The Americans Are Coming Page 15

  “Yeah, I remember him. Same lad you were guidin’ all week, weren’t it?” asked Stan.

  “Yeah, that’s the same old jeezer!”

  “I never heard that story,” said Dan Brennen. “What happened?”

  “Well, I was guidin’ him in April and he wouldn’ piss in the river. I was goin’ up the river with that ten Johnson out-board motor and he was in the front. When he needed a piss, he pulled out this pickle bottle and started to piss in it. The wind was blowin’ real hard and the piss kept blowin’ back all over me . . . jist kind of a fine spray, if ya know what I mean. I snubbed ’er up some quick, I tell ya! I ain’t drinkin’ yer piss all the way to Gordon, I told ’im!”

  All the men laughed.

  “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah,” commenced Lindon. “Sold that old shore o’ mine. Sold it, yeah. No good, that old shore. Got rid o’ it, so I did. Got rid o’ it. Might sell the whole place, yet. Move to Fredericton, I think. Move to Fredericton and take ’er easy.”

  There were no secrets in Brennen Siding. All the men knew that Lindon had sold his property. Somehow, Bert Todder had found out.

  “You’ll get a job lookin’ after that lad’s camp when he gets it built, won’t ya, Lindon?”

  “He didn’ say for sure. I might, I might, ya never know, I might! I think I’ll sell the whole place and move to Fredericton. Lay right back in Fredericton.”

  “I’d sell that old place o’ mine some quick,” said Bert Todder. “That old shore, anyway. Them old shores ain’t no good to a man.”

  “Should be able to sell that old shore o’ yours, no trouble, Bert. The mouth o’ Todder Brook is right there. There’s always salmon at the mouth o’ the brook. Why don’t ya sell it and get a big chunk o’ money for it?” said John Kaston. “Them old shores ain’t worth nothin’.”

  “Ain’t worth nothin’, no,” said Lindon Tucker. “Sold mine, so I did. Yep. Think I’ll move to Fredericton. Lay right back, take ’er easy, yeah.”

  *

  Lillian Wallace was not laughing. Fifteen-year-old Lillian Wallace had a tear in her eye. Lillian Wallace said, “I’m going to miss you, Dryfly,” and meant it.

  “Gonna miss you too,” said Dryfly.

  “I’ll come back next year, Dry. We’ll get together again next year.”

  “A year’s a long time,” said Dryfly.

  “You could come down and stay with us, play at the Red Lion.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Will you write to me?”

  “If you write to me.”

  Over the past few days, Dryfly had spent every possible minute with Lillian Wallace. They walked and talked, sat around on the veranda drinking lemonade and “soda”; they swam and went on picnics and kissed and hugged forty-two thousand and one times.

  They were very much in love, but the word “love” was never spoken. Dryfly wanted to say it now. Dryfly didn’t want Lillian to walk out of his life without her knowing how he felt, and he wanted to know how she felt about him. He wanted to say, “I love you,” and he wanted to hear her say, “I love you, too.”

  He held her close, smelling the fly repellent on her neck, feeling her warm young body against his own. He kissed the tears from her cheek. “This is it,” he thought. “This is the last time I’ll hold her. I might never see her again.” Dryfly wanted to cry too.

  Dryfly would never forget her. He would never forget the few short days and nights they’d had together. He was totally in love – in love with Lillian; in love with the stars and the moon; in love with the river and the warm July night.

  Dryfly had wanted to say “I love you” so many times during the past few days, but for some reason, couldn’t twist his tongue around the three little words. Now, with tears welling from his eyes, while kissing her tears from her face, while looking into the big, tear-filled blue eyes he adored while feeling her warmth with the reality that he might never see her again, he thought he could say it.

  “Lillian,” he whispered, “Lillian . . .”

  “Yes, Dryfly?”

  “Lillian . . . I love you!”

  There was a silence, during which Dryfly could only hear their heartbeat and their breathing. Then, Lillian pulled away from him. She looked at his tattered sneakers and ragged jeans, the same shirt she had washed for him three days ago, his hair parted in the middle, his long nose and his eyes. He had tears in his eyes.

  Crying with all the spirit of a child, she ran into the camp.

  *

  Dryfly swung and started walking. He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he needed to walk. “I’m in love,” he thought. “I’m in love with Lillian Wallace and she’s gone. I’m alone. I can cry now.” He unleashed a flood of tears.

