The Americans Are Coming (13 page)

*

When Shadrack and Lillian were crossing the bridge over Tuney Brook on their way from Shirley Ramsey’s, Shadrack stopped and looked into the water.

“Sometimes ya kin see trout in here,” he said.

“Really!” Lillian moved closer to Shad and peered into the water. “There’s one,” she pointed, “There!”

“And there’s another one,” said Shad, inching toward Lillian.

Shadrack eyed Lillian, “God! She’s a pretty little thing,” he thought.

If there was the smell of sulfur in the air, Shad was not aware of it; all he was smelling was Lillian’s perfume.

“If I don’t make a move tonight, I might never git the chance,” thought Shad. “So, what do I do? Pass the hand? Say something mushy?”

“That’s awful good smellin’ perfume ya got on there,” tried Shad.

“It’s fly repellent.”

“Still smells good.”

The sound of thunder tumbled in from the northeast. The smell of sulfur settled. Lillian sniffed the air and looked at Shadrack with disgust.

“I wish I could say the same thing about you right now,” she thought. She turned and walked toward the Cabbage Island Salmon Club.

Shad, carrying Dryfly’s guitar, followed.

Lillian was thinking of Shirley Ramsey.

Their visit had been a brief one, just long enough for Shirley to get them the guitar. Shirley had been proud of the fact she had something to give and had shown Lillian great respect and courtesy. Lillian, however, only saw the slop pail, the broken mirror hanging over the sink, the backless chairs.

“How can people live in such a place?” she thought. “I’ve never seen such a place! And that’s where Dryfly lives? Poor Dryfly.”

*

“I’ve had enough fishing for one day, Lindon. Let’s go back to the camp and have a drink. I’d like to discuss that property.”

“Good, good, good. Gonna rain, gonna rain anyway. Might as well, might as well.”

When Lindon and Bill got back to the camp, they found Lillian being entertained by Shadrack and Dryfly. Dryfly was playing guitar and Shadrack was singing, “George Hare shot a bear, shot ’im here, shot ’im there; George Hare shot a bear, shot ’im in the arse and never touched a hair.”

“G’day Bill, Lindon! How’s she goin’, old boys?” yelled Shadrack.

“Good, good, good.”

“Hi boys, Lillian.”

“Shad and Dry have been singing for me, Dad,” explained Lillian.

“Well, don’t let me stop you. Lindon and I have some business to discuss. We’ll join you latah.”

The two men went inside. Bill poured them a couple of stiff scotches and sat across the table from Lindon.

“I should’ve had that salmon, Lindon. What d’ya think I did wrong?”

“Nuthin’, nuthin’, nuthin’. Held ’im too tight, maybe. Knot in yer leader. Never did a thing wrong.”

“Damn!”

“We’ll git ’im tomorrow. Yep! Get ’im tomorrow, we will.”

“Let’s drink to that,” said Bill. “Bottoms up!”

Bill emptied his glass. Lindon put his glass to his lips, opened up and tossed the two ounces back, sloshed it around as if mouth washing and swallowed.

“HEM! AHEM! Trip a ghost!” he said.

“Have anothah,” said Bill and replenished the glasses.

“Well, Lindon, I’ve decided I’d like to buy that property. Do you, or don’t you want to sell?”

“Well I’ve been thinkin’, as the feller says, as the feller says, if ya know what I mean, I’ve been thinkin’. Sell if the price is right.”

“Well Lindon, old buddy, let’s hear your price.”

“Well, I know, I know, I know, I know there ain’t no lumber on that old shore; I know that, I know that; and I know there ain’t no hay on it, I know that. And, and, and I, I, I,
know it might sound dear, but, but, but, I was thinking, I was thinking, I was thinking, I’d sell, if the price was right. Was thinkin’ maybe, I know it might sound dear, and all that, but was thinkin’ maybe I’d sell it for twelve hundred dollars.”

“Twelve hundred dollahs!” Bill Wallace had been expecting fifty thousand.

“Well, I, I, I, couldn’t let it go for a cent less than a thousand, no, no, not a cent, not a cent, not a cent less than a thousand, if ya know what I mean, as the feller says, not a cent less than a thousand.” Taking Bill’s response negatively, Lindon thought, “He thinks I’m askin’ too much.”

Bill Wallace wanted to laugh and whoop and holler. Instead, he tossed back the second double of scotch. “Twelve hundred is giving it away. I’m getting this property for almost nothing,” he thought.

“Are you talking the whole front?” asked Bill.

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh yeah, yep. The whole front. No good to me. No lumber on it. No hay, no lumber. Good place to fish though. Good place to fish. Go over the hill anytime at all and ketch a salmon, so ya kin. I wouldn’ lie to ya! Ketch a salmon there anytime at all, so ya kin, ya kin yeah.”

