The Americans Are Coming Page 10

  “You should have yer guiddar here. Play us a song,” said Shadrack, winking at Dryfly.

  “Later, maybe,” said Dryfly.

  In all actuality, Lillian Wallace was not the prettiest girl in the world. It was just that Shadrack and Dryfly thought she was the prettiest girl in the world. They were like two dogs mooning and sniffing a bitch in heat. They saw magic in her smile, mystery in her accent, wisdom, honesty and sophistication in her eyes.

  A dark cloud was creeping up the western sky.

  “Looks like we might get a shower,” said Dryfly.

  “Not for a couple o’ hours,” said Shad. “The birds are still out.”

  “Do birds know when it’s going to rain?” asked Lillian.

  “Birds are like hens,” said Shad. “A hen will go under a shed or somethin’ when yer about to get a shower. If yer about to get a day’s rain, the hen will stay outside, pay the rain no mind at all. Them birds will go and hide in an hour or so, just you watch.”

  Shad was feeling very wise and grown up. His father had told him about hens, but Shad wasn’t sure about birds in general. It didn’t matter though. If the birds stayed out, he’d say they were in for a big rain. If the birds took shelter, it was late enough in the evening so that they’d be in for the night anyway.

  Shadrack stood up and walked to the veranda railing, sat on it and stared at the river. Shadrack loved the river as much as he loved Lillian Wallace. The angler had landed his salmon and was casting for another. Shad saw a salmon jump, down on the bend.

  “That lad landed his fish and I just saw another one jump down on the bend, Dry. Is there a run on?”

  “Someone was tellin’ Mom that the Renous was full o’ fish,” said Dryfly.

  “That’s good,” said Shad. “Too bad we didn’t have a net.”

  Shad was commencing to formulate another plan. If it didn’t rain all night, he and Dry might borrow a net somewhere and go drifting for salmon – a perfect excuse for being out on the river.

  “Netting salmon is against the law,” thought Shad, “and that makes it more fun. We’ll have lots of cigarettes and whiskey . . . Dry and me will have some fun tonight!”

  “Is Helen MacDonald still here?” asked Shad.

  “I think she’s finished for the day. She’d be down in the kitchen, if she’s still here,” said Lillian. “Did you want to see her?”

  “Oh no, just wonderin’.”

  “You suppose I could use your bathroom?” asked Shad.

  “Of course. Go through the living room and down the hall. It’s at the end.”

  Shad winked at Dryfly. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  As Shad was going through the door, he stopped. “You didn’t find a wallet here today, did ya, Lillian?”

  “No.”

  “I think I left it here last night. It’s prob’ly on the sofa.”

  “Well, take a look around. I haven’t seen it, though. Dad might have found it.”

  “It don’t matter. There wasn’t any money in it. I’ll just take a quick look.”

  Inside, Shad went directly to the sofa, reached between the cushions and came up with the wallet. He took the opportunity to scan the room. A carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes lay on the table. In the corner, on another table (the bar), sat bottles of rum, rye, gin, bourbon, vodka, scotch, Dubonnet, sherry and Canada Dry Ginger Ale. “All’s well,” thought Shad, went to the bathroom, peed, then returned to the veranda.

  While Shad was inside, Lillian asked, “Shadrack tells me you’re not in school. Do you have a job?”

  “No place to work around here,” said Dryfly. “I might go guidin’ in the fall.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “Me father’s dead,” said Dryfly. “Never saw ’im in me life.”

  “I’m sorry. Does your mother work?”

  “No. Runs the post office.”

  “Really? There’s a post office in the area?”

  “At our house, yeah.”

  “Good, I’ll have to mail a letter and some postcards tomorrow.”

  “I’ll come over and git them for ya,” said Dryfly. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t mind. Ain’t doin’ nothin’ anyway.”

  “Okay, tomorrow then.”

  Lillian was thinking of herself and Dryfly being alone without Shadrack. “I could say that I was with two boys, then,” she thought.

  Dryfly was nervous. He could not look Lillian directly in the eye. He was feeling not so much shy as guilty. He was feeling that maybe Shad’s idea was not such a good one. “What if they miss it? What if we get caught?”

  “Did you find your wallet?” asked Lillian as Shadrack came through the door.

