The Americans Are Coming (12 page)

“I wish Dryfly would have some sense!” he thought.

Shirley was sitting by the kitchen table, thinking and smoking a cigarette.

“Maybe I should do something with meself,” she thought. “The girls are all off and Palidin’s the only one home. It’s gettin’
olnesomer all the time. I should have a man. Maybe I’ll wash me hair. Maybe I’ll wash all over.”

“Palidin!”

No answer.

“Palidin, you go out somewhere. I wanna take a bath.”

No answer.

“Palidin?”

“I’ll be out in a minute, Mom!”

“NOW, Palidin! I want to take a bath!”

“Why . . . why don’t you go to the river, Mom?”

“‘Cause I want to take it here!”

“Okay, Mom . . . I’m comin’.”

*

When Dryfly met Shadrack at the meeting place, the footbridge, he saw that Shad hadn’t forgotten the empty pickle jar. Shadrack and Dryfly had plans for the pickle jar.

“Here, you carry it. You’re the one’s gonna be usin’ it,” said Shadrack, passing Dryfly the pickle jar. “Remember the plan?”

“I know, I know, I know!” said Dryfly.

They landed at the Cabbage Island Salmon Club at eight o’clock, Dryfly dressed in his best shirt (a black cowboy shirt with snap buttons), blue jeans and sneakers. Shad had on a blue plaid shirt with the collar turned up and the sleeves rolled in wide, well-ironed cuffs to just below the elbow. Shad’s bright red hair was greased back and staying nicely in place. Shad’s lip was already feeling tired from holding it in the unaccustomed “curled” fashion.

Lillian was sitting on the veranda in sandals, blue jeans and a red haltertop blouse. She was writing a letter, and when she saw Shad and Dry approaching, she put her pen down and closed the writing pad.

“Hi guys,”she said.

“G’day. How’s she goin’?”

“G’day.”

“How are you boys?”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“It’s a warm day, isn’t it?”

“Hot.”

“Hot.”

“Would you like a soda?”

Both boys, being accustomed to calling it “pop,” thought of the Cow Brand Baking Soda, used also for a seltzer for indigestion.

“No, that’s all right.”

“Not right now,” said Dry.

“I have some nice cold soda in the fridge, if you want some,” said Lillian.

“I might have a glass o’ water, maybe,” said Shad.

“You sure you don’t want a Pepsi, Dryfly?”

“Yeah, I might have a Pepsi,” said Dryfly.

Shad wondered why Lillian hadn’t offered him a Pepsi. Lillian stood and offered Dryfly her hand. “I’m Lillian Wallace,” she said.

“Dryfly Ramsey.”

Lillian smiled. “I’ll get the Pepsi and water,” she said and went inside.

“What’d ya do with the pickle bottle?” asked Shad.

“Behind me.”

“Remember the plan?”

“Yep. I got ’er.”

“Here you go, boys.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what’s your real name, Dryfly?”

“Driffley,” said Dryfly.

Shad chuckled and Lillian smiled. “There’s something about Dryfly,” thought Lillian. “Honesty perhaps.”

“And you play guitar?” she asked. “Naw, a few chords, that’s all.”

“And modesty,” thought Lillian. “You should hear him! He’s some good,” put in Shad.

“Well, I’d like to,” said Lillian.

The three sat in the shade of the veranda, consuming the view and feeling the caress of the warm summer breeze. From here, they could see a man beaching a salmon over on Cabbage Island. They could hear the faint whine of the reel and see the sunlight dancing on the pressured bamboo rod.

“Doctor Saunders,” said Lillian.

“Looks like a big one,” said Dryfly.

“Do you fish?” asked Lillian.

“Some,” said Dryfly.

“Do you catch many big ones?”

“Now and again.”

“Do you guide?”

“Some.”

“Never caught a salmon in his life,” said Shadrack. “Ain’t old enough to guide, either!”

“Am too!”

“You’re not!”

“Am too! Might go guidin’ this fall!”

“Play guiddar’s all you do!”

Shad didn’t like the way things were going. Lillian was directing too much of her conversation at Dryfly. “Lillian’s my girl,” he thought. “Surely she can’t be interested in Dryfly!”

“There’s something mysterious about Dryfly,” thought Lillian.

Shad didn’t like the way the conversation was going, but he had brought it back to where he wanted it as far as the plan was concerned.

“You should have yer guiddar here. Play us a song,” said Shadrack, winking at Dryfly.

“Later, maybe,” said Dryfly.

