The Americans Are Coming Read online

  Palidin was very optimistic. “It could be working,” he thought, “but I’m still not sure. There might be some other reason why the fishing’s so good today. I’ll have to try different flies. Maybe any flyhook, magnetic or not, would take these fish. I need more flies.”

  Palidin made a little pool out of rocks at the water’s edge. He put three of his salmon in it and covered them up with grass and leaves to keep the sun from spoiling them, then headed for the footbridge with the fourth. He carried the salmon directly to Bernie Hanley’s store.

  “Boys! What’ve ya got there!” said Bernie Hanley when he saw the ten-pounder Palidin had with him. “Ain’t that a nice one!”

  “Just caught it,” Palidin proudly announced. “Wanna buy it?”

  “Well, by cripes, I could do with a feed o’ salmon! How much ya want for it?”

  “Want three flyhooks.”

  “Three flyhooks. Well, that’s a little steep. Seventy-five cents apiece . . . seventy-five . . . a dollar fifty . . . two-twenty-five. Well . . . I’ll give ya two dollars.”

  “No, sorry, I’ll just take it home.”

  “Okay. Three flyhooks.”

  Bernie Hanley paid twenty-five cents per flyhook to Bert Todder for tying them. Bernie Hanley was actually getting the salmon for seventy-five cents . . . a dollar, if you included the flyhook George had stolen from him earlier.

  “I want a Butterfly, a Black Bear Hair with a green butt, and a Cosseboom.” Three different patterns, along with the Blue Charm George had stolen for him earlier, would greatly enhance the experiment.

  Palidin headed back to Dr. MacDowell’s pool.

  When he got back in the river, he tied on the Butterfly and fished for what he figured to be about fifteen minutes. Nothing happened.

  He then took out his lodestone and magnetized the hook of the Butterfly. He made a cast – Bang! Splash! A salmon grabbed the Butterfly.

  He landed the salmon and tried the same experiment with the Cosseboom. Fifteen minutes with the regular hook produced nothing. He magnetized the hook and was into a salmon, a grilse, after just a few minutes.

  It was a very exciting experience for Palidin. He found himself wanting to run home to tell everyone he met, to share his wealth, so to speak. He fought the urge and tied on the Black Bear Hair with the green butt. He performed the same experiment. He achieved the same results.

  He now had four salmon and two grilse. More than he could carry. He would have to make two trips. “I’ll give Shad one,” he thought, “and take the rest home. If this keeps up, I’ll start sellin’. I’ll buy me a rod of my own, sell some more and buy a car. I’ll fish for a living.”

  *

  Dryfly ate Helen MacDonald’s corned beef stew with gusto. He was very hungry. He hadn’t eaten all day and it was getting late. “Americans eat awful late,” he thought. Helen MacDonald had been very careful not to get Dryfly’s bowl of chocolate pudding mixed up with the bowls she had prepared for Bill and Lillian Wallace. Dryfly Ramsey’s chocolate pudding was laced with ExLax.

  “Not too much,” Helen had thought. “But enough to teach him a lesson. Enough to keep him running for a while.”

  During dinner, everyone was in a good mood. Bill Wallace was happy and so was Lillian. Dryfly, although a little uptight about his own table manners, was also happy. The stew was good and the pudding perfect. Helen MacDonald was a good cook.

  The topic of conversation, the common denominator, was the river and the salmon. Bill Wallace asked questions and Dryfly answered the best he could. Dryfly didn’t know much about salmon, so most of his answers were inspired by the many stories he’d heard during long winter evenings standing around listening to the men talk in Bernie Hanley’s store.

  “There use to be a lotta salmon,” said Dryfly. “One time Bert Todder was wading the river with a horse and wagon. The salmon were so thick that they were getting caught on the spokes of the wagon. As the wheels turned, the salmon kept flipping up into the box. Bert Todder got enough salmon for the winter, just wading the river.”

  Bill Wallace laughed loud and long. Both he and Lillian thought it a great story.

  Dryfly, liking the laughter, said, “You use to have to get behind a tree to tie yer hook on.”

  More laughter.

  Dryfly blushed, but he was hot. “That was a dry summer,” he said. “The salmon used to have to come ashore for a drink.”

