Milk Chicken Bomb (29 page)

We go to the
IGA
. We buy two litres of milk. We get the homogenized kind. We buy chicken breasts: deboned, soft, tight on a Styrofoam tray.

At the credit union, fire trucks idle, their yellow lights light up the street. The only other time I ever saw so many fire trucks in town was last year in the Sports Day Parade, when the firemen walked beside their slow–driving trucks, wearing their big black boots and yellow hats, throwing candy to the people lining the streets. Now firemen stand around the sidewalk, hands on their hips – there's a crowd to watch them, men in workshirts and a few in suits. Cars slow down on Main Street, people lean out their windows. Up at Steadman's they come outside in their white pharmacist jackets. Some old men come out of the Elks' Hall.

Constable Stullus leans against his car. Firemen open up the back of a red van. They unpack heavy boxes, root around on their cluttered shelves inside. They pull on hip waders. Like fishermen, underneath the train bridge, in the summer. A fireman pulls a pair of swimming goggles down over his eyes. His snorkle flaps on the side of his head. They go into the credit union.

At Mullen's house we flick pennies across the table at each other, our damp socks hanging off our feet, dangling down from our too–tall chairs. We flick pennies like hockey pucks, try to stop them from flying off the table.

When we get tired of that, we get McClaghan's jar and make the Milk Chicken Bomb.

It takes a while to find a lid that fits. Mullen's dad keeps all his jar lids in a drawer, with the Tupperware and old margarine containers. We find one that fits, though. Mullen holds the jar steady while I screw it on as tight as I can. It's tough, because the jar is so full, right up to the top, but we get it screwed on real tight.

So, you know where you're going to put it?

It has to be someplace warm, I say. Warm enough that it'll all spoil real bad. Bad enough that Bang! I hold up my hands, palms out. Mullen makes a face.

Ugh.

The worst thing, I say.

So you've got a place?

We'll put it behind the furnace. They'll never find it. You going to come?

Sure, says Mullen, I always wanted to see your house.

You want to sell lemonade tomorrow?

It's almost January. Nobody's going to buy any lemonade. Besides, we're on holiday. Who wants to work every day?

Yeah, I guess you're right.

We get the Milk Chicken Bomb and head outside.

An excerpt of this novel originally appeared in the March/April 2004 issue of
Alberta Views
magazine.

Many thanks to Aritha van Herk and the students from her manuscript class of 2001. The entire writing community here in Calgary has looked after me for years, so thanks, everybody –
filling Station
and
dANDelion
magazines, Jackie Flanagan and
Alberta Views
, and everyone who read and was interested right from the start: Nicole Kajander, Tasya Moritz, Derek McEwen, Grant and Lee, Julia Williams, Craig Boyko, Romana Prokopiw. Most importantly, I couldn't have accomplished anything without the support of Jennifer Tamura and my family.

Thank you to Chad Saunders for eating so many stupid things as a child, and to Silas Kauffman for the recipe.

Finally, thank you to Alana Wilcox for understanding everything so clearly and completely right from the start, and to everyone else at Coach House for the tremendous support.

Andrew Wedderburn lives and works in Calgary, Alberta, and grew up in the nearby towns of Okotoks and Canmore. He performs rock–and–roll music in the group Hot Little Rocket.
The Milk Chicken Bomb
is his first novel.

Set in Legacy and Slate

Printed and bound at the Coach House on bpNichol Lane, April 2007

Edited and designed by Alana Wilcox
Author photo by Tyler Stalman
Milk photo by Diane Diederich
Chicken photo by Ralf Hettler
Bomb photo by Felix Möckel

Coach House Books
401 Huron St. on bpNichol Lane
Toronto ON M5S 2G5

800 367 6360
416 979 2217

[email protected]
www.chbooks.com