“How far back you talking?”

“Back about, about, about, about, about, about five hundred feet, five hundred feet back to the top of the hill.”

Bill sipped his drink. He had been thinking two hundred feet. “This man doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing,” he thought. “At this rate, I could buy up the whole rivah.”

“A thousand dollars, you’re asking?”

“Well, I wanted twelve hundred, but like I say, there ain’t no lumber on it, no lumber to speak of, like the feller says, like I say, no hay on it either. Guess I could let it go for a thousand.”

“Tell me, Lindon, you wouldn’t be interested in selling the whole place, would you?”

“No, no, couldn’ sell the house and the lumber land. No, oh no. Couldn’ sell the house and the lumber land.”

“Has the property been in the Tucker family for long?”

“Ever since the, as the feller says, ever since the great fire of
1825, yeah, 1825, yeah, 1825, I think it was. Me grandfather, or me great grandfather, now I ain’t sure, I don’t know which.”

“It was your grandfather that cleared the land?”

“Either him, or me great grandfather, I, I, I, as the feller says, I ain’t sure which. All I know is, the old feller, one of them, come here from Ireland after the fire o’ 1825 and couldn’ find a tree big enough still standin’, if ya know what I mean, a tree big enough after the fire, for a fence post.”

“Who owns the property next to yours?” asked Bill.

“Well, Sam Little, Sam Little, Sam Little owns across the river from me and Lester Burns owns to me left and Frank Layton owns to me right.”

“How about the Lester Burns property? Is that a good pool?”

“Good fishin’ yeah, good all along there, yeah, oh yeah.”

“And who owns upstream from Lester?”

“Bert Todder. Bert Todder, yeah. Bert ain’t got much of a fishin’ hole though. Ain’t much of a pool in front o’ Bert’s. Back side o’ Cabbage Island. ’Muricans own the island and all this side. Bert just got a little trickle ’tween him and the island.”

Bill Wallace poured some more scotch into Lindon’s glass. “Would you consider shaking hands on a deal tonight, Lindon, old buddy?”

“Sure, sure, sure, if you got the money, sure, sure I’d shake hands, if you got the money. Thousand dollars. Wanted twelve hundred, but I’ll sell to you for a thousand. A thousand, yeah.”

“Well, Lindon, you drive a hard bargain, but I’d really like to have a place up here.”

“Okay, okay, okay, we got a deal, got a deal, shake hands on ’er, shake, put ’er there!”

Bill and Lindon shook hands aggressively. Both men were grinning happily. Both men were getting what they wanted and both men were beginning to feel the effects of the liquor.

“We have a deal,” said Bill Wallace.

“A deal, yeah.”

They drank to the deal.

“You’ll be buildin’ a camp?” asked Lindon.

“Yes.”

“You might be needin’ someone to look after yer place when yer not here, if ye know what I mean, someone to look after the place?”

“Yes, by God, Lindon old buddy, maybe I will!”

“Well, sir, I’d do it for ya, so I would. I’m just yer man! I’d do it for ya. Wouldin’ mind. I’m right there. Right handy, so I am.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” said Bill Wallace, then thought, “And so is this Lester Burns fellow whom I’d like to convince to sell.”

*

“Gotta have a leak,” said Shadrack. “Comin’, Dry?”

“Yep. Could do with one meself.”

Dryfly put his guitar down and followed Shadrack around to the back of the cabin. This was the fourth time they excused themselves and went to the place where Dryfly had hidden the pickle bottle and cigarettes.

“Startin’ to rain,” said Dryfly, “We’d better put these cigarettes in our pockets.”

“Yeah, but don’t make a mistake and smoke one while we’re inside. Here, have a drink.”

Both boys took substantial slugs of the concoction in the pickle bottle. Both boys were feeling a little woozy and starting to lose their inhibitions. The pickle bottle was only half full.

“Good stuff, eh?”

“Let’s get back. I’m gettin’ wet.”

“Who gives a jesus! I don’t care if I git wet! You care if you get wet, Dryfly? A little water wouldn’ hurt you, Dryfly! Here, have one more little slug.”

“Hem! Ahem! Don’t know if I can handle much more of that!”

“I can handl’er. I’ll drink’er if you can’t, by God!”

“C’mon, let’s get back.”

“You gonna play us another song?”

“Shhhure, why not!”

Back on the veranda, Dryfly picked up his guitar.

“We should go inside,” said Lillian. “The rain’s starting to come in here.”

