The Americans Are Coming Read online

  “I could throw something at him,” thought Bob.

  “I could stab him with a knitting needle,” thought Elva.

  “John Deere, John Deere, John Deere . . . good tractor . . . John Deere . . . . damn! I’m losing my mind.” Bob Nash was reading the John Deere tractor ad on the back cover of the Family Herald. He wanted to read the article inside on scabby potatoes, but he couldn’t concentrate. The banjo seemed to be getting louder and louder.

  Finally, Bob started to roll the Family Herald into a tight round tube. His nerves were screaming for help and he was about to come to the rescue. Bob stood. “I’ll beat the shit out of him,” he thought. “A good thrashin’s just what he needs.”

  Shadrack did not see Bob’s approach.

  WHACK! went the Family Herald.

  BOING! went the banjo.

  “What the . . .”

  WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

  “Stop it!”

  “Take that!” – WHACK! – “you little bastard . . . and that!” WHACK!

  Bob Nash hit Shadrack on top of the head with the Family Herald. To Bob, it felt very good. To Shadrack, it stung and startled him so that he dropped the banjo. Shad knew from experience, from the look in Bob’s eyes, that he was in for a thrashing. Shad was uncertain about what he had done to deserve it, but he knew it was too late to discuss it.

  WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

  Everytime Bob hit Shad, he felt better. The silence of the banjo and the whack of the Family Herald on Shad’s body was like music to his ears, a pacifying symphony that conquered and replaced “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.”

  “I could do this all night,” thought Bob. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK . . . WHACK . . . a black eye, WHACK, a bloody nose, WHACK, a bruised arm. WHACK on the bum, WHACK on the leg, WHACK on the shoulder. Bob Nash, for the moment, was gloriously insane. The nagging wife and the lazy, banjo-playing boy had removed a brick from his structure; he had been pushed temporarily over the edge.

  WHACK, WHACK!

  At first, Shad saw it as just another beating, but soon enough he began to realize that things were getting out of control. He realized he was cornered, that there was no escape. He was being attacked by his father and was more than just a little leery about fighting back. He took a couple of more blows. They were getting harder and they weren’t slowing down. There was a strange wild look in his father’s eyes. Shad knew that he had to do something. “But what? I can’t hit my father . . .” WHACK!

  Shadrack tensed his muscles and gathered his strength. He made a blind dive at Bob. Thud! It was like colliding with a load of bricks.

  WHACK! WHACK!

  Elva Nash watched contentedly. The beating was a tension release for her too. “Shad’s getting what he deserves,” she thought.

  Once again Shad cringed and gathered his strength, and once again made a plunge. Thump! Bob Nash was still solid.

  “Might as well run into a brick wall,” thought Shad.

  By now, Shad too had lost all reason. He started counting for his next attack. “One, two, three . . .” He could have been counting bricks.

  At the count of three, Shad’s foot connected with Bob’s crotch, a definite weak point in the wall. On the count of four the Family Herald loosened and fell from Bob’s hand. On the count of five, Shad saw his father fall to this knees in agony – thump! – like a load of bricks. On the count of six, Shadrack dashed for the door. Seven, eight . . . on the count of nine, Shad glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being pursued. He saw Bob Nash kneeling, holding on to himself. Shad gave a frightened glance at his astonished mother.

  “Dad’s a brick short of a load!” he yelled, and ran from the house.

  *

  Dryfly returned to Nutbeam’s camp with a pencil, paper and envelopes. He sat at the table across from Nutbeam and the two began to contrive a letter. The letter was to Johanna Banks in Mars Hill, Maine.

  “What d’ya want to say?” asked Dryfly.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep. All ready.”

  “Dear Johannah, how are you, I am fine, hope you are the same. Dryfly is writing this letter for me. What’s going on in Mars Hill? Was it a good year for potatoes? Is Ned dead yet? How’s Willy? I am fine and living in Canada. How’s Alex and Norah?”

  Nutbeam ran out of things to say. “What’ll I say now?” he asked.

  “Ah . . . how about the weather? Tell ’er how the weather is.”

  “The weather’s good. How’s the weather in Mars Hill? It was cold here last night. It will soon be winter.”