  “Yep,” said Shad, holding up his wallet.

  Shad sat on the veranda railing once again. “Why don’t we go and get your guiddar?” he asked.

  “Naw. Not feeling too good.”

  “Oh, is there something wrong?” asked Lillian.

  “No, just tired, I guess. Had a late night last night.”

  “Maybe me and Lillian could git the guiddar for ya,” recommended Shadrack.

  “Maybe you don’t feel like playing,” said Lillian.

  “Oh, I don’t mind playin’, I just don’t feel up to goin’ after it.”

  “Me and Lillian will go for it,” said Shad.

  “I would love to hear you play,” said Lillian. “Would you, if we went and got it for you?”

  “Yeah, but you lads will have to do the singin’, I jist play, I don’t sing.”

  “Ya do so sing!”

  “I don’t!”

  “Ya do!”

  “Don’t!”

  “Wanna go get it, Lillian?”

  “How far is it?”

  “Just a little ways. Take about ten minutes.”

  “Well, okay. Will you be all right here, Dryfly?”

  “Yeah, I’ll just rest here while yer gone.”

  “Okay. We’ll be right back,” Shad reassured Dryfly with a wink. The wink said, “It’s all there, Dry, just like I said.”

  When Shadrack and Lillian had gone over the hill and had disappeared into the foliage of Tuney Brook, Dry rose and went into the cabin. Inside he found himself wanting to luxuriate for a while in the richness – the beautiful sofa and chairs, the mahogany tables, the fireplace. Dryfly found himself having to control his fantasies. The plan came first and he didn’t want to screw it up.

  Dryfly went to the table where Bill Wallace kept his liquor supply. “He must be havin’ a party,” thought Dryfly, “there’s so much of it.”

  As planned, to make sure that Bill would not miss anything gone, Dry poured a little from each bottle until the pickle jar was full of rum, gin, bourbon, vodka, scotch, Dubonnet, sherry and Canada Dry Ginger Ale. He then went to the other table and took two packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes. “He won’t miss two packs,” he thought.

  Carefully, so as not to be seen, Dryfly sneaked out the back door of the cabin. He scanned the surroundings. “All’s clear. Everyone’s fishin’.”

  He stashed his booty in the tall grass at the edge of the woods and went back into the camp.

  The camp was cool and smelled of pine. He sat in a big upholstered chair for no other reason than to test its quality, wanting to experience for the first time in his life what it was like to sit in a comfortable chair. He sighed, “This is the life!” and tried out the sofa. Then he tried a chair at the table. He ran his hand across the smooth surface of the table, gently, feeling its coolness. He then reluctantly went back outside.

  Back on the veranda, Dryfly noticed that the thunder clouds had progressed considerably in their approach. They were deep and fluffy, the horizon blue as steel and periodically swept with lightning. The silence seemed deeper too, between the grumbles of distant thunder.

  “It’s gonna be a heavy storm,” thought Dryfly and checked to see if he was positioned in a safe place.

  “In a storm, you should ne
ver set near a window,” he thought. “People draw lightning, so it’s good to git indoors. Stay away from bulb sockets and plug-ins. Stay away from stoves. Lightnin’ is apt to come down a stove pipe.”

  “There’s danger all around,” he thought. “No escape.”

  When a lightning storm hovered over Brennen Siding, half the population ran to a neighbour’s house. If the storm was particularly heavy, they got on their knees and prayed.

  John Kaston always led the prayers, saying things like, “Dear loving Heavenly Father, smite the tempest!”

  “The voice, mighty in the wilderness,” and “Thank thee for removing the cancer from me bowels!” John Kaston loved to preach. John Kaston was “this far” from being a preacher.

  “If she’s gonna hit, she’ll hit,” thought Dry. “No sense worrying about it.”

  Often when a storm approaches Brennen Siding from the northeast, depending on the preceding barometric decline, ahead of it comes the smell of sulfur, the smell of the smoke from the pulpmill in Newcastle. The storm pushes it and spreads it like a monstrous fart over the area. It spread over Brennen Siding this night and reached Dryfly’s nostrils.

  Dryfly knew what it was; he’d smelled it many times. “The pulpmill,” he thought. “You kin always smell it before a storm. Smells like a fart.”

