The Americans Are Coming Read online

  “He’s funny looking,” thought Lillian, eyeing the worn shirt and jeans, the dirty sneakers, the hair parted in the middle and the long nose.

  “Would you hold my hand the rest of the way?” she asked. “Ah . . . sure.” Dryfly looked self-consciously back and forth along the bridge, a little embarrassed that someone might see him holding her hand.

  When their hands touched, their hearts quickened. Dryfly’s hand was warm and perspiring – so was Lillian’s. They walked on, slowly, Lillian being careful to walk the center boards, to minimize the sway. Dryfly, close behind her, reached awkwardly ahead to hold her hand.

  When they got to the far side, Dryfly wondered if she would let go of his hand. He left it up to her to make the decision. As they went down the steps and crossed Billy MacDonald’s field, Bob Nash’s field and Todder Brook, they were still holding hands.

  “Do you plan to go back to school?” asked Lillian.

  “I dunno,” said Dryfly. “Maybe.”

  “What’s your plan for the future?”

  “I dunno. Not much to do around here.”

  “Will you move away?”

  “Prob’ly. Everyone else does. Around here, you’re either too young or too old to leave, or you’re gone. Me brother Digger’s livin’ in Ontario. I might go and live with ’im in a year or so. Lots to do in Ontario.”

  “What does . . . ah . . . Digger work at?”

  “Don’t work hard at all. Packin’ tomatoes in a place called Leamington . . . makin’ two dollars an hour.”

  “You could play music for a living.”

  “Naw.”

  On the south side of Lindon Tucker’s house grew an apple tree loaded with juicy green crab apples.

  “Would you like an apple?” asked Dryfly.

  Lillian and Dryfly, still holding hands, walked up the hill to the apple tree. Dryfly picked a few and offered one to Lillian.

  “They’re awfully green, aren’t they?”

  “Won’t hurt ya. Hardly ever give ya the shits.”

  Lillian giggled a giggle that Dryfly found very pleasing. “Why ya laughin’?”

  “‘The shits,’” she said.

  Dryfly laughed too.

  They stopped laughing when they bit into the apples. They squinted their eyes, the muscles in their cheeks contracted, they wrinkled their noses – the apples were very sour.

  They walked around Lindon Tucker’s house and sat on the swing.

  “It’s very pleasant here,” said Lillian, “and very quiet.”

  “Pretty place, yeah,” said Dryfly. “Look! There’s a butterfly!” A big yellow butterfly played on an air current that eventually led to the arm of Dryfly’s swing.

  “Hmm,” said Dryfly, “what’s this?”

  “It likes you,” said Lillian.

  Dryfly said nothing, thought, “Everything’s very pretty.”

  “How old are you?” asked Lillian.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Naw. Ain’t many girls around here.”

  “Shadrack said he had several girlfriends.”

  “Naw. He didn’t mean it.”

  “Shad lied about girlfriends,” thought Dryfly. “Shad lied about everything.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Dryfly.

  “No. I’m only fifteen, too.”

  They were eyeing each other and feeling very warm inside.

  “Thank you for the daisy,” said Lillian. “You’re the first boy to ever give me a flower.”

  Lillian reached out and gently placed her hand on Dryfly’s knee. Dryfly stared into her eyes and saw Heaven.

  Something very emotional was sweeping over Lillian – a combination of happiness, sadness and bewilderment. It excited her to the point of tears.

  “The butterfly and I both like you,” she said.

  Dryfly, swept by similar emotions, swallowed, said, “I . . . like you, too.”

  “The appropriate thing to do,” thought Lillian, “would be to kiss him. The appropriate thing to do is for him to kiss me.”

  A hundred wild horses hooked onto Dryfly’s nerve endings. They tugged at his nerve endings, his inhibitions, his shyness and his heart. Every one of the hundred wild horses seemed to be saying, “You haven’t got the nerve, Dryfly! She’s rich and pretty and you’re poor and ugly. She’ll laugh at you and you’ll feel like a fool! You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t slap your face.” The hundred wild horses pulled so hard that the chains connected to Dryfly snapped and broke.

  Dryfly leaned toward Lillian and placed a gentle crab apple-scented kiss on the smooth, cool cheek of Lillian Wallace.

