The Americans Are Coming Page 13

  “Drink from the brook.”

  “Oh, brook water’s bad fer ya. Beaver shit in it.”

  “Please, go home.”

  “What’s the matter? You ain’t scared o’ me, are ya? You a criminal?”

  “No, I ain’t scared and I ain’t a criminal! I just want to be left alone. You’ll tell everyone where I am and they’ll all come to visit the freak!”

  “You a freak, Nutbeam?”

  “Well, I ain’t exactly normal!”

  “Look normal to me. Now me, the lad yer lookin’ at, I ain’t normal. There’s somethin’ wrong with me.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Well, I had this girlfriend, the prettiest little lady I ever seen, and she left me for a lad as homely as you are. She don’t seem that stupid, so there’s got to be something wrong with me.”

  “How much would you take to keep yer mouth shut?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said, how much money will you take to keep quiet about me?”

  Shad thought for a moment, then almost sang, “I wouldn’t take yer money, Nutbeam.”

  *

  Palidin Ramsey sat on a boulder at the edge of the water. In his right hand he held a lodestone the size of a dime, and in his left hand he held the flyhook he’d borrowed from George Hanley. He stroked the lodestone across the point of the hook for a few minutes, then touched the hook to the reel of Shad’s rod. The hook was magnetized and clung to the reel. “Good,” he thought, “now for the experiment.”

  He kicked off his sneakers and rolled up his pants, carefully crossed the gravel beach and stepped into the water. The water in the Dungarvon is amazingly warm in the summer – about seventy-five degrees – and it felt good on Palidin’s feet and ankles. He then waded until the water was encircling his waist.

  “If nothing else, I’m getting washed,” he thought. He was not very enthusiastic about his experiment. He had thought it up in a moment; it had probably been tried before. “It’ll never work in a thousand years,” he thought, “but it’s worth a try.”

  Palidin was fishing in Dr. MacDowell’s pool. Dr. MacDowell had purchased Graig Allen’s shore ten years ago, built a cottage and put the run to every one, local, who tried to fish there. Dr. MacDowell owned one of the five productive fishing pools in Brennen Siding. Three of the other four pools were also owned by Americans. Bill Wallace from Stockbridge, Massachusettes, was in the process of buying the last one, the Lindon Tucker Pool, at that very minute. Graig Allen had sold his pool for five hundred dollars, spent it on moving to Fredericton, and never came back. Times were changing – Lindon Tucker was getting a thousand dollars for his “property.”

  In 1962, most of the local residents of the Dungarvon River, the Cains or the Renous did not fully appreciate the value of their property. “That old shore ain’t worth much to me,” was the general attitude. With a million dollars, one could have purchased the whole Dungarvon river valley. “A million dollars for the Dungarvon River!” The locals did not see the approaching change. Bill Wallace would sell the Lindon Tucker Pool in l986 for three-quarters of a million dollars.

  Dr. MacDowell did not allow anyone other than himself and a few friends from back home to fish his pool. Neither did the Americans that owned other pools in the area. Dr. MacDowell was in Florence, trying to get far enough away from the Duomo to photograph it. He wouldn’t bother Palidin until September.

  Palidin made a cast. A salmon swirled for the fly, a roll, and missed it.

  Palidin made another cast.

  SPLASH!

  Palidin was busy for the next fifteen minutes. He landed a twelve-pound Atlantic salmon. Palidin Ramsey would be hooked on salmon fishing for the rest of his life.

  nine

  Bill Wallace walked through the field he’d purchased from Lindon Tucker, looking for a suitable site to build a cottage on. On the north end of the field was a knoll that Bill thought had a lot of potential. There was a great view and it was high enough to be above any above-average spring torrents. Lindon Tucker’s old house and buildings sat on the hill to the east – quaint, grey, serene and picturesque amongst the elms and apple trees. An old swing sat beside the lilac bushes in front of Lindon’s house. It was plain to see the house was going in the ground, falling down.

  When Bill Wallace stood on his knoll and looked southwest, he could see at least a mile of river, maybe more. The immediate river was lined on both sides by the green fields of Brennen Siding. In the distance, the river seemed to flow from beneath the forested hills.