  Dryfly wrote down Nutbeam’s dictations with many misspellings and little punctuation.

  “Ya think that’s enough?” asked Nutbeam when Dryfly had scratched out the word “winter.”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe.”

  “Put, ‘Yours, Nutbeam’ on it and that’ll do.”

  Dryfly finished off the letter and put it in an envelope. He wrote “Johanna Banks, Mars Hill, Maine” on it and sealed it.

  “Ya want me to mail it for ya, Nutbeam?”

  “No, no, that’s all right. I’ll mail it.”

  “Wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “No, that’s all right, I’ll mail it.”

  Nutbeam held the letter up and looked at it proudly. He then took it to the shelf beside the stove and laid it down carefully, as if it was breakable, beside a pot. He put a block of birch in the stove and went back to the table. He turned the lamp down a bit. The fire in the stove lulled them with snaps and crackles. The camp was cozy and warm.

  “Thanks for writing that letter, Dry. You’re a good lad.”

  “No trouble. Any time.”

  *

  A knock sounded at Nutbeam’s door.

  “That you, Shad?” yelled Nutbeam.

  “It’s me, Shadrack,” came the muffled voice through the door. Nutbeam unlatched and opened the door and in stepped the battered and bruised Shadrack Nash. He was limping and had a bloody nose and a swollen eye. The eye was already starting to turn black.

  “What you run into, a bear?” asked Dryfly.

  “Dad’s gone crazy! Beat me up!” panted Shad. “Kicked him in the nuts! I’m done for!”

  “You kicked Bob in the nuts?” Dryfly was amazed.

  “I’m a dead man! He’ll kill me! He’ll stomp me into the ground! He’ll chew me up and spit me out! He’ll . . .”

  “Holy dyin’!” said Dryfly, “he’ll shoot ya sure as hell! What’re ya gonna do?!”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Shad, like Lindon Tucker. “I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead!”

  Shadrack paced back and forth in the tiny camp until Dryfly jumped up and told him to sit down. Shad sat in Dryfly’s chair, his breath coming in puffs that caused the lamp to flutter. Nutbeam’s ears seemed to flap like wings in the dancing light.

  “Take it easy,” said Nutbeam, “he’ll get over it. He jist got ugly for a while, that’s all.”

  “You don’t know my father,” said Shadrack. “He’ll kill me and not think twice!”

  “So, what are you gonna do?”

  “Can’t go home, I know that!”

  “You’ll have to hide out at my place,” suggested Dryfly. Shadrack was not thinking too clearly, but he knew immediately he did not want to stay at Shirley Ramsey’s. Something like staying with Shirley Ramsey would not be at all good for the reputation. “No, that’s all right. I’ll think o’ something,” he said.

  “You could maybe stay here with Nutbeam!” offered Dryfly. “This is a great hideout!”

  “There’s no place for ya to stay here,” said Nutbeam.

  “He could sleep on the floor,” said Dryfly.

  “Ya couldn’ sleep on that old hard floor,” said Nutbeam, “and besides, they’ll come lookin’ for ’im.”

  “But they’ll never find him here!”

  “They’ll come lookin’ and they’ll find him!”

  “They never found you!”

 
; “That’s different. They’re not looking for me.”

  “I can’t go home, I know that much.”

  “You go home and I bet yer father will’ve forgot all about it. He ain’t out to kill ya. You shouldn’t have kicked him anyway! You shouldn’ kick yer father!”

  “I had to, Nutbeam! He would’ve killed me!”

  “I don’t believe he would’ve killed ya.”

  “Maybe you’d let me stay for just a while,” said Shadrack. “Just until I figure out what I should do.”

  “They’ll come lookin’ for ya,” argued Nutbeam.

  “Just for a couple o’ days,” said Shadrack.

  “They’ll find ya sure as hell.”

  “Just for tonight, then. I’ll feel things out tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “C’mon, Nutbeam, just for the night!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Ah, thanks, Nutbeam! You’re a pal!”

  “Just for the night!”