  *

  Shadrack Nash awakened to his very first hangover. Shad-rack Nash didn’t feel very well at all. His head was aching, his mouth was dry and he had a guilt complex to no end.

  “I made a fool of myself,” he thought. “I talked too much, I sung too many dirty songs and to top it all off, I got sick. Lillian Wallace will never want to see me again!”

  In the kitchen, Shad sat to a breakfast of tea and toast. He spread some of his mother’s fresh strawberry jam on the toast.

  Shadrack was very unhappy about something else. Lillian Wallace seemed more interested in Dryfly than she was in him.

  “Why? . . . Dryfly was showin’ off on the guiddar, for one thing! And he didn’ talk too much, or git sick!”

  “You home, Shadrack?” The voice of Palidin Ramsey came through the screen of the kitchen door.

  “No, I’m in Tracadie fishin’ smelts!” said Shadrack.

  Palidin entered.

  “What’re ya up to, Pal?” asked Shadrack.

  “Wanna go fishing?” asked Palidin.

  “Naw. Don’t feel too good,” said Shad.

  “Would you mind if I borrowed your rod?”

  “Fishin’ trout or salmon?”

  “Salmon.”

  “How long ya gonna be?”

  “An hour . . . two, maybe.”

  “I don’t care. Take it. It’s on the porch.”

  “Thanks, Shad. I’ll look after it. Bring ya back a salmon,” said Palidin and left, taking Shadrack’s rod and reel with him.

  Shadrack’s mother, Elva Nash, was washing dishes and humming “Rock of Ages.” She hadn’t spoken to Palidin. Elva Nash did not like the Ramseys. The Ramseys were trash and Elva Nash did not like her son to associate with trash.

  “You shouldn’t have given him that fishin’ rod, Shad,” said Elva. “Ya give ’em an inch and they’ll take a mile. He’ll be back agin, you mark my words! He’ll be naggin’ ya every day for somethin’!”

  “Ah, Pal won’t hurt it.”

  “No odds! I don’t want him around the place! They’re Catholics! They don’t know the word o’ God! I pray for you, Shadrack, darlin’! I pray every night that you will stop hangin’ around with the likes o’ them Ramseys. They’ll jist git you in trouble, mark my words!”

  “They’re not so bad, Mom.”

  “NOT SO BAD! NOT SO BAD! THEY’RE TRASH, THAT’S WHAT THEY ARE! Never go to church on Sundays, runnin’ the roads like . . . like cattle. ’Pon me soul, Shad, I don’t know what’s becomin’ o’ you. Yer gettin’ jist like them! That old Shirley Ramsey never took a bath in her life, and I could smell that Palidin as soon’s he walked through the door. They’ll never see the kingdom o’ God, Shad, you kin mark my words!”

  Elva Nash was warming up for one of her sermons and Shad knew it. She was washing dishes and Shad was sitting at the table. Through the window over the sink, Elva could see the river. Through the window, Elva could see Lillian Wallace walking down the path with Dryfly Ramsey.

  “Now look o’ there, would ya! There’s that sport’s daughter walkin’ down the flat with that . . . that . . . that tramp! Boys, she must think a lotta herself! What do you suppose the world’s comin’ to!”

  “Who?” Shad dashed to the window. “Dryfly and Lillian,” he muttered through the thick black curtain that seemed to have fall
en.

  Shad ran outside and around the house. Spying from the corner of the house, he could see Lillian and Dryfly walking through the field, holding hands.

  Shad was hungover and a little dizzy. The sight of Dryfly and Lillian almost made him sick. “Damn!” he thought. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

  Shadrack Nash was very hurt and wanted to cry. Shadrack was not hurting so much just because of the girl. There is more to heartbreak than losing a girl. Shadrack Nash was hurting for the same reason all losing lovers hurt. Egomania. How could he face Dryfly?

  Shadrack Nash went for a walk through the woods. He needed to think. Shadrack took a walk back to Todder Brook.

  *

  When Dryfly removed his lips from Lillian’s cheek, he could taste her fly repellent.

  “She tastes and smells better than the DDT they spray over us in budworm season,” he thought.

  “We’d better be going back,” said Lillian, getting off the swing and reaching her hand out for Dryfly’s.