  “It could be a scene from Vermont,” thought Bill Wallace, “but it doesn’t have the mountains. Fine with me! I never cared much for mountains, anyway. A rivah’s all I need. If the rivah happens to have Atlantic salmon in it, that’s a bonus.”

  Bill Wallace had spent many happy childhood days playing, fishing and canoeing on the White River in Vermont. The White was a tributary of the Connecticut. The Connecticut hadn’t had a salmon in it for a hundred years. The Connecticut River had gone the way of all New England rivers, with the exception, maybe, of the Penobscot in Maine. Over-fishing, electrical dams and industrial pollution had turned what used to be some of the greatest Atlantic salmon rivers in the world into sewers for human waste – into dumps for humans to throw their old tires, sometimes whole cars, mattresses, bean cans, dead animals and the occasional human.

  “It’ll happen here, in time,” Bill predicted. “It’s the American way. Industry will move in, people will follow and that will be it – bingo, the fifty-first state.”

  Bill Wallace left his knoll and headed south until he came to the cedar fence that separated the Lindon Tucker farm from the Lester Burns farm.

  “The Lester Burns farm,” thought Bill, “another gold mine.” Bill Wallace was amazed that nobody had jumped on the opportunity and purchased this land before now. “Unknown to most Americans, thank God,” he thought. “And the rich Canadians? Are there any? Sure there are. Do they not know what they have here? Probably not. They probably go to Disneyland on vacations.”

  “It’s an investment that you’d have to be a fool to ignore,” thought Bill. “Christ! This is one American that won’t ignore it! I’m buying the Lester Burns property, regardless of the cost. The cost – ha! I’ll probably get that for nothing, too!”

  Bill Wallace wanted to be alone for a few minutes and had convinced Lindon Tucker to “take it easy. Have a nap in the canoe, I’ll be just a few minutes.” Bill, once he was satisfied with his exploration of the newly-purchased property, went back to where Lindon was waiting, half-asleep in the hot July sun. Lindon climbed from the canoe and held it steady for Bill to climb in the front. Then Lindon stood in the back and poled – plop-swish . . . plop-swish – back toward the Cabbage Island salmon club.

  “Newcastle’s a nice little town, Lindon,” said Bill.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Stinks awful bad though.”

  “I guess they should’ve built that pulp mill further away from the town.”

  “Further away, yeah. Should o’ built it further away.”

  “That pulp mill is American-owned, I’ll bet on that,” thought Bill. 127

  *

  Helen MacDonald was making a corned beef and cabbage stew in the kitchen of the Cabbage Island Salmon Club.

  Although Helen was occupied with peeling potatoes, carrots, turnips and parsnips, she was being more the detective than the cook. She could have been Sam Spade, Sherlock Holmes, or Charlie Chan. Detective Helen MacDonald was fitting together the Blueberry Pie Mystery.

  “Somebody took me pie from that window sill,” she thought. “And the next day, somebody took the second one – the one with the Ex-Lax in it. Rex, me dog, had a bad case o’ the runs, and the somebody that took the pie didn’t seem to have a complaint in the world. Seems clear to me that that someone might have fed the pie to poor old Rex. Now that someone has the gall to be hanging around here all day with that young Lillian. Boys, she must think a lotta herself to b
e hanging around with the likes of that . . . that . . . that tramp!”

  “I can’t let him get away with it,” she thought. “I have to teach ’im a lesson.”

  Helen MacDonald would get her opportunity to get even with Dryfly Ramsey sooner than she thought. A knock sounded on the kitchen door.

  “Come in!” called Helen.

  In stepped Lillian Wallace followed closely by Dryfly Ramsey.

  “Hello, Miss MacDonald,” said Lillian.

  “G’day, Helen,” said Dryfly. “Hello. I was just puttin’ together your supper, Miss.”

  “Oh, good! What are we having tonight?”

  “We’re havin’ good old fashion corn beef and cabbage.”

  “Oh! Good!”

  “Your father likes me corn beef and cabbage. I cook it for ’im every time he comes up. What kin I do for ya, young lady?”

  “Well, would you mind putting on an extra plate tonight?”

  “No trouble. Who’s stayin’ fer supper? Lindon?”

  “I’ve asked Dryfly to dine with us, and he’s accepted.”

