Free Milk Chicken Bomb by Andrew Wedderburn Page A

it’s justified, I’m just saying. Junior high school kids sit on their skateboards on the steps of the Elks’ Hall, smoking. They sit on their skateboards even though the sidewalks are all icy, the streets caked in ice from the rain.
    Lou Ellis from Aldersyde stands in front of McClaghan’s hardware store, chewing some tobacco. McClaghan has the awning pulled down to keep the rain off. The two of them play with the dial on the radio, trying to get the news. He waves to Deke. Good day for a walk, eh Howitz? Sure thing, Deke says, sure thing.
    McClaghan’s hardware store is right in the middle of town, so people like to stand around on his sidewalk and sound off. McClaghan will be sitting outside any time you walk by, smoking his Matinée Slims. If McClaghan’s inside the store, selling two-by-fours or saw blades, you can sit on his curb and watch the cars from up the hill drive by, looking for parking spaces. The Russians like to sit in front of McClaghan’s store and listen to his radio.
    Howitz, you didn’t come to McGentry’s funeral, McClaghan says. He sits in one of the folding lawn chairs against the big picture window: shovels, rakes, a wheelbarrow. He coughs and spits in his jar.
    Bert McGentry died? Deke asks.
    Fell down the stairs at the Legion Hall, says McClaghan. He got bone fragments.
    Bone fragments?
    They roamed around internally, says McClaghan. Fucking with his vital organs. He spits in the jar.
    Bert McGentry from Millarville?
    Bert McGentry lived three blocks from here, says Lou Ellis, behind the public library.
    Have a look, says McClaghan. New telephone. He holds up a phone receiver with no cord. Just a mouth and earpiece, and those touch-tone buttons, all one piece.
    Deke whistles. How far away can you walk with that?
    McClaghan shrugs. The main piece is back on the desk. Sometimes you have to put it back, to charge the battery.
    And you can hear people talking all right? Deke asks.
    Hear ’em fine.
    Deke thinks for a second. Takes a deep breath. Well, he says, I’ve been thinking about the rent.
    McClaghan’s face shrinks a notch. Thinking about the rent, he says.
    Yeah, says Deke. Thinking, you know, what with the increase …
    An increase reflecting a fair assessment of inflation.
    Deke thinks some more. Well, he says, I’d been talking with Vaslav Kurskinov, a few doors down …
    If you ask about the hot-water tank, I’ll evict you, says McClaghan. Your hot-water tank is fine.
    Lou Ellis takes off his hat. Well goddamn, he says.
    She comes up the sidewalk. A red scarf wrapped around her shoulder, hands in the pockets of her black pants. McClaghan spits in the jar. She walks up the sidewalk and stops in front of the hardware store. Reads the signs in the window: Fall Sale, and Authorized Dealer, the names of chainsaw companies and their logos. Lou Ellis scratches the top of his head.
    I haven’t got any more primer, says McClaghan. Next week at the soonest. He spits in his jar. Black flecks stick here and there in the waxy yellow layers.
    I need a thermostat, she says. The boiler is old and none of the wiring matches up.
    McClaghan takes another Matinée Slim out of his pocket. Lights a match off the aluminum siding. A boiler? You haven’t got a boiler, he says. You’ve got a furnace.
    I have a boiler, she says. Her voice is deep and careful, and the French in the h’s and e’s and o’s makes every word really stick with you. Heats water with a gas element, she says. Steam piped up around the building, to the radiators. A boiler.
    McClaghan smokes. I haven’t got anything like that, he says.
    Can you check? she asks. There’s a scratchy, throaty sound to the voice, like it’s coming over a radio.
    I haven’t got any thermostats, he says.
    She does up a button on the cuff of her jacket. What about the electrician? Morley Fleer? Fleer doesn’t do retail, says McClaghan. He spits in the jar. Deke