  More laughter.

  “What’s the biggest salmon you’ve ever seen?” asked Lillian.

  “Well, I don’t know how much it weighed, but it was as long as this table,” said Dryfly. “It was stuck to an eagle.”

  “It was stuck to an eagle?”

  “Yeah, the eagle had locked his claws in the salmon’s back and wouldn’ let go. The salmon dived deep and drowned the eagle. The salmon must’ve been too heavy for the eagle to lift. We found the both of them washed up on the shore down by Tuney’s Brook.

  “Is that a true story?” asked Bill.

  “True as I’m settin’ here,” said Dryfly, and, indeed, the story was true.

  “You know, I haven’t caught a salmon all week. I can’t imagine what I’m doing wrong,” said Bill.

  “You’ll git one,” said Dryfly. “Salmon are funny fish. Once John Kaston fished all week with a sport and didn’t ketch a thing. Then, one day they was settin’ in the canoe and a salmon jumped right in along side the sport. John killed the salmon and it turned out to be the only one the sport took back with him. That was the only fish they caught all week.” That, too, was a true story.

  When dinner was over, the three retired to the veranda. Bill gave Dryfly a pack of Lucky Strikes. Bill and Dryfly smoked and talked, Lillian smiled and laughed and looked very pretty. Both Bill and Dryfly loved Lillian Wallace very much.

  Ten o’clock rolled around and Bill hinted it was time for Dryfly to go home. Ten o’clock was not late for Lillian, but Bill wanted to discuss a few things with her in private.

  “Well, I guess I’d better be goin’,” said Dryfly.

  “I’ll walk a little way with you,” said Lillian.

  “Good night,” said Bill.

  “Good night, Bill,” said Dryfly.

  When they were sure the night was hiding them from Bill’s vision, Dryfly and Lillian held hands. They walked to the edge of the Cabbage Island Salmon Club property and sat at the base of a pine tree.

  “I had a wonderful day,” said Lillian.

  “Me too,” said Dryfly.

  “I like you very much,” said Lillian.

  “I like you, too,” said Dryfly.

  “I think my father likes you, too.”

  “Ya think?”

  Lillian leaned and kissed Dryfly one cool little peck on the cheek. It was the first time anyone other than his mother had ever reached out to kiss him. Dryfly was amazed at how good it made him feel. It gave him butterflies and made him feel all warm inside.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Dryfly wanted to say the magic words, I love you, but he couldn’t seem to come out with them.

  “I’d better be goin’,” he said.

  “There’s no great hurry. Dad won’t mind as long as I don’t stay too long.”

  “I know, but it’s gettin’ late and I . . .”

  “I’m really glad you could come to dinner tonight, Dryfly.”

  “It was good food. I really think I should be goin’ now.”

  “Relax, Dryfly, it’s only early.”

  Dryfly didn’t want to go. He would’ve sat beneath that pine tree with Lillian all night, but he was getting terrible cramps in his abdomen. The Helen MacDonald dosages of cabbage and Ex-Lax were working hand in hand, and Dryfly wasn’t sure whether he need to let off gas or indulge in a full scale bout. Either way, he didn’t want to do it in the presence of Lillian Wallace.

  “I really gotta be goin’,” he said.

  “What for?”

  Dryfly was too backwar
d and shy to tell her the truth.

  “Mom wants me home early tonight,” he lied.

  “Oh, well, okay. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you walk me back to the camp?”

  “Sure.”

  They stood and started back to the camp.

  “Want to go on a picnic tomorrow?” Lillian asked.

  “Sure. If you want.”

  Dryfly was beginning to really suffer and Lillian seemed to walk so very slow.

  “It’s such a beautiful night,” said Lillian. “Look, there’s a new moon.”

  “Yep.”

  “I love moonlit nights.” Lillian squeezed his hand and turned to face him. “I’ll be leaving Sunday morning, Dryfly. I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  It was clear to Dryfly that Lillian wanted to kiss again, but he was not sure he could hold on much longer. A particularly vicious spasm coursed through his bowels forcing him to cross his legs and bend over. He still would not admit to his agony, however.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Lillian. “Nothin’ . . . thought I saw somethin’ on the ground.”