  “Oh! . . . well . . . sure!”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Oh! . . . well . . . no!”

  Helen MacDonald thought, “How can they stand havin’ that no-good weasel around? I’d put the run to ’im, if it was me!”

  “Good,” said Lillian. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “No, no, not at all.”

  “Thank you, Miss MacDonald. I appreciate it.”

  “Does your father know that Dry’s stayin’?”

  “Not yet, but he won’t mind.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Will we be having dessert, Miss MacDonald?”

  “Well, sure. What would you like?”

  “Oh, I don’t care. Whatever you decide, is fine with me.”

  “Well, I don’t have any more of the blueberries I spent good money on,” said Helen, looking directly at Dryfly, “but I could make some chocolate puddin’. You like chocolate puddin’?”

  “Oh, yes, very much.”

  “Do you like chocolate puddin’, Dryfly?”

  “Yep. Anything’s okay for me.”

  “Good. You kin have all you want.”

  *

  “See? I told you she wouldn’t care if you stayed for supper, Dry.” said Lillian.

  “I didn’t like the way she looked at me when she mentioned the blueberry pie. I think she’s out to get me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I dunno. She don’t like me very much.”

  “Dryfly Ramsey, I do believe you have an inferiority complex!”

  “Maybe,” said Dryfly. Dryfly hadn’t the slightest idea what an inferiority complex was, but he liked the sound of the words. “I’ll have to remember inferiority comprex,” he thought.

  The two teenagers went to the veranda of the cabin Bill and Lillian occupied and sat on the railing to watch the river.

  “When your father gets his camp built, you’ll be able to come up here all the time,” said Dryfly. “Would you like stayin’ up here?”

  “I like it up here very much.”

  “Are you from a big city?”

  “Stockbridge? No, it’s a little town . . . not much bigger than Blackville. You’d like Stockbridge.”

  “Have you ever been to a big city?”

  “I’ve been to New York and Boston. I went to Los Angeles once and Miami a couple of times.”

  “Ever been to Wheeling?”

  “No. Where’s Wheeling?”

  “Down around where you live somewhere. Wheeling, West Virginia.”

  “Oh, West Virginia. That’s in the south. Who do you know in West Virginia?”

  “Nobody. We just hear it on the radio all the time.”

  “Does anyone around here have a television?”

  “No.” Dryfly had only heard of television. He would not get a chance to watch a television for another year. Bob Nash would be the first person in Brennen Siding to get a television. “I never saw a television in me life,” said Dryfly.

  “Television is wonderful. You’d like it,” said Lillian. “What do kids do around here?”

  “Walk up and down the road mostly. Shad and me spend a lotta time on the river, in the summer.”

  “You love the river, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, the river’s all there is around here.”

  “Could you ever leave it?”

  “Mostly everybody that ever leaves comes back . . . I don’t know, maybe.”

  Lillian eyed the thin, homely boy. “His hair is greasy,” she thought. “A little shampoo would change his whole appearance.”

  “Where do you take a bath, Dryfly?” she asked.

  “In the river during the summer. In the winter, we don’t bathe much. Once a month, maybe.”

  “Can you swim in the river?”

  “If ya kin swim, ya kin swim in the river. It’s no different than any place else. There’s a little bit of a current.”

  “But it isn’t polluted?”

  “No. Ain’t polluted . . . I don’t think.”

  “Would you like to go for a swim, Dry?”

  “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

  Lillian went inside, grabbed a comb, a towel, some soap and a bottle of shampoo. “I’ll clean him up for dinner,” she thought. “I’ll wash that smelly shirt for him, too. It will dry quickly in the sun.”

  Lillian and Dryfly walked hand in hand to the river. They swam and bathed and Lillian washed Dryfly’s shirt with shampoo, rinsed it and washed it again. They took one last swim, then sat on a boulder to dry off. Lillian combed Dryfly’s hair, parting it in the middle.

  “I like how you part your hair in the middle,” she said.

  *

  Shadrack had been looking almost directly at it and still hadn’t seen it. Then, when he did see it, he couldn’t believe his eyes. “A lad could walk by it a million times and never see it,” thought Shad, amazed. “It’s like a part of the hill.”