  Whenever Dryfly smelled the pulpmill on the air, it always reminded him of Shirley’s description of the devil, “He’s got big horns and a long tail with an arrowhead at the end of it. His eyes are yellow, like a cat’s and they shine at night. He smells like . . . like . . . like shit.”

  “Smells like the devil,” thought Dryfly. “Maybe he’s comin’ to get me for what I just did. The lightning could be the light from the fires of Hell, the thunder could be the sound of the big doors slammin’, or the devil’s growl. Maybe that’s why everyone prays when there’s a storm comin’.”

  Dryfly did not like thoughts of the devil and shrugged them off. He didn’t even know if the devil existed – or God, for that matter. Thunderstorms only came at the end of hot summer days and Dryfly loved hot summer days. There were too few of them in this north land, and when they came, he felt obliged to enjoy every minute of them, thunderstorms included. Down deep inside, he liked the thunder. Liking the thunder was one of the few things he had in common with his brother Palidin.

  *

  When Shadrack and Lillian were crossing the bridge over Tuney Brook on their way from Shirley Ramsey’s, Shadrack stopped and looked into the water.

  “Sometimes ya kin see trout in here,” he said.

  “Really!” Lillian moved closer to Shad and peered into the water. “There’s one,” she pointed, “There!”

  “And there’s another one,” said Shad, inching toward Lillian.

  Shadrack eyed Lillian, “God! She’s a pretty little thing,” he thought.

  If there was the smell of sulfur in the air, Shad was not aware of it; all he was smelling was Lillian’s perfume.

  “If I don’t make a move tonight, I might never git the chance,” thought Shad. “So, what do I do? Pass the hand? Say something mushy?”

  “That’s awful good smellin’ perfume ya got on there,” tried Shad.

  “It’s fly repellent.”

  “Still smells good.”

  The sound of thunder tumbled in from the northeast. The smell of sulfur settled. Lillian sniffed the air and looked at Shadrack with disgust.

  “I wish I could say the same thing about you right now,” she thought. She turned and walked toward the Cabbage Island Salmon Club.

  Shad, carrying Dryfly’s guitar, followed.

  Lillian was thinking of Shirley Ramsey.

  Their visit had been a brief one, just long enough for Shirley to get them the guitar. Shirley had been proud of the fact she had something to give and had shown Lillian great respect and courtesy. Lillian, however, only saw the slop pail, the broken mirror hanging over the sink, the backless chairs.

  “How can people live in such a place?” she thought. “I’ve never seen such a place! And that’s where Dryfly lives? Poor Dryfly.”

  *

  “I’ve had enough fishing for one day, Lindon. Let’s go back to the camp and have a drink. I’d like to discuss that property.”

  “Good, good, good. Gonna rain, gonna rain anyway. Might as well, might as well.”

  When Lindon and Bill got back to the camp, they found Lillian being entertained by Shadrack and Dryfly. Dryfly was playing guitar and Shadrack was singing, “George Hare shot a bear, shot ’im here, shot ’im there; George Hare shot a bear, shot ’im in the arse and never touched a hair.”

  “G’day Bill, Lindon! How’s she goin’, old boys?” yelled Shadrack.

  “Good, good, good.”

  “Hi boys, Lillian.”

  “Shad and Dry have been singing for me, Dad,” explained Lillian.

  “Well, don’t let me stop you. Lindon and I have some business to discuss. We’ll join you latah.”

  The two men went inside. Bill poured them a couple of stiff scotches and sat across the table from Lindon.

  “I should’ve had that salmon, Lindon. What d’ya think I did wrong?”

  “Nuthin’, nuthin’, nuthin’. Held ’im too tight, maybe. Knot in yer leader. Never did a thing wrong.”

  “Damn!”

  “We’ll git ’im tomorrow. Yep! Get ’im tomorrow, we will.”

  “Let’s drink to that,” said Bill. “Bottoms up!”

  Bill emptied his glass. Lindon put his glass to his lips, opened up and tossed the two ounces back, sloshed it around as if mouth washing and swallowed.

  “HEM! AHEM! Trip a ghost!” he said.

  “Have anothah,” said Bill and replenished the glasses.

  “Well, Lindon, I’ve decided I’d like to buy that property. Do you, or don’t you want to sell?”

