The Americans Are Coming Read online

  “Hurt yer hand?” asked John Kaston. John Kaston was but a few feet away, trimming the limbs from a fir he’d just felled.

  Shad analyzed the scratch amidst the dirt and pitch on his palm. “Just a scratch,” he thought.

  “I cut it damn near off!” he said. “I’d better go home! See ya later!”

  That was how Shadrack Nash quit his first job.

  John Kaston shook his head in dismay.

  “The lazy bugger only lasted three days,” muttered John to his axe.

  *

  Dryfly Ramsey sat in the shade behind the house, playing his guitar and singing Hank Snow’s “Sentimental.” It was a pretty song. It had nice chords in it. Dryfly liked it.

  Dryfly felt somewhat embarrassed when Shadrack rounded the corner. Although Dryfly had played and sung a thousand times to the accompaniment of Shad and his banjo, he still didn’t want Shad to think he played alone. Dryfly was shy. He stopped immediately.

  “How’s she goin’ today?” asked Dryfly.

  “The very best,” greeted Shad.

  “Not workin’ today?”

  “Naw. Quit. Got ugly.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Told old John Kaston to shove his spud up his arse!”

  “Ya didn’t, did ya? Wha’?”

  “Got any makin’s? I’m dyin’ for a smoke. Never had a cigarette all day.”

  “Yeah. Awful dry though,” said Dryfly, handing Shadrack the package of Vogue tobacco and papers they referred to as “makin’s.”

  “See that little lady at the club?” asked Shad.

  “Hasn’t everybody?”

  “Let’s go down.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Liable to get shot.”

  “What for? We never did nothin’.”

  “You didn’t, maybe, but I did.”

  “What ya do?”

  “Stole a blueberry pie.”

  “Where from, the kitchen?”

  “Off the window sill.”

  “Was it good?”

  “The very best.”

  “Ya git caught?”

  “No, but ya never know who might’ve seen a lad. They’ll blame me anyway. They always do.”

  “That’s because it’s you that always does it.”

  “You do it, too.”

  Shad shrugged and grinned. “There might be another one today,” he said. “Let’s go down.”

  “You ain’t scared of gittin’ caught?”

  “Naw. What’re they gonna do, put us in jail for stealin’ a blueberry pie?”

  Dryfly sighed. “Guess it won’t hurt to go down,” he said, leaning his guitar against the house. He rose from the grass, leaving a bum print where he had been sitting.

  The two boys crossed the tracks and Stan Tuney’s field. They came to Tuney’s brook and took the shaded path that followed the brook to the river. The large spruce and elms that grew beside the brook sighed in the dry summer wind.

  Just before they got to the river, they crossed the brook on a footbridge Stan built and went up the hill to where the six log cabins that made up the Cabbage Island Salmon Club sat. Like Sam Little’s lodge, the Cabbage Island Salmon Club camps sat in a grove of gigantic pines. From the front of each camp, one had a view of a mile of river in either direction.

  In the shade, outside the dining camp, sat Bert Todder, Dan Brennen and Stan Tuney. They were waiting for the Club owners to finish lunch. The guides might have as much as three hours before they would be obliged to go back into the glaring sun of the river. The guides all were thankful that the Americans took a long time to eat their lunch. Lindon Tucker still hadn’t returned with Bill Wallace. Bert Todder, Dan Brennen and Stan Tuney all were thankful that they weren’t guiding the “fish hog,” the name they called Bill Wallace.

  Lillian Wallace sat in a snug bathing suit on the lounge veranda, reading Gone with the Wind. High up in a pine tree, a red squirrel chattered. The good-time voices of the Americans came in bursts of shouts and laughter from the dining camp. A Jeep, a Ford station wagon and a Cadillac sat in the driveway.

  When they neared the kitchen, Dryfly was delighted to see another blueberry pie on the window sill.

  The boys, hidden behind a nearby tree, eyed the pie.

  “Looks kinda suspicious to me,” said Shad.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, if you had a pie stolen from you yesterday, would you put another one out in the very same place today?”