  *

  When Lindon Tucker starts feeling his liquor, he likes to talk, or at least, likes to repeat the things other people say. Lindon was sitting at the bar. After the second double rye, he swung and eyed the gentleman sitting on the stool beside him. Lindon thought the gentleman was wearing either a black or purple suit; he wasn’t sure, the room was dimly lit. He had a black vandyke beard, but otherwise, his head was as bald as an egg. He had one of those timeless faces. Lindon couldn’t tell if he was thirty-five or much older. Oddly, for the lighting was very low, the gentleman wore sunglasses, hiding whatever lines of wisdom, happiness and pain – age – the eyes might have revealed.

  Lindon scanned the candle-lit room, then came back to eye the stranger whose glasses reflected the light like cat eyes.

  “How come yer warin’ smoked glasses in here?” asked Lindon.

  “Shade. I like the shade.” The gentleman’s voice was soft and deep.

  “Oh, yeah. Shade, yeah. Okay. Shade.”

  The gentleman was eyeing Lindon’s mackinaw, which he didn’t remove despite the room’s exceptional warmth.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Cool enough, yeah.”

  The gentleman removed his eyes from Lindon and lifted his head as if to eye someone across the room.

  “Lookin’ for someone? What’re ya lookin’ at? Ya could see better without them glasses on.”

  “A lovely lady across the way.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, yes, sir. Yes. Oh yeah, yep. Quite the lady, yep. You from around here, are ya?”

  “I’m from . . . the south,” said the gentleman.

  “Hot country? Hot country? Hot country?”

  “It can get hot. It can get very hot.”

  “What do ya do fer a livin’?”

  “I’m a musician. I play the violin.”

  “Yeah? Yeah? Like the fiddle, you mean?”

  “Yes. Like the fiddle.” The gentleman nodded toward the corner of the room to where a small triangular stage was located. “I’m here tonight,” he said.

  “Good, good, good. Like the fiddle. Always liked the fiddle. Play somethin’ fer us. Give us a tune. You know ‘Mutty Musk,’ do ya?”

  “I’m not familiar with it. Perhaps I could play you something else.”

  “Sure, sure, sure. Don’t matter. Anything at all.”

  The gentleman checked his watch. “It’s about time,” he said. Standing up, he nodded farewell to Lindon, nodded to the lady across the room and headed for the stage.

  In a minute the gentleman and two other musicians started to play. Lindon was not familiar with the melody and he thought it was unbearably loud. But as if he were in a Miramichi dance-hall, he commenced to stomp his feet and whoop. “Drive ’er!” he yelled. “Walk back on ’er! Whoop! Yea-whooooo! Keep ’er close to the floor!”

  Then Lindon felt the eyes upon him. There were more people looking at him than at the men on the stage. He quieted down and ordered another drink.

  “Sober crowd,” he said. “The music ain’t that great, anyway.”

  The bartender served Lindon another drink, which he tossed back as if it were water. He chased it once again with ale. He was feeling very good and wanted to talk to someone, but he noticed that nobody was sitting near him at the bar. He contemplated moving to another seat and eyed the room for a likely place. He spotted the lady the fiddle player had been eyeing and was surprised that she was eyeing him. He nodded. She nodded back. He winked. She smiled.

  “Hm,” he thought. “If I had another drink, I’d give that lady a little rub.”

  He ordered and was served once again. He tossed the rye back, eyeing the woman all the while. He felt he nearly had enough confidence. One more drink and he’d confront her.

  But then, to his surprise, the middle-aged woman with the red hair and dark-rimmed glasses left her table and moved to the stool next to Lindon. She ordered a screwdriver and lit a Rothman’s.

  Lindon eyed her with blurred vision.

  The woman saw Lindon staring, smiled and said, “Hi.” Lindon leaned toward her and shouted above the music. “Havin’ a little drink, are ya?”

  The woman nodded and smiled. “From around here?” she asked.

  “Brennen Siding!” he yelled. “Brennen Siding! Blackville!”

  “Oh! You’re from God’s country.”

  “The Devil’s country, devil’s country, devil’s country, more like it! Ho! Ha, ha, ha! Boys! Ya havin’ a little drink, are ya?”

