Abattoir Venise en Quebec
by Antonios Maltezos
My father swerved onto the gravel driveway as if to save our lives, the sound of stone crushing beneath the tires, a cloud of white smoke billowing out from underneath the car, my brother's body slamming into mine. My voice, small and high-pitched: "Jerry's unbuckled, Jerry's unbuckled."
The eighteen wheeler's horns blared as it blew past us; a blast of hot air rocking our car on its springs—a row boat skipping over a wake. My father nearly climbed out of his window, shaking his fist through the unsettled air. "Fucking bastard!" It was then I noticed the big sign, Abattoir Venise en Québec, smooth, red lettering on a white background, and I wondered if they'd have a piglet, what about baby goats, pulling myself forward between the front seats, getting no response from my father, his ears chafed, his eyes overcast and ugly.My brother nailed me in the arm with a punch and then yanked me back with him, hissed in my ear, "Fucking bastard." The flies lifted off the side of the abattoir as if they'd been guarding it, swarmed my father as he opened his door. Another shot from my brother as my father came around to my side of the car, my father ignoring the excited flies as he flicked the handle of my door. No words, just his eyes telling me to unlock it.
"Don't you know what an abattoir is?" my mother had asked. Her fingers had crawled up my back, stopping at the scruff of my neck.
"I love you, momma," I'd said, wishing my father would let her come with us.
"I love you, too, baby love."
"They're all dying inside," my brother said as the flies attacked his face. His stubby hand cupped at his ear. "Listen."
I heard the mewling; my mother had told me I'd hear it. "Baby love," she'd said, "it's all God's handiwork, only suffering's what's in our hearts."
My father's eyes locked with mine, the truck long gone by now, his face, his voice, glowing warmly again, scaring me. "You gonna be okay, boy?" before turning away.
My brother stood on an upturned plastic pail and peered through the filth stained window. His voice: "Whoa! Whoa!" as the pail kicked out from under him. My voice: "Jerry's leg is broke! Jerry's leg is broke!" I hoped it wasn't true. I said it to bring my father back outside. Another shot in the arm from Jerry before he limped towards the entrance, the flies opening a path, closing it behind him, covering over his scuff marks in the gravel.
My father's voice, small and far off: "Dix barbeques."
My mother's voice telling me I should right the plastic pail, bottom side up: "only suffering's what's in our hearts." All around, Jerry's sneaker prints in stone dust.
The peeling paint from the window sill fell into my eyes as I pulled myself up. Nothing I could see, nothing visible through the cloudy glass, the spider piss. My brother had told me to listen, and I did, hearing the chickens, the sharpness gone from their clucking as if dead tired, sounding like pigeons. I spat on the window, rubbing it with my finger. My father's tall profile slowly emerged, my stocky brother, them holding each other, my heart warming at the sight of my brother clutching at our father's wide belt. We all listened to barbeque number one in a large plastic garbage pail, its beating, flapping wings pumping out every last drop of blood from its body. The man in rubber boots and heavy gloves reached into the drum to pull out the chicken, its bloody feathers tousled, tossing it aside so number two could have a go. I hadn't noticed the knife with number one, or the way the man had made a loop of the chicken's neck, yanking the blade as if he'd been cutting through a length of thick rope. The flapping, beating, stumpy wings of number two pumped the blood from its body as it shrieked through its neck. My brother buried his face into my father's side, and I twisted my ankle coming down from the plastic pail, a cloud of flies parting, opening a path for me so I could get inside the abattoir.
I grabbed Jerry's collar and pulled back hard, trying to unglue him from my father, thinking Abattoir Venise en Québec, this abattoir, was no place for little children. No words, just my eyes telling my father he'd better leave my brother to me.
Antonios Maltezos has stories at Elimae, Southern Gothic Online, Cezanne's Carrot, Smokelong Quarterly, Flashquake, and Thieves Jargon, among other places, and forthcoming in Per Contra. He is a member of the Canadian Writer's Collective.