  As they walked over the hill and back through the fields toward the bridge, nothing was spoken. Dryfly broke the silence in the shadow of the bridge abutment. There in the shadows, with a thousand blackflies swarming about his head, he stopped and swung in front of her. He looked into her big blue eyes and wanted to say, “I love you.” Instead, he said, “Flies like the shade.”

  Dryfly was hot, inside and out and excited to a single point shy of panic. He forgot Palidin’s teachings and waved at the onslaught of flies, attracting a thousand more. But being there with Lillian was a precious moment and he wanted it to last. He wanted to say something, something intelligent, something romantic, anything. “Tell her that you love her,” came a tiny voice from deep inside. “Tell her that she’s beautiful! Tell her that you think she has the most beautiful eyes in the whole world! Tell her how wonderful she is!”

  Lillian was protected by fly repellent and not being attacked, but she was as excited as Dryfly. “Just do what they do in the movies,” she thought, parted her lips slightly and closed her eyes.

  Dryfly didn’t know it, but he was the son of a fabulous lover. Although Dryfly never met Buck, Buck’s genes flowed in his veins; the same hereditary instinct was bubbling forth. It was the Buck in Dryfly that took control. Dryfly leaned forward and kissed Lillian gently, as gentle as the butterfly that had rested on his hand. There was no pressure, no desire-driven fondling. Just a gentle, cool kiss – one heartbeat and it was over.

  Dryfly withdrew a few inches and looked at the beautiful young girl. Lillian opened her eyes and looked at Dryfly.

  “You have awful blue eyes,” said Dryfly.

  “You have awful brown eyes,” said Lillian.

  A mosquito drove its proboscis into the back of Dryfly’s neck; another feasted on his forehead and another on his arm.

  “C’mon! There’s plenty for everyone!” yelled the mosquitoes.

  One old mosquito zeroed in from the north and jabbed the thin, worn material of Dryfly’s shirt, getting him in the back; another – a cowardly bastard of a mosquito – sucked on Dryfly’s wonderfully exposed earlobe.

  Without taking his eyes off Lillian, Dryfly battled and scratched. He moved in again and kissed Lillian for the second time, and once again tasted her repellent.

  Withdrawing and looking at the wonderful girl with the big blue eyes, the same girl who was smart enough to protect herself from the cursed flies of the Dungarvon, Dryfly whispered, “No flies on you.”

  *

  There was another precaution Dryfly could have dwelled upon, “If you keep walking, the mosquitoes and blackflies won’t bother you as much.”

  Shadrack Nash kept walking through the fly-infested forest of Todder Brook until he came to the exact spot where he and Dryfly Ramsey had done away with the panther, or the devil, “or whatever the Todder Brook Whooper was.”

  For the first time since he left his mother’s kitchen, Shadrack was not thinking about his broken heart. Shadrack found himself preoccupied with the Todder Brook Whooper.

  “What was it?” he asked himself. “Was it the Dungarvon Whooper? Was the Dungarvon Whooper a devil that wandered from place to place? Where is it now?” It hardly seemed conceivable that the devil, or anything else, could be so wily that a single shot fired into the air by a small boy would scare it off.

  “We were standing right here,” thought Shad, “and the thing was right down there by the brook. There was moose tracks all over the place . . . or devil tracks.”

  When Shadrack Nash scanned the rain-drenched clay about his feet, he did not see any moose tracks. What Shadrack did see, though, was the tracks of a human.

  “Who else could be back here?” Shadrack asked himself. “Them tracks have been made since the shower last night. Someone must be back here this mornin’.”

  Shadrack, for no other reason than curiosity, started following the tracks. There weren’t many and they didn’t go far until they turned down a barely distinguishable path. Shad followed the path for about thirty seconds and came to a place where the path branched off. Now, confronting Shadrack was a path to the right, a path to the left and one down the middle. Each path that lay before him was less distinguishable than the one he was standing on.

  The three paths reminded Shadrack of a John Kaston sermon.

  “When you die,” commenced John Kaston, sounding all the world like a southern American, “y’all will come to a branch in the rewd. Ya won’t know which rewd to take unless yer one with the Saviour! One path leads to Heaven, one leads to the pits of hell, and one leads to purgatory. Us Protestants don’t have to worry about the one to purgatory. Know the Saviour and you won’t have to worry about the path to hell either!”