  He asked, “Is that your camp?”

  “Damn! Now I’ll never have any piece and quiet!” thought Nutbeam. “The little bugger sees it!”

  “It’s great!” Shadrack was still feasting his eyes on the little half-cave, half-cabin Nutbeam called home. The camp, two-thirds buried into the hill, with the moss-covered roof running parallel to the hill, was the smartest hideout Shadrack had ever seen.

  Nutbeam was very proud of the camp. He had put hundreds of hours into its construction. But Shadrack’s open, boyish enthusiasm was something Nutbeam had never anticipated. The awe and admiration in Shadrack’s eyes was soothing to Nutbeam, and he found himself turning to face what Shad was seeing.

  “Made it myself,” said Nutbeam.

  “Wow! How long ya lived here?”

  “’Bout . . . never mind!”

  “Some lotta work in a camp like that!” said Shadrack.

  “Hard work,” said Nutbeam.

  Nutbeam sighed. “What’s the use?” he thought. “The little bugger sees it. The game is up.”

  “Just wait till Dry sees this!” said Shadrack.

  “I don’t want you bringin’ no one else here, ya understand!”

  “You a criminal?” asked Shad.

  “No! I just don’t like people around me!”

  “You wouldn’ mind a few people, would ya, Nutbeam?”

  “No! I don’t want no people, I tell ya!”

  “Just maybe me and Dry and Dad and a few more.”

  “How much to keep yer mouth shut?”

  “Oh, I couldn’ take yer money from ya, Nutbeam . . . ,” said Shad once again in that singsong how-much-ya-willin’-to-pay voice.

  “How much?”

  “Well . . . kin I look inside it, Nutbeam?”

  “No!”

  “What’s the matter, Nutbeam?”

  “You’ll bring everyone back here and they’ll laugh and make fun o’ me!”

  “Because of yer ears?”

 
“Among other things.”

  “No one cares about yer big floppy ears, Nutbeam!”

  “I’ll give ya five dollars to keep quiet.”

  “No one will laugh at ya, Nutbeam.”

  “Six dollars!”

  “Course, ya never kin tell ’bout some people.”

  “Seven dollars!”

  “Bert Todder’s an awful man for laughin’.”

  “Eight dollars and that’s it!”

  “It is such a nice place,” said Shadrack. “It would be a shame if Graig Allen found out about it being on his property.”

  “Ten dollars!”

  “Well, okay, Nutbeam, but I’ll have to tell Dryfly. Bad as I hate him for stealin’ me woman, I’ll have to tell ’im.”

  “No! Tell nobody!”

  “Him and me will come and see ya once in a while, Nutbeam.”

  “I don’t want you bringin’ no one back here!”

  “Just Dryfly, Nutbeam.”

  “What d’ya want to bring ’im back here for?”

  Nutbeam knew very well who Dryfly was. He’d heard him play guitar many times.

  “For ten dollars, I won’t tell a soul yer back here, Nutbeam, ’cept for Dryfly. Him and me will be the only ones to know.”

  “What’s to stop him from tellin’ everybody?”

  “Oh, ya might have to give him some little thing . . .”

  “How do you know he can be trusted?”

  “Oh, you can trust Dryfly, Nutbeam. Never did a thing wrong in his life. Leave anything at all layin’ around and Dry’d be the last person in the world to ever touch it.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Nutbeam. Nutbeam was being blackmailed, and he knew it.

  *

  When the Atlantic salmon leave the ocean to swim the fresh-water rivers to spawn, they stop feeding. They don’t feed again until after they’ve laid their eggs, which sometimes takes three or four months. You can fish over these pregnant fish with all the juicey fat flies, bugs and worms you want, but you might as well try to water a horse that isn’t thirsty. They refuse to eat.

  Occasionally, these pregnant fish will make a pass at a fly (a roll), and on occasion, they may even go as far as to kill the fly. However, this is really nothing more than recreation. It is these sports-minded salmon, the jocks, that anglers seek. You might say that anglers clean up on the jocks of the school. Palidin Ramsey was sure of only one thing: there had been four jocks in the school that rested in Dr. MacDowell’s salmon pool. Palidin Ramsey had four salmon lying dead on the beach.