  When he got to the Tuney brook bridge, he found Shad waiting for him. He didn’t want Shad to see the tears, but there was no stopping them. He approached Shad and stood before him, weeping like a hurt child.

  When Shadrack saw that Dryfly was crying, he did not speak. Neither did Dryfly. They stood eyeing each other, Dryfly crying and Shadrack not knowing what to say. Shadrack knew one thing though: he was sorry for the things he’d said about Lillian Wallace.

  “You all right?” said Shadrack, when he finally found words.

  “I don’t know . . . I guess.”

  “I’m gonna miss her, too,” said Shad.

  “I love her, Shad!”

  “She’ll come back, Dryfly. Don’t cry. She’ll come back.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe.”

  “Let me pole you up to Gordon,” said Shad. “We’ll git some wine at the bootlegger’s. We’ll have a drink o’ wine and talk.”

  “Wine? I ain’t got no money for wine.”

  “I got that ten dollars Nutbeam gave me. We’ll git some wine and have a talk.”

  “Okay. Might as well.”

  Shadrack and Dryfly went to the Cabbage Island Salmon Club and slid off, quietly so that no one would hear them, in one of the club’s canoes.

  Dryfly found some consolation from being on the river and cheered up a bit. The river reflected the blue of the sky, the stars, the moon and the forested hills. Except for the swish-plunk, swish-plunk of the pole, and the rippling sound of the canoe cutting the water, all was quiet.

  “She didn’t say it,” thought Dryfly. “She didn’t say ‘I love you.’”

  “You know what, Shad?” said Dryfly a little later. “She’s the only woman I ever loved.”

  “Me too,” said Shad.

  The boys had one more bond between them.

  *

  Knock, knock.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Shadrack and Dryfly.”

  “Ah, hell!”

  Nutbeam arose from his cot, went to the door and opened it.

  “What d’ya want?”

  “We got some wine, Nutbeam,” said Shadrack. “Thought maybe you’d like a drink.”

  Nutbeam had just gotten home from his radio listening trip. He had listened to Saturday Night Jamboree outside of Shirley Ramsey’s house. Again he had crept closer to the house so he could peek through the window at Shirley. Shirley was sewing a shirt for Palidin and looked very beautiful to Nutbeam. Nutbeam wanted very much to meet Shirley Ramsey.

  Later, lying on his cot, he had given his predicament thought. “She’s a good woman. A man should have a woman. Shirley Ramsey needs a man. I could keep her, look after her . . . but what’s the use? She’d never look sideways at a lad like me.”

  “I’m gonna have to do somethin’,” Nutbeam said aloud to the camp. “I’m not gettin’ any younger. Let me see . . . I’m forty-six years old. Forty-six and never had a woman. Sweet forty-six and never been kissed.”

  Nutbeam had spent many hours during the last year, thinking about his lonely situation and had concluded that the loneliness was getting to be too much. He was beginning to talk to himself.

  “I’m goin’ crazy,” he said. “Talkin’ to yerself is one of the first signs of
goin’ crazy.”

  When Shadrack showed up to unlock his little secret, Nutbeam had been very upset, nervous, yes, and even a little afraid. But now, there in the dark, on his cot, Nutbeam felt that maybe Shadrack’s appearance had been a blessing in disguise. Maybe the Good Lord was looking after him and had sent Shadrack to find him, to flush him out, to reveal him to the world that he would either have to face, or go insane. Setting all other predicaments aside, Nutbeam, there in the dark, on his cot, was a very troubled and bewildered man. And then:

  Knock, knock.

  “If I don’t face this young fella and play some sorta game, the young brat will blackmail me. I shouldn’ have offered him any money in the first place. And now, he’s brought that young Dryfly Ramsey back here in the middle of the night, lookin’ to blackmail me. I’ll have to face them. I’ll have to play some sorta game.”

  “Mind if we come in?” said Shadrack

  “It’s awful late,” said Nutbeam.

  “Ain’t late. Ain’t even twelve o’clock.”

  “What d’ya want?”

  “Don’t want nothin’. Jist came to visit ya. Was tellin’ Dryfly here about ya. He wanted to meet ya.”