  Shadrack took the path down the middle, hoping he would at least be accepted into Catholic Heaven. He followed the path for about a hundred yards and came to a dead end – the brook.

  “At least it didn’t lead to hell,” thought Shad and retraced his steps back to where the paths branched.

  He eyed the two paths that were left. He had a fifty-fifty chance of going to heaven. He took the path to the right. This path went a little further, three hundred yards or so, but again, Shad found himself eyeing the swift waters of Todder Brook.

  “It ain’t Heaven,” thought Shad, “and it ain’t hell either. I wish Dryfly Ramsey would go to hell and leave my woman alone!”

  Shad went back to the branch of the path and took the third and last one. Again, he came to the brook.

  “Oh well,” he thought, “they must be just fishing trails. Whoever made them tracks must be wading down the brook.”

  Shad was half way back to the junction of the paths when he heard someone sneeze. The sneeze was followed immediately by a bigger sneeze and the word “shit.”

  Nutbeam was standing behind a fir tree watching Shad. He had heard Shad coming. Nutbeam had stood in the rain for too long on the previous night and had caught a cold.

  At first Shad could see nothing, but he knew that the sneeze had come from the vicinity of the fir tree. Examining the tree more carefully, he spotted a big old floppy ear.

  “Who’s there?” asked Shad.

  No answer.

  “I can see ya. Who are ya?”

  No answer. The ear withdrew from sight. The other ear appeared.

  “You got awful big ears,” said Shad. “You an elf?”

  “What d’ya want?” came a voice from behind the fir tree.

  “Nuthin’.”

  “Then, go home!”

  Shad contemplated the words “Go home!” He did not know if he was in danger or not. “Go home,” he thought. “Maybe I should . . . but who is it?”

  “Who are you?” asked Shad.

  Nutbeam was very depressed. He had been found. Out of curiosity, people would visit him. They’d laugh at him and bother him and he’d have to move.

  “Why don’t you go home?” Nutbeam groaned petulantly.

  Nutbeam hoped there was still a chance that Shadrack hadn’
t seen the camp.

  Shad could not see Nutbeam’s camp, but he heard the whimper in Nutbeam’s voice, and he heard the fear. The whimper and the fear in the fir tree’s voice restored Shadrack’s courage.

  “What’re ya doin’ standin’ behind a tree?” asked Shad.

  “None of yer bus’ness!” said Nutbeam.

  Shadrack had often heard Americans running people out of their salmon pools and in the way of an American, said, “Oh, I don’t know about that! My father owns most of this brook and you ain’t my father! What’re ya doin’ back here?!”

  “I ain’t doin’ nothin’!”

  “Come out so I can see ya!”

  Nutbeam was indeed a timid creature, but he heard the command in the boy’s voice. He stepped out.

  “Nutbeam!” whispered Shad, amazed. “You’re Nutbeam!”

  “How do you know that?” asked Nutbeam.

  “I don’t know,” said Shad. He could have added, “There are no secrets in Brennen Siding.”

  Nutbeam stared at the red-haired, freckled boy. Shadrack was fifteen, but Nutbeam guessed him to be twelve, not a day older. Shadrack was amazed to see Nutbeam and Nutbeam was amazed at the fact that Shadrack was not laughing. It was simple: Shad was too amazed to laugh.

  “You back here fishin’?” asked Shad.

  “I ain’t fishin’.”

  “What happened to your ears?” asked Shadrack. “You look like an elf, or a monkey, or somethin’.” Shad was not intentionally making fun of Nutbeam, he was simply in awe.

  Nutbeam didn’t answer. Nutbeam simply dropped his head in shame.

  Shad gathered more courage and moved closer. “His nose is awful big, too,” thought Shad, “and so is his mouth.” Shadrack could not imagine why such a big, tall man would seem so afraid.

  The next time Shad spoke, his voice was more gentle.

  “No one’s seen you in a long time, Nutbeam. Where’ve you been?”

  “I ain’t been nowhere,” said Nutbeam. His voice was barely audible.

  “You live around here?”

  “Why don’t you go home?” Nutbeam’s voice had calmed too and sounded mellow and sad.

  “Listen,” said Shadrack, “if you don’t live too far from here, I sure could use a drink o’ water. I was drinkin’ last night, and I’m sorta hung over. Sure could use a drink o’ water.”