  “Well I’ve been thinkin’, as the feller says, as the feller says, if ya know what I mean, I’ve been thinkin’. Sell if the price is right.”

  “Well Lindon, old buddy, let’s hear your price.”

  “Well, I know, I know, I know, I know there ain’t no lumber on that old shore; I know that, I know that; and I know there ain’t no hay on it, I know that. And, and, and I, I, I, know it might sound dear, but, but, but, I was thinking, I was thinking, I was thinking, I’d sell, if the price was right. Was thinkin’ maybe, I know it might sound dear, and all that, but was thinkin’ maybe I’d sell it for twelve hundred dollars.”

  “Twelve hundred dollahs!” Bill Wallace had been expecting fifty thousand.

  “Well, I, I, I, couldn’t let it go for a cent less than a thousand, no, no, not a cent, not a cent, not a cent less than a thousand, if ya know what I mean, as the feller says, not a cent less than a thousand.” Taking Bill’s response negatively, Lindon thought, “He thinks I’m askin’ too much.”

  Bill Wallace wanted to laugh and whoop and holler. Instead, he tossed back the second double of scotch. “Twelve hundred is giving it away. I’m getting this property for almost nothing,” he thought.

  “Are you talking the whole front?” asked Bill.

  “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh yeah, yep. The whole front. No good to me. No lumber on it. No hay, no lumber. Good place to fish though. Good place to fish. Go over the hill anytime at all and ketch a salmon, so ya kin. I wouldn’ lie to ya! Ketch a salmon there anytime at all, so ya kin, ya kin yeah.”

  “How far back you talking?”

  “Back about, about, about, about, about, about five hundred feet, five hundred feet back to the top of the hill.”

  Bill sipped his drink. He had been thinking two hundred feet. “This man doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing,” he thought. “At this rate, I could buy up the whole rivah.”

  “A thousand dollars, you’re asking?”

  “Well, I wanted twelve hundred, but like I say, there ain’t no lumber on it, no lumber to speak of, like the feller says, like I say, no hay on it either. Guess I could let it go for a thousand.”


  “Tell me, Lindon, you wouldn’t be interested in selling the whole place, would you?”

  “No, no, couldn’ sell the house and the lumber land. No, oh no. Couldn’ sell the house and the lumber land.”

  “Has the property been in the Tucker family for long?”

  “Ever since the, as the feller says, ever since the great fire of 1825, yeah, 1825, yeah, 1825, I think it was. Me grandfather, or me great grandfather, now I ain’t sure, I don’t know which.”

  “It was your grandfather that cleared the land?”

  “Either him, or me great grandfather, I, I, I, as the feller says, I ain’t sure which. All I know is, the old feller, one of them, come here from Ireland after the fire o’ 1825 and couldn’ find a tree big enough still standin’, if ya know what I mean, a tree big enough after the fire, for a fence post.”

  “Who owns the property next to yours?” asked Bill.

  “Well, Sam Little, Sam Little, Sam Little owns across the river from me and Lester Burns owns to me left and Frank Layton owns to me right.”

  “How about the Lester Burns property? Is that a good pool?”

  “Good fishin’ yeah, good all along there, yeah, oh yeah.”

  “And who owns upstream from Lester?”

  “Bert Todder. Bert Todder, yeah. Bert ain’t got much of a fishin’ hole though. Ain’t much of a pool in front o’ Bert’s. Back side o’ Cabbage Island. ’Muricans own the island and all this side. Bert just got a little trickle ’tween him and the island.”

  Bill Wallace poured some more scotch into Lindon’s glass. “Would you consider shaking hands on a deal tonight, Lindon, old buddy?”

  “Sure, sure, sure, if you got the money, sure, sure I’d shake hands, if you got the money. Thousand dollars. Wanted twelve hundred, but I’ll sell to you for a thousand. A thousand, yeah.”

  “Well, Lindon, you drive a hard bargain, but I’d really like to have a place up here.”

  “Okay, okay, okay, we got a deal, got a deal, shake hands on ’er, shake, put ’er there!”

  Bill and Lindon shook hands aggressively. Both men were grinning happily. Both men were getting what they wanted and both men were beginning to feel the effects of the liquor.

  “We have a deal,” said Bill Wallace.