  Nutbeam sighed. “Come in,” he said. “But just for a minute!”

  “Awful dark in here. Ain’t ya got a lamp?”

  “Yes, I have a lamp.”

  “Nutbeam struck a match and lit the lamp.

  “Nice place ya got here, Nutbeam,” said Dryfly.

  “Just an old camp.”

  “I like it.”

  “Would ya like a drink o’ wine?” asked Shad, pulling a bottle of sherry out from under his jacket.

  “I haven’t had a drink in ten years,” said Nutbeam.

  “Go ahead, have a drink. It’s good stuff. Golden Nut.”

  “No. I think not.”

  “Aw, c’mon! Won’t hurt ya. Have a drink o’ wine. Good for ya. Keeps that lad from starin’ at ya.” Shad had adopted “Keeps that lad from starin’ at ya” from Bert Todder.

  Nutbeam stared at the bottle. “Would be nice to have a drink with someone,” he thought. He sat by the table and took a small sip of the sweet wine. He thought it was, indeed, quite good.

  Shadrack and Dryfly smiled at each other and sat on the cot.

  “Bought that with the ten dollars you give me, Nutbeam. Wanted to show ya that I didn’t waste the money. Have another drink . . . take a big one, that’s no good! Take ’er down! Help yerself!”

  Nutbeam took a bigger drink.

  “Good stuff,” said Nutbeam. “Where’d ya get it?”

  “Gordon. From the bootlegger in Gordon. We left another bottle outside, so don’t worry about runnin’ shy of ’er.”

  The three sipped from the wine and it wasn’t long before they commenced to feel its effects. The conversation flowed a bit easier, and although Nutbeam hadn’t really talked any amount in years, he found that the words were coming surprisingly easy. He thought he might even be enjoying himself. The boys weren’t making fun of him either, or they didn’t seem to be. They actually seemed to like him.

  “You play guitar,” Nutbeam said to Dryfly.

  “How’d ya know that?”

  “I know a lotta things.”

  “Yeah, I play, but not very good.”

  “You play good.” Nutbeam took another drink.

  “You sure have some nice rifles,” said Shad.

  “You like me rifles?”

  “Sure do. What’s that one?”

  Shad pointed at the rifle he fancied most.

  “That’s a 30-30. Good gun, that.”

  “You must get a lotta deer and moose and stuff,” said Shadrack, still admiring the rifles.

  “I get what I need.”

  “Hey! What’s that thing?” asked Dryfly.

  “Trumpet.”

  “Really? What’s it for?”

  “It’s a musical instrument.”

  “Kin ya play it?”

  “Ain’t played it much lately.”

  “Would ya play it fer us, Nutbeam?”

  “No. Makes too much noise. Can’t play it anyway.”

  “What do we care if it makes noise? There’s only the three of us.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Ya know what we should do some night? We should bring the banjo and guiddar back and play some music.”

  “Ya could sure let loose back here,” agreed Dryfly. “No one would ever hear ya back here.”

  “I can’t play very good,” said Nutbeam.

  “Sure ya kin,” said Shadrack. “All ya have to do is practise.”

  “They’d hear me all over the country.”

  “Naw! Never in a million years,” said Dryfly. “Never hear ya way back here.”

  “Play it, Nutbeam,” urged Shad.

  “Maybe later.”

  When the three finished the first bottle of wine, Shad went and retrieved the second bottle. With the ten dollars, he had purchased four bottles. He and Dryfly had consumed one on their way from Gordon. If they finished this one, they still had one left. Shadrack was in a party mood.

  Soon Shadrack started to sing. He wasn’t much for carrying a melody, but he loved to sing, so he bellowed one dirty song out after another. Between songs, the boys told dirty jokes. Nutbeam was forgetting himself. Nutbeam actually laughed at the dirty songs and jokes. This was the best time that Nutbeam had ever had.

  Shad got up and danced around the camp. “Yeah-whoo!” he whooped. “Yeah-whoo and her name was Maud!” He grabbed the trumpet and tried to blow into it. Nothing happened.

  “Here, Nutbeam old dog, give ’er hell!”

  Nutbeam was getting drunk and caught up in the excitement. He took a bigger than average drink of the wine, grabbed the trumpet from Shadrack, stood and commenced to blow.

  BARMP-BARMP-BEEP-BARMP-BARMP!