In all actuality, Lillian Wallace was not the prettiest girl in the world. It was just that Shadrack and Dryfly thought she was the prettiest girl in the world. They were like two dogs mooning and sniffing a bitch in heat. They saw magic in her smile, mystery in her accent, wisdom, honesty and sophistication in her eyes.

A dark cloud was creeping up the western sky.

“Looks like we might get a shower,” said Dryfly.

“Not for a couple o’ hours,” said Shad. “The birds are still out.”

“Do birds know when it’s going to rain?” asked Lillian.

“Birds are like hens,” said Shad. “A hen will go under a shed or somethin’ when yer about to get a shower. If yer about to get a day’s rain, the hen will stay outside, pay the rain no mind at all. Them birds will go and hide in an hour or so, just you watch.”

Shad was feeling very wise and grown up. His father had told him about hens, but Shad wasn’t sure about birds in general. It didn’t matter though. If the birds stayed out, he’d say they were in for a big rain. If the birds took shelter, it was late enough in the evening so that they’d be in for the night anyway.

Shadrack stood up and walked to the veranda railing, sat on it and stared at the river. Shadrack loved the river as much as he loved Lillian Wallace. The angler had landed his salmon and was casting for another. Shad saw a salmon jump, down on the bend.

“That lad landed his fish and I just saw another one jump down on the bend, Dry. Is there a run on?”

“Someone was tellin’ Mom that the Renous was full o’ fish,” said Dryfly.

“That’s good,” said Shad. “Too bad we didn’t have a net.”

Shad was commencing to formulate another plan. If it didn’t rain all night, he and Dry might borrow a net somewhere and go drifting for salmon – a perfect excuse for being out on the river.

“Netting salmon is against the law,” thought Shad, “and that makes it more fun. We’ll have lots of cigarettes and whiskey . . . Dry and me will have some fun tonight!”

“Is Helen MacDonald still here?” asked Shad.

“I think she’s finished for the day. She’d be down in the kitchen, if she’s still here,” said Lillian. “Did you want to see her?”

“Oh no, just wonderin’.”

“You suppose I could use your bathroom?” asked Shad.

“Of course. Go through the living room and down the hall. It’s at the end.”

Shad winked at Dryfly. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

As Shad was going through the door, he stopped. “You didn’t find a wallet here today, did ya, Lillian?”

“No.”

“I think I left it here last night. It’s prob’ly on the sofa.”

“Well, take a look around. I haven’t seen it, though. Dad might have found it.”

“It don’t matter. There wasn’t any money in it. I’ll just take a quick look.”

Inside, Shad went directly to the sofa, reached between the cushions and came up with the wallet. He took the opportunity to scan the room. A carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes lay on the table. In the corner, on another table (the bar), sat bottles of rum, rye, gin, bourbon, vodka, scotch, Dubonnet, sherry and Canada Dry Ginger Ale. “All’s well,” thought Shad, went to the bathroom, peed, then returned to the veranda.

While Shad was inside, Lillian asked, “Shadrack tells me you’re not in school. Do you have a job?”

“No place to work around here,” said Dryfly. “I might go guidin’ in the fall.”

“What does your father do?”

“Me father’s dead,” said Dryfly. “Never saw ’im in me life.”

“I’m sorry. Does your mother work?”

“No. Runs the post office.”

“Really? There’s a post office in the area?”

“At our house, yeah.”

“Good, I’ll have to mail a letter and some postcards tomorrow.”

“I’ll come over and git them for ya,” said Dryfly. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind. Ain’t doin’ nothin’ anyway.”

“Okay, tomorrow then.”

Lillian was thinking of herself and Dryfly being alone without Shadrack. “I could say that I was with two boys, then,” she thought.

Dryfly was nervous. He could not look Lillian directly in the eye. He was feeling not so much shy as guilty. He was feeling
that maybe Shad’s idea was not such a good one. “What if they miss it? What if we get caught?”

“Did you find your wallet?” asked Lillian as Shadrack came through the door.

“Yep,” said Shad, holding up his wallet.

Shad sat on the veranda railing once again. “Why don’t we go and get your guiddar?” he asked.

“Naw. Not feeling too good.”

“Oh, is there something wrong?” asked Lillian.

“No, just tired, I guess. Had a late night last night.”

“Maybe me and Lillian could git the guiddar for ya,” recommended Shadrack.

“Maybe you don’t feel like playing,” said Lillian.

“Oh, I don’t mind playin’, I just don’t feel up to goin’ after it.”

“Me and Lillian will go for it,” said Shad.