  “What? I don’t see anything.”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Are you all right, Dryfly?”

  “Yep.” Dryfly straightened. “I’m all right.”

  They moved a few more paces toward the camps. Lillian stopped again. “You know,” she said, “it’s so quiet here, you can almost hear the silence.”

  “Yeah, but the flies are eatin’ me alive,” said Dryfly. “I gotta get out o’ here!”

  “That’s funny, they’re not bothering me at all.”

  “Well, they’re botherin’ me! I’ll see ya later!”

  “Kiss me good night?”

  Dryfly kissed her quickly. He knew the countdown had started.

  “I’ll see ya tomorrow,” he said, already moving away.

  “Good night.”

  “See ya tomorrow!”

  Dryfly walked twenty paces, then ran with desperation into the woods.

  *

  Shadrack sat on the Tuney Brook bridge until it was too dark for him to see the little trout swimming in the water beneath. Although he was somewhat excited about the events of the day, he kept very still. He did not wave or slap at the mosquitoes and most of them never found him.

  “Dryfly stole me woman,” thought Shadrack. “Me own fault, though. Should’ve kissed her when I had the chance. She’d still be with me, if I had’ve kissed her. Now I got a broken heart and I’m . . . I’m . . . blue, yeah, I’m blue. What’s a blue lad feel like, I wonder? What’s a man do when he’s got a broken heart and blue?”

  Shadrack knew what he had told Dryfly. Shadrack knew that he had told Dryfly he and Lillian were lovers; that he and Lillian had even discussed marriage.

  “Course, I was lyin’,” thought Shad, “but that don’t matter, I’ll have to show signs of a broken heart, even if I don’t care anymore. I could tell ’im I left her for another woman . . . or I left her because I didn’t like her cookin’. I’ll tell ’im . . . somethin’ . . . what’s keepin’ ’im so long?”

  Another hour passed before Shadrack heard Dryfly coming down the path.

  Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes,

  Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes,

  Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes,

  I’ll never love blue eyes again

  sang Dryfly.

  “That you, Dryfly?”

  Dryfly came to an immediate halt.

  “Shad?”

  “Yeah. Here on the bridge.”

  “What’re ya doin’ here?”

  “Waitin’ for you!”

  Dryfly carefully approached the little bridge. Dryfly was somewhat worried that Shad might be angry. He wasn’t afraid.

  He felt he’d done nothing wrong, but he wasn’t up for a confrontation. He still felt somewhat ill, and his spirits were too good to ruin them with an argument, or whatever Shadrack might have in mind.

  “Where ya been all night?” asked Shad.

  “I . . . I’ve been with . . . Bill Wallace.”

  “How’s you and Lillian makin’ out? You in love with her, Dry?”

  “Naw, jist settin’ up there talkin’, that’s all.”

  “An awful lotta talkin’, Dry! You been up there all day!”

  “Jist talkin’, that’s all we were doin’.”

  “I saw you and Lillian walkin’ down the front holdin’ hands!”

  “So?”

  “So, where were ya goin’?”

  “Lindon Tucker’s.”

  “Walkin’ down the front, holdin’ hands in broad daylight! Good thing I left her when I did!”

  “You left her?”

  “Didn’ she tell ya?”

  “No.”

  “Course, I left her! Good thing too, by the looks of it, or you’d be holdin’ hands with another man’s woman! You think about that, Dry?”

  “No.”

  “No! Course ya didn’! You don’t think o’ nothin’, do ya! You never stopped to think o’ me and how I might’ve got hurt. Course, I didn’ get hurt, cause I left the jeezless tramp, but it’s a good thing for you that I did!”

  “Lillian ain’t a tramp, Shad.”

  “Course she’s a tramp! Last night me, tonight you, God knows who tomorrow night! That tramp don’t care about us lads, Dry! She’s prob’ly up there in the camp right now laughin’ her head off at ya. Wouldn’ surprise me at all!”

  “I don’t think so, Shad.”

  “I saw through her, so I did! No woman’s gonna make a fool out o’ Shadrack Nash!”

  Dryfly didn’t like what he was hearing. To Dryfly, Lillian

  Wallace was not a tramp. To Dryfly, Lillian Wallace was the most refined, wonderful, kind, sweet girl in the world.