  “No, I wouldn’t, but there’s a pie there. Same kinda pie, too, by the looks of it. Blueberry.”

  “It’s blueberry, all right, and maybe a little poison mixed in with it.”

  “They wouldn’t poison a man, would they?”

  “Damn right they would.”

  “So we just leave it there?”

  “Damn right. I ain’t eatin’ no poisoned pie. I’m gonna go up and striker up a say with that little darlin’. You wait here.”

  “Why can’t I go, too?”

  “She can’t be with the both of us, kin she?!”

  “Why not?”

  “Damn, you’re stupid! I wanna maybe pass the hand. Can’t do that with you watchin’ us, can I?”

  “Well, don’t be all day, then.”

  “I won’t be no time. Jist gonna feel things out.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait.”

  Shad walked from behind the tree and rounded the camp to where Lillian Wallace sat reading. He was unsure of what his approach should be, but he feared he’d mess it up if he got too near her. He moved to within ten feet of where she sat, and with hands in his pocket and shoulders back, he pretended to be eyeing the river for something or other. From the corner of his eye, he could see her watching him. He knew he would have to acknowledge her sooner or later, but was hoping she would make the first move.

  Luck was with him.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Lillian.

  “Naw, jist lookin’. Nice day, eh?”

  “Yes, it is.” Lillian had the strong, confident, arrogant voice of an American. Shad was thrilled with the sound of it.

  “You from around here?” asked Shad.

  “No,” smiled Lillian, “I’m from Massachusetts.”

  “Heard of it. Big place?”

  “Yes, it’s quite big. Where do you live?”

  “See that house down there on the bend, the one with the blue bottom and the pink top?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where I live. It’s got an indoor toilet.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Only one around here.”

  “Well! How wonderful.”

  “You stayin’ here long?”

  “We can only stay a week, I’m afraid.”

  “Doin’ any fishin’?”

  “No. I’m not a fisherwoman, I’m afraid. I’m leaving the fish for my father.”

  “Is yer father gettin’ any?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Must be usin’ the wrong fly.”

  “Perhaps you could point him out something more productive.”

  “Is he around?”

  “He’s still out, but he should be back any minute.”

  “Like to meet ’im. Hear he’s a nice lad. Got a big salmon this morning on a fly he might be wantin’ to know about.”

  “Really? You caught a salmon this morning?”

  “Oh yeah, I kin ketch ’em any time at all.”

  “Well! You should, indeed, talk to my father. He’s not very productive when it comes to salmon, I’m afraid.”

  “Usin’ the wrong fly. Gonna be here tonight?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “I’ll come up.”

  “Well . . . all right. He likes to fish in the evening, but he’ll be back about dusk.”

  “Good. That a Gene Autry book you reading?”

  “No, it’s called Gone with the Wind. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, read a lotta Gene Autry, though. Any good?”
>
  “It’s not bad. Not as good as Gene Autry, perhaps, but it’s not bad.” Lillian smiled so beautifully that it quickened Shad’s heart.

  “Well, I gotta go. I’ll come up later and talk to yer father.”

  “Good. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

  “Yeah, well okay then, see ya later.”

  “Bye.”

  Shad went around the camp to where Dryfly was waiting behind the tree. The first thing he noticed was Dryfly petting Helen MacDonald’s dog. The second thing he noticed was that the blueberry pie was gone from the kitchen window.

  “What happened to the pie?” asked Shad.

  “Fed it to the dog. Hope it don’t hurt ’im,” said Dryfly.

  *

  That night when Shadrack went to the Cabbage Island Salmon Club, he did not take Dryfly with him. He would meet Dryfly later. Shad had no intentions of going to work in the morning and that meant that he and Dryfly could play on the river for as late as they wanted. Shadrack and Dryfly’s favourite pastime was playing on the river at night. Dryfly would be somewhere on the river (he always was), and all Shad would have to do was whistle and wait for an answer. Dryfly would eventually answer and they would swim or just canoe about until the wee hours of the morning.

  “Good evening, my boy! Come in! Have some lemonade. You’re just the man I’ve been wanting to see. I hear you have a fly to show me.”