  Shadrack and Dryfly couldn’t believe their ears. At first they just stared at each other. Then, they smiled at each other. The smile turned into a chuckle. The chuckle turned into hilarious laughter. They laughed at Nutbeam’s big lips trying to manufacture sounds on the trumpet. They laughed at Nutbeam’s big ears and lanky body. They laughed at the awful noise Nutbeam was making. But most of all, they laughed at the reality that there before them, was none other than the Todder Brook Whooper.

  Shadrack was already starting to get ideas.

  Staggering homeward in the middle of the night, Shadrack said to Dryfly, “What d’ya s’pose a nice lad like that would live his life in the woods for?”

  “He’s got big floppy ears,” said

  “Yeah, but there’s got to be somethin’ else.”

  “Inferiority comprex,” said Dry.

  *

  At the crack of dawn, Lillian Wallace stirred, rose and got dressed. She put on her blue shorts, pink blouse and sandals. Then, she went to the dresser and peered into the mirror. She combed her hair and looked into her tired, sky-blue eyes. If she had smiled, her full, young lips would have revealed clean, well-kept teeth, but Lillian Wallace did not feel like smiling.

  When she was satisfied with her appearance, she picked up a pen from the dresser and jotted down three words on a piece of paper. She put the note in an envelope, wrote “Dryfly” on it, started to lick and seal it, but decided against it. Then she, with envelope in hand, left the room. Three seconds later, she stepped into the grey, pine-scented Dungarvon morning. Every bird that could sing was singing.

  Lillian needed to think. To think, she needed to walk. She went down the path, over the hill and across the little bridge Stan Tuney had built over his brook. A fingerling trout swam beneath the bridge, but Lillian Wallace, there in the cool dewy morning, did not take the time to watch it. She would be leaving the Dungarvon in little more than an hour for Stockbridge, Massachusetts and needed to see Dryfly Ramsey one more time . . . or at least be close to him.

  She followed the brook until she came to Stan Tuney’s field. Crossing the field, she stopped to pick a daisy. She put the
daisy in the envelope with the three word note and sealed it.

  By the time she got to the railroad, her feet were soaked with dew. She didn’t care. She was almost there. In a minute she stopped in front of Shirley Ramsey’s house and peered at the window she thought might be Dryfly’s.

  In the grey dawn, she eyed the drab, paintless structure before her. She eyed the sandy lawn and the car tires. They were cut diametrically in two and placed at the ends of the culvert. A sandy path led to the front door. In another car tire beside the path, Shirley had planted a geranium.

  Lillian went to the door and stood for a moment. She wanted to knock, to awaken Dryfly, to hold him, to feel the warmth of his body, to kiss and hug and love him like he’d never been loved before. Lillian Wallace, young and beautiful, alone in a strange land, standing at Shirley Ramsey’s door at dawn, whispered, “Sleep tight, Dryfly, my prince of Dungarvon. I love you.”

  Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, she slid the envelope beneath the door. Without looking back, she returned to the Cabbage Island Salmon Club.

  Back in her room, Lillian sat on her bed to wait for her father to awaken. She knew she would not have to wait long. Bill Wallace wanted to get an early start.

  eleven

  When Dryfly found the note from Lillian Wallace, he kissed the daisy. As the daisy touched his lips, a teardrop that had been coursing its way down his cheek dropped to land on the “loves me” petal. The old “She loves me – she loves me not” game would not be necessary.

  Dryfly Ramsey was a dreamer.

  Dryfly Ramsey had always been a dreamer. When he was a child, he dreamed of cowboys on dynamic white stallions, cacti and coyote calls (there were no coyotes in New Brunswick back then); he dreamed of exotic places like Newcastle and Chatham, Saint John and Fredericton. As he passed through the awkwardness of puberty, his dreams reluctantly changed.

  Dryfly didn’t have it in mind to give up childhood, but it happened, as it happens to everyone. His dreams had changed from range cowboys to radio cowboys, the guitar being a key implement in the process. He wanted to be like Lee Moore, or Doc Williams. He wanted to live in exotic places like Wheeling, West Virginia or Nashville, Tennessee.

  Now, Lillian Wallace had changed things again. The need for the love of a woman stormed in and Dryfly started to experience the cold, ruthless loneliness of adolescence.