfields, deep–freezes. The anthill towers up into the sky and everybody cries and hides. Why, oh why, they cry. Why did these awful Ant People come? When will they leave?

I hide in the gully, in the old tool shack. I cover the windows with some classified ads and make a fire, like Mullen's dad taught me. Building up a little teepee out of twigs. It gets pretty loud at night, down in the gully, with all the burning and shouting and eating alive up the hill. I cover myself in old newpaper and the red sky shines through my newspaper curtains. I wonder if Mullen and his dad got away from the Ant People. I bet them and the Russians hightailed it out, drove up on the sidewalks in Mullen's dad's pickup truck, running over Ant People, kicking them in their six ugly eyes when they tried to climb on the running boards. I bet they're all the way up to the Yukon by now, sleeping under the stars, in the box of the pickup truck.

The Ant People won't come into my gully; it's too narrow and tricky. I ought to be pretty safe here for a while. It's too bad when everybody's dead and gone, but sooner or later the anthill will collapse in on itself, trapping all the monsters
inside. It'll be them hollering, shrill ant hollers. I'll roam around town, through all the broken buildings. I'll eat dry cereal in the empty
IGA
. I'll be pretty sad, I figure, being all by myself.

Jesus, kid, says Deke, in his undershirt, holding a can of beer. Jesus, you're soaked. What the hell are you doing out in the rain?

I was waiting for the bus, I say. You know, the Greyhound stop at the Red Rooster.

The bus? It's late, kid, it's past nine. Get inside.

I duck under Deke's arm. Stand on his welcome mat, dripping. Deke shuts the door. Christ, don't move, he says, I'll get you a towel. He runs down the hall. Deke's house is warm. Hey, Deke, I say, it sure is warm in here. What the hell were you doing, he shouts, waiting for the bus in the rain? He brings me a towel, thin, with a windsurfer on it. A windsurfer, blue waves. I take my shoes off; Deke wraps the towel around my shoulders.