  Shad didn’t have a fly to show Bill Wallace, but he had prepared himself.

  “Yeah, but I kin only tell you of it,” said Shad. “I lost it in a big salmon earlier this evening.”

  “Really! Christ, I’ve been whipping the rivah all day and never had as much as a rise.”

  Shad sat on the sofa beside Bill Wallace. Lillian sat at the table eyeing her father and the strange boy with the greased red hair. The boy had cleaned up since the afternoon and had changed his awful clothes for a plaid shirt with the collar turned up, blue jeans and sneakers. Lillian saw in Shadrack’s icy blue eyes a certain zest for life . . . and naughtiness perhaps. She thought she kind of liked him.

  “It’s what you call a Green-arsed Hornet,” said Shad. “Jist looks like a hornet, ’cept it’s got a green arse ’stead o’ yellow.”

  “Well, I’ll have Bert tie me up a few. A Green-assed Hornet, huh?”

  “Yep. Best fly on the river!”

  “Lillian, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but young Shadrack here is somewhat familiar with the Dungarvon Whooper.”

  “Really!”

  Shadrack leaned back on the sofa, put his arm on the back, crossed his legs and made ready for whatever lies he might have to conjure up. He wished he had brought Dryfly, after all. Dryfly was good at lying and stuff.

  “Lindon Tucker told me about it this morning,” continued Bill Wallace. “Young Shadrack here is quite a hero in these parts.”

  “Tell me about you being a hero, Shadrack,” said Lillian in the same way Shadrack reckoned she would talk to a child. Shadrack was losing confidence. These people were very different from the people he was used to. He couldn’t read their faces. He couldn’t decide whether they were making fun of him or not.

  “What did Lindon tell them?” was the question on Shadrack’s mind. He tried to remember all the stories. Shad decided he would go into the story in a roundabout way. That way, he’d have time to remember things.

  “Well,” breathed Shad, “this thing was screamin’ in the woods, see, and . . .”

  “What did the whooper sound like, Shad?’ asked Lillian.

  “Well, sorta like a . . . a . . . a train whistle, a panther hollerin’ . . . and the . . . the devil screamin’, all in one . . . only louder. Everyone was scared to death of it. So one night when the moon was full and the thing was makin’ more noise than usual, me and Dryfly thought we’d better be doin’ somethin’ about it. So, by God, I grabbed the old .303, and, and, and Dad’s flashlight and struck ’er for the woods.”

  Both Lillian and Bill were smiling friendly smiles. Shad thought that they might be swallowing his yarn and it gave him a bit more confidence.

  “So, anyway, we didn’t get no more than a mile or two in the woods when we smelt this awful smell. ’Pon me soul, it just smelt like . . . like Shirley Ramsey’s arse and, and I had to swing and throw up right then and there. And, and, and then this awfullest scream struck ’er up and Dryfly turned as white as a ghost. I said, ‘By God, Dryfly, we’re done for.’”

  “So, what did you do?” asked Lillian.

  “Well, I said the only way we’ll be able to git rid of it is to go down to the brook where the thing seemed to be, so we went down. Well, sir, you never heard anything like it in all your life!”

  Lillian and Bill exchanged glances.

  “Anyway,” continued Shad, “I saw this big black thing down through the woods and I said to Dryfly, I said, I said Dryfly, I think I see it. Dryfly never said aye, yes or no. I didn’t know what it was, but I could tell that it had horns like a cow and was about the size of a, of a bull elephant.”

  “Dryfly said ya’d better shoot the sonuvawhore before it sees us, or we’re as good as dead. So I pulled up the old .303 and let ’er drift. Well, anyway, the noise stopped right up and that thing swung and took a look at us, I could see its eyes shinin’ in the flashlight beam and, and, and they were about as big around as that ashtray. I thought we were dead men but it didn’t do a thing, just swung and trotted off down through the woods. I wanted to go after it, but Dryfly said, he said, he said, we’d better not. We might get lost, so we swung and come home. We never heard it after, but you could smell it for three days.”

  “Did anybody else ever see it?” asked Bill.