“Very best with me, darlin’!” said Shadrack. “Sure! Let’s go in,” said Dryfly.

Inside the teenagers found Lindon Tucker and Bill Wallace feeling very happy. Shad and Dry were also feeling very happy. Lillian Wallace, although she wasn’t drinking, was picking up on the good time vibrations and was also having fun. A celebration was commencing to brew.

“Ah! Boys! Come in, come in! I see you have a guitar! Let’s have another drink, Lindon!”

Lindon Tucker was grinning from ear to ear. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “A little drink wouldn’ do us any harm!”

“Sing for us, boy. Sing us a song!” said Bill.

Dry sat on the sofa and strummed a G chord. “What would you like to hear?” he asked.

“Anything you know is fine with me.”

Dryfly strummed the G chord once again.

Roses are blooming
Come back to me darlin’
Come back to me darlin’
And never more roam
. . .

Dryfly sang loud and clear and strummed smoothly. Dryfly was giving his first performance in front of an audience. He sang, “Roses are Blooming,”“Beautiful, Beautiful Brown Eyes,”

“The Cat Came Back,” and “Hannah Won’t You Open the Door.” Everyone listened and everyone enjoyed.

Much later, Bill Wallace said, “You know, back home in Stockbridge, there’s this hotel. The Red Lion, it’s called. I know the manager. You’d go over well there, Dryfly. I could arrange to get you a booking.”

“A booking.”

“Sure! You could entertain there. You could come down and stay with us for a week and entertain at the Red Lion.”

“No, I ain’t good enough to do that.”

“Yes you are, my boy! There’s a bunch o’ young people playing there all the time that aren’t any better than you are. In fact, you’re better than most of them.”

Bill Wallace, though intoxicated, was serious. He liked Dryfly’s singing, he liked Dryfly’s guitar playing, and he liked Dryfly. “He parts his hair in the middle . . . not like all these Elvis Presley freaks. And I could get him a booking.”

Dryfly thought of the Red Lion many times, but that was all. He was too shy, too backward, and loved the Dungarvon River too much to leave it for a week.

In Stockbridge, Massachusetts, people like Arlo Guthrie and Joan Baez were starting to get bookings at the Red Lion.

*

The lightning flashed and the thunder boomed and rumbled. There was so much static on the radio that Shirley Ramsey not only turned it off but unplugged it as well. Shirley Ramsey was very afraid of thunderstorms. She sat in the kitchen, smoking and fingering her rosary beads. Palidin was back in his room. Shirley hoped Dryfly was not on the river. “Water draws lightning,” she thought.

Nutbeam, on the other hand, was not at all afraid of the storm. He liked it. It added excitement to his life. Nutbeam found the warm summer rain refreshing and often showered himself in it. Nutbeam was standing outside of Shirley Ramsey’s window. He had gone to Shirley Ramsey’s house to listen to the radio, but had lost all interest in listening when he saw Shirley Ramsey remove her clothes to take a bath.

He moved closer, so that he was actually spying through the window a few inches from the glass. Nutbeam found Shirley Ramsey very exciting.

“The most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life,” he whispered tohimself.

Palidin Ramsey sat on his bed reading an
Outdoor Life
magazine he’d borrowed from George Hanley. He was reading an article on the Atlantic salmon and was very much interested. “The Atlantic salmon,” the article stated, “lay their eggs in the upper reaches of the fresh water rivers such as the Cains, the Renous and the Dungarvon. When the young have grown to about a pound in weight and are called ‘smolt,’ they take a little journey. They swim a couple of thousand miles to dine in the ocean waters off the coast of Greenland. When they’ve stuffed themselves to satisfaction, they head back to their place of birth to start another generation. They lay their eggs behind the same rock, or in the same bed where they themselves were conceived.”

The questions asked in the article were, “How do salmon find their way to Greenland and back? How do they recognize the same old rock, or the same old bed where they themselves were born?

“Four thousand miles through the dark ocean waters to return to the same nest, on the same river! Why? Why not some other river, or at least some other rock?” One of the article’s contributing scientists theorized that salmon may have the ability to sense magnetic forces, that they follow magnetic fields from magnetic rock to magnetic rock, from magnetic coast to magnetic coast. “Salmon do tend to follow coastlines and even riverbanks,” stated the scientist.

Magnetic was the magic word that started Palidin’s quick mind to work. Lately Palidin had been thinking that voices, the echoes, were drawn back magnetically. Perhaps one’s voice is thrown from a hillside by antimagnetic forces. Perhaps the ear is the magnetic force that attracts it home again. Perhaps
magnetic forces account for the homing instinct in all creatures, for instance, the Monarch butterfly, the swallow . . . and the salmon.