  “I don’t care if she laughs at me,” said Dryfly.

  Dryfly’s love for Lillian Wallace was the first real possession he’d ever had. He knew it might not be a possession that would hang around for very long, but he was going to enjoy it and make the most of it while it lasted. He did not want to fight with Shad, though. He would let Shadrack and anybody else say whatever they wanted. He would not give up the precious moments he was spending with Lillian.

  “She kin laugh, and you kin say what you want, I don’t care!” said Dryfly.

  “And you shouldn’ care! She’ll be gone in a few days and she’ll laugh and make fun o’ you, all the way home!”

  Dryfly endeavored to change the subject. “What’ve you been doin’ all day, Shad?” he asked.

  “I’ve been . . . I’ve been . . . you’d never guess who I met up with today, Dry.”

  ten

  Saturday night at dusk, Bill Wallace and Lindon Tucker stood outside the Cabbage Island Salmon Club camps. They were saying goodbye. They would not see each other again for a year. Bill paid Lindon for guiding him and tipped him twenty dollars. Twenty dollars was the biggest tip Lindon Tucker had ever received for guiding. Bill Wallace had had a few drinks and was feeling generous. He could afford to be generous. Bill Wallace was a millionaire who had just purchased a fifty thousand dollar salmon pool for a thousand dollars. Lindon Tucker had been drinking too, and was feeling quite good.

  “I didn’t catch any salmon this year,” said Bill, “but I’ll be back next year. I want to put up a cottage next year, Lindon, and by God, I want you to be one of the carpenters.”

  “Yeah, sure, yeah, sure, sure! Done a bit o’ carpenter work. Wouldn’ mind workin’ on it. Yeah, sure, sure! I’ll work on it.”

  “Well, Lindon, I think I’ll get my gear together and go to bed. I’ve got a long drive tomorrow, and Lillian and I will be rising early.”

  “It’s been good doin’ bus’ness, yeah. See ya next year. We’ll git lotsa fish next year.”

  “If we could figure out what that young Palidin Ramsey is doing, we’ll catch them all right, Lindon. How many do you think he’s caught in
the last few days?”

  “Well, he got six one day, he told me, so he did. Six, yeah. Six one day and four the next. Yeah, yeah, yeah, six one day and four the next and seven today. That makes . . . six and four and seven . . . how many?”

  “Seventeen, I believe, Lindon.”

  “Seventeen, yeah, yeah, seventeen. Did ya buy a few from him to take back with ya?”

  “I sure did, Lindon. I bought eight from him. I’ll tell the boys back home that I caught them myself.”

  “Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir. Tell them ya caught them yerself, yeah, yeah yeah. Yeah. Ha, ha.”

  “Well, good-night, Lindon.”

  “Yes sir, yes sir. Good-night.”

  “We’ll see you next year.”

  “Next year, yeah. Yeah, yeah, next year, yeah. Yep. Take ’er easy.”

  Bill Wallace escaped into the camp.

  Lindon Tucker was in a mood for celebrating and headed for Bernie Hanley’s store.

  Dan Brennen, Bob Nash, John Kaston, Bert Todder and Stan Tuney were all standing around Bernie Hanley’s store gossiping, eating oranges and drinking Sussex Ginger Ale. When Lindon Tucker arrived, he pulled a pint – already half empty – from his belt, ordered a bottle of ginger ale and treated the boys.

  “Yes sir. Yes sir, yes sir, the best sport I ever guided. Tipped me twenty dollars, so he did. Twenty dollars! And, and, and gimme a fishin’ rod. Brand new rod! Give it to me, he did. Twenty dollars and a fishin’ rod, jist like that! He said, he said, he said, he said, he said, he said, what he said was I want you to have it, he said. Gimme a rod, jist like that, yeah.”

  “That old lad I was guidin’, didn’ ketch a fish all week and didn’ tip me a cent!” said Stan Tuney.

  “My sport fished from daylight to dark, caught four salmon and a grilse and only tipped me two dollars. I reached right in me pocket and give ’im five. Told ’im he might need it to get home on,” said Dan Brennen.

  “Remember that old lad I was guidin’ in April? The old lad that wouldn’ piss in the river?” said Bert Todder.