  “Not that I know of,” said Shad.

  “Did anybody else ever go back to look for it?”

  “I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway.”

  “Do you think it was a ghost?” asked Lillian.

  “I dunno, maybe.”

  “Or, maybe Satan?”

  “I don’t know. Could’ve been.”

  “Did you go back after to look for its tracks or anything?” said Bill.

  “No, no, I never went back.”

  Shadrack was beginning to feel uncomfortable with all the smiling questions. “They’re makin’ fun o’ me,” he thought. “They think I’m lyin’. Course lyin’s what I’m doin’, so I might as well stick with it.”

  Bill Wallace got up from the sofa and went to the bar, poured himself a double scotch and tossed it back, grunted the hot liquid along to his stomach, then poured himself another. He was moving away from the kids. He was not interested in the Dungarvon Whopper, as he called it. The Dungarvon Whooper was Lillian’s thing. Bill Wallace commenced to think about salmon pools and a place of his very own, private, away from this club of cabbage heads.

  Between the chair where Lillian sat and the sofa where Shadrack sat, it commenced to rain electricity.

  Shadrack was unprepared. He wanted to get outside with Lillian so that he might get a chance to pass the hand.

  Lillian, on the other hand, experienced a feeling of bewilderment as she eyed the thin, red-haired boy. “He’s lying about the whooper,” she thought. “He’s a liar, just like every other boy. Except . . . he’s not the same. I’d hate to see this one in an Elvis Presley haircut.”

  “Ever hear of Elvis Presley?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said Shad, thankful for the fact the topic had changed. “I heard ’im on the radio.”

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  “No.”

  “I have a picture of him in the bedroom. I’ll get it.” Lillian went off to get the centerfold from the Teen magazine she’d brought from home. Shad removed his wallet from his hip pocket and slid it between the cushions of the sofa. “An excuse to come back, in case I don’t get invited,” he thought.

  Bill Wallace stood at the window, eyeing the river. “I should fish for an hour before dark,” he thought, “but I can’t leave Lillian alone with this hick . .
. or would it matter? Lillian’s not about to get involved with the likes of him . . . she’s only fourteen . . . I could talk with Lindon . . .” Bill Wallace was still thinking about his very own salmon pool.

  Lillian returned with the picture. She placed it on the coffee table in front of Shadrack.

  “That’s Elvis,” she said.

  Shad looked at the greased black hair, the black leather jacket with the turned up collar, the tight black pants and the jet boots. Shad looked at the smooth tanned skin with not a freckle on it, the sideburns and the slightly curled lip. “So, this is Elvis,” he thought. “He’s a good lookin’ lad, all right.”

  Shad had heard that Elvis had his hair greased back, and had tried the grease himself, but Shad hadn’t known that Elvis’ hair was so much longer . . . and the sideburns . . .

  “The girls are wild about him,” said Lillian. “Don’t you think he’s wonderful?”

  “For a girl to look at, maybe,” said Shad, and to himself, thought, “I’ll have to let my hair grow.”

  A knock came at the door. It was Lindon Tucker. Lillian let him in.

  “You wanna fish this evenin’?” Lindon asked Bill.

  “By God, Lindon old buddy, I’m glad you’re still about. Do you have a good fishing rod, Lindon?”

  “Well, yeah, I got an old one that’s seen better days, as the feller says. Seen better days, an old one, yeah.”

  “Well, I have this Shakespeare I’d like for you to try.”

  “Sure, sure, the very best. Love to try it. Nice one, nice one, nice one, ain’t it?”

  “Let’s go fishin’,” said Bill, putting his arm on Lindon’s shoulder.

  As the two men were leaving the camp, Bill Wallace was saying, “I like you, Lindon! I’d like for you to come down to Stockbridge and visit us sometime! Would you like to have a rod like that, Lindon?”

  “Sure, sure, sure, yeah, love to, yeah, nice one, ain’t it?”

  Bill Wallace stopped at the door, looked at Lillian, gave a quick, dark glance at Shadrack and said, “I’ll only be gone for an hour or so, Lillian.”