  The screwdriver was served and the woman started digging into her purse for money. She removed her gloves, a makeup kit, a package of spearmint gum and a handkerchief. She removed a little black book, her eyeglass case and a ring of keys. The bartender waited patiently. From her purse, the woman removed a pen, a cigarette lighter, several Kleenex, a nail file and a hair brush. Her wallet was the last thing to be removed.

  “How much?” asked the woman.

  “Same as before – a dollar twenty-five.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” said the lady. “I seem to be out of cash. Would you cash a cheque for me?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am. It’s against the rules.”

  “Well, what am I to do?”

  “I’ll have to take your drink back, Ma’am.”

  “Oh! I’m so embarassed!”

  “I’ll get that,” said Lindon. “I’ll get that. Let me buy that. How much?”

  “A dollar twenty-five.

  Lindon paid for the drink and noticed that the woman seemed impressed with the wad of bills. She inched her stool closer to Lindon’s.

  “Thank you very much,” she said.

  “No trouble, no trouble, no trouble. There’s lots more where that came from.”

  “Oh! What do you do for a living?”

  “Nothin’, nothin’, nothin’! Don’t have to work. Guide some. Don’t have to work!”

  Lindon Tucker was wearing heavy woollen APH pants and a plaid Mackinaw coat. Lindon Tucker with his pot belly, un-shaven face and missing cuspids, did not look like a doctor, or a lawyer.

  “Oh,” said the woman. “I’d have thought you was a doctor or a lawyer.”

  “No, no, no; could, could, could, might, might, ya never know, might. Bartender! Get me and this here little lady another drink.”

  “You shouldn’t be spending your money on me,” said the woman sweetly, placing her hand on Lindon’s thigh.

  “Lots more where that come from! Make them big ones, bartender! Never mind them little sips! Make ’em big ones!”

  The bartender poured them two doubles and sat them in front of Lindon and the woman. “Nine dollars,” he said.

  “Nine dollars!” exclaimed Lindon.

  “Yeah, they’re triples.”

  “Oh, oh, oh well then.” Lindon paid the bartender.

  An hour went by and Lindon grew more and more intoxicated. The woman got prettier and prettier, and very, very friendly. It be
came quite clear to Lindon that she wanted him to get a room in the hotel.

  At first he didn’t know how to bring the issue up, but a couple of more doubles looked after that little holdup.

  “What d’ya say we get a room, little lady?” said Lindon.

  “Oh, my goodness, I hardly know you!”

  “Get to know me, git to know me! Git to know me in a room!”

  “Well, I guess I could party a little bit. Got any booze?”

  “Booze?”

  “Vodka, rye, rum, something to drink?”

  “No, but there’s lot’s of it here! Could get it here!”

  “Would you be so kind as to sell my friend here a bottle of vodka, bartender?” said the woman.

  “I’d have to sell it by the ounce,” cautioned the bartender.

  “Give us some vodker!” yelled Lindon.

  The bartender reached under the bar and sat up a forty ounce bottle of vodka. “Fifty dollars,” he said.

  The music had been wearing on Lindon. He hadn’t liked one tune the band played all evening. But as he left the room with his little lady, he heard them playing the first tune he was familiar with, “The Devil’s Dream.” Lindon whooped as he was going through the door.

  At the front desk, after paying for a room, Lindon noticed that he only had seventy-five dollars left. His only comment was, “Jesus.”

  He was more than just a little upset, but he decided to worry about the spending later. “Right now, there’s something else that needs spending,” he thought.

  “You know somethin’ darlin’?” said Lindon, as they entered room 405, “I don’t even know yer name.”

  “Call me Molly, darlin’.”

  “MOLLY, MY NAME’S LINDON TUCKER! THE BEST MAN TO EVER SHIT A TURD IN THE DUNGARVON RIVER! HA, HA, HA, WHOOP!”

  “You sit on the bed, darlin’, and I’ll pour us a drink.” Molly found two glasses in the bathroom and poured them each a drink. She poured one ounce in her own drink and topped it off with water. In Lindon’s glass, she poured five ounces of straight vodka. She delivered Lindon his drink, they toasted – clink. “Down the hatch,” she said and drank her glass empty. Not to be outdone by a little lady, Lindon downed his glass also.

  For five minutes, Lindon raved, fondled and boasted; then he went to sleep.