“I would love to hear you play,” said Lillian. “Would you, if we went and got it for you?”

“Yeah, but you lads will have to do the singin’, I jist play, I don’t sing.”

“Ya do so sing!”

“I don’t!”

“Ya do!”

“Don’t!”

“Wanna go get it, Lillian?”

“How far is it?”

“Just a little ways. Take about ten minutes.”

“Well, okay. Will you be all right here, Dryfly?”

“Yeah, I’ll just rest here while yer gone.”

“Okay. We’ll be right back,” Shad reassured Dryfly with a wink. The wink said, “It’s all there, Dry, just like I said.”

When Shadrack and Lillian had gone over the hill and had disappeared into the foliage of Tuney Brook, Dry rose and went into the cabin. Inside he found himself wanting to luxuriate for a while in the richness – the beautiful sofa and chairs, the mahogany tables, the fireplace. Dryfly found himself having to control his fantasies. The plan came first and he didn’t want to screw it up.

Dryfly went to the table where Bill Wallace kept his liquor supply. “He must be havin’ a party,” thought Dryfly, “there’s so much of it.”

As planned, to make sure that Bill would not miss anything gone, Dry poured a little from each bottle until the pickle jar was full of rum, gin, bourbon, vodka, scotch, Dubonnet, sherry and Canada Dry Ginger Ale. He then went to the other table and took two packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes. “He won’t miss two packs,” he thought.

Carefully, so as not to be seen, Dryfly sneaked out the back door of the cabin. He scanned the surroundings. “All’s clear. Everyone’s fishin’.”

He stashed his booty in the tall grass at the edge of the woods and went back into the camp.

The camp was cool and smelled of pine. He sat in a big upholstered chair for no other reason than to test its quality, wanting to experience for the first time in his life what it was like to sit in a comfortable chair. He sighed, “This is the life!” and tried out the sofa. Then he tried a chair at the table. He ran his hand across the smooth surface of the table, gently, feeling its coolness. He then reluctantly went back outside.

Back on the veranda, Dryfly noticed that the thunder clouds had progressed considerably in their approach. They were deep and fluffy, the horizon blue as steel and periodically swept with lightning. The silence seemed deeper too, between the grumbles of distant thunder.

“It’s gonna be a heavy storm,” thought Dryfly and checked to see if he was positioned in a safe place.

“In a storm, you should never set near a window,” he thought. “People draw lightning, so it’s good to git indoors. Stay away from bulb sockets and plug-ins. Stay away from stoves. Lightnin’ is apt to come down a stove pipe.”

“There’s danger all around,” he thought. “No escape.”

When a lightning storm hovered over Brennen Siding, half the population ran to a neighbour’s house. If the storm was particularly heavy, they got on their knees and prayed.

John Kaston always led the prayers, saying things like, “Dear loving Heavenly Father, smite the tempest!”

“The voice, mighty
in the wilderness,” and “Thank thee for removing the cancer from me bowels!” John Kaston loved to preach. John Kaston was “this far” from being a preacher.

“If she’s gonna hit, she’ll hit,” thought Dry. “No sense worrying about it.”

Often when a storm approaches Brennen Siding from the northeast, depending on the preceding barometric decline, ahead of it comes the smell of sulfur, the smell of the smoke from the pulpmill in Newcastle. The storm pushes it and spreads it like a monstrous fart over the area. It spread over Brennen Siding this night and reached Dryfly’s nostrils.

Dryfly knew what it was; he’d smelled it many times. “The pulpmill,” he thought. “You kin always smell it before a storm. Smells like a fart.”

Whenever Dryfly smelled the pulpmill on the air, it always reminded him of Shirley’s description of the devil, “He’s got big horns and a long tail with an arrowhead at the end of it. His eyes are yellow, like a cat’s and they shine at night. He smells like . . . like . . . like shit.”

“Smells like the devil,” thought Dryfly. “Maybe he’s comin’ to get me for what I just did. The lightning could be the light from the fires of Hell, the thunder could be the sound of the big doors slammin’, or the devil’s growl. Maybe that’s why everyone prays when there’s a storm comin’.”

Dryfly did not like thoughts of the devil and shrugged them off. He didn’t even know if the devil existed – or God, for that matter. Thunderstorms only came at the end of hot summer days and Dryfly loved hot summer days. There were too few of them in this north land, and when they came, he felt obliged to enjoy every minute of them, thunderstorms included. Down deep inside, he liked the thunder. Liking the thunder was one of the few things he had in common with his brother Palidin.