The Americans Are Coming (2 page)

Stealing was the only way George could get anything from the store, because Bernie gave him nothing.

Shad Nash had fiery red hair, cut by Dan Brennen for the price of a package of tobacco and a book of papers. He was slightly smaller than the rest and his tiny body was clothed neatly in a black windbreaker, blue jeans and leather-topped gumshoes. He had pale ivy eyes and a cluster of freckles that contrasted with his white skin. Shad was a fast talker and seemed forever in control. These were traits he’d developed coping with his father’s frustrations and moodiness. Unlike the others, he’d been to the village, Renous and even Newcastle. He came from the first family in Brennen Siding to own an indoor toilet.

Dryfly was the mystery boy – not weird like his brother Palidin, but still mysterious. Perhaps his mystery came from the fact he was a Catholic and God only knew what God they prayed to. Dryfly was thin, had broken teeth, a long snotty nose and a peaked chin. His clothing never fit him right – hand-me-downs from whoever took pity on him – and he smelled . . . like a rag barrel.

There, on the pine needles (the sprills) a rabbit had taken a meal the previous night, nibbling at the grass and blueberry bushes that yesterday’s sun had uncovered. Shad eyed the tiny dung balls the rabbit had left. He bit into a large, round, hard molasses cookie. All the boys, except Shad, drank tea from pickle jars. Shadrack had a thermos with the picture of a cowboy twirling a rope on it. He ate from a square lunchbox that matched his thermos. Max and George ate from Ganong’s
hardtack candy buckets. The Ganong’s candy bucket had a picture of a Ganong’s candy bucket on it, which had the same picture on it, etc. . . . into infinity. Dryfly ate from a chocolate box that had seen better days. The chocolate box with the barely distinguishable rainbow across the top had one soggy piece of bread and molasses in it.

A crow cawed, prophesying spring.

The four boys were saving hockey cards from the five-cent bags of Hatfield potato chips. Shad had found a second Bobby Hull card in last night’s treat and knew that Max had two Andy Bathgates. With Andy Bathgate added to his collection, Shad would have the whole New York Rangers team. Shadrack endeavored to trade with Max.

“You wouldn’t want to trade your Andy Bathgate for a Bobby Hull, would you Max, old buddy?”

“Can’t. I already have Hull and I gave me other Bathgate to Dryfly.”

“You gave your Andy Bathgate to Dry? What for?”

“I dunno. Thought he’d like it, I guess.”

“I’ll give you a Bobby Hull for it, Dry.”

“I’m lookin’ for a Boom Boom Geoffrion,” said Dryfly. “Wanna play cowboy after school?”

“I’ll throw in a Moose Vasgo,” said Shadrack, “that’s a Bobby Hull and a Moose Vasgo for one old Andy Bathgate.”

“Nope. I might consider a Gordie Howe, though. Got a Gordie Howe?”

“Just the one,” sighed Shad, wondering how he’d go about swinging a deal.

“Sounds like a pretty good deal to me, Dry. I’d trade with him, if I was you,” said George.

“Ya wanna play cowboy after school, Shad?” asked Dryfly.

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“I’ll play,” said Max.

“Me too,” said George.

“Maybe,” said Shad.

“I’ll tell ya what,” said Dryfly, “you gimme yer Bobby Hull and Moose Vasgo and let me play wit’ yer cap gun after school, and I’ll give you me Andy Bathgate.”

Dryfly wasn’t very concerned about hockey cards anyway. His family could rarely afford to buy potato chips, which made it practically impossible to collect any amount of cards. Nor did he know one hockey player from another. With no radio, he never got to hear a hockey game.

Shad gave the deal some thought. He needed that Andy Bathgate, but Dryfly was striking a hard deal. Moose Vasgo wasn’t that easy to come by either, and giving up the cap gun would mean that Dryfly would get to be the Good Lad. Dryfly would be Roy Rogers on Trigger, or the Lone Ranger. The best Shadrack could hope for, under the circumstances, was being Pat Brady, or Tonto. Shad hated using a stick for a gun.

“What if you broke my cap gun?” he asked.

“I won’t break it,” promised Dry.

“But you might.”

“I won’t.”

“What would you do if you did?”

“I’d buy you another one.”

“What with? What would you use for money, beer caps?”

“I won’t break yer gun, ’pon me soul I won’t.”

“Well, I might let you use it for one short game, if you’re careful.”

“Nope. All evening. I never get to be the good lad.”

“Me nuther,” put in George Hanley, slurping his tea.

“I’m always the bad lad,” said Max Kaston, “and it’s always our barn that we play in.”

“We kin play in our barn, if you want,” said George with a glitter of hope in his eyes. It was true, perhaps because of his ears, or God only knows for what reason, he was never selected to be the good lad.

“You lads don’t have a cap gun,” snapped Shadrack, “like I told you a thousand times, you can’t expect Roy Rogers or the Lone Ranger to go ridin’ around with a stick for a gun!”

“Well, it ain’t fair,” grumbled George.

“Well, that’s me deal. Take it or leave it,” said Dryfly.

Shad couldn’t handle the trading any longer. He wanted the Andy Bathgate too much. And he’d be ahead of the others
anyway, with his full set of New York Rangers. It would be weeks before any of the others collected that many, and by the time they did, he’d probably have a set of the Toronto Maple Leafs or even the Montreal Canadiens.

“Okay,” said Shad, “ya gotta deal, but if ya break me cap gun, you’re dead!”

“I ain’t gonna break it. I wanna be the Lone Ranger the first game and Roy Rogers the second. If there’s a third, I wanna be Matt Dillon. And you must cross yer heart and hope to die that you’ll show up with the cap gun.”

“Cross me heart,” said Shad, “now give me the card.”

The boys traded cards, all knowing that Dryfly, for the present, was the winner.

Shad was not about to be bettered by an Irish Catholic, however. Shadrack Nash had a new scheme. Shadrack Nash had thought up his new scheme while he was eating his first molasses cookie.

When he felt the time was right, Shad said, “Let’s play a game, boys.”

“Sure, what game?” asked Max.

“Let’s see who can open his mouth the farthest,” said Shadrack. “I bet I can.”

“How much ya wanna bet?” asked Dryfly, feeling confident.

“I bet ya this marble,” said Shad.

“Let me see the marble,” said Dry.

“Nope. You have to take me word fer it. I’ll give this marble to the one with the biggest mouth.”

A marble was a rare thing in Brennen Siding, but the boys all knew that Shadrack Nash was the most likely one to have one, and he definitely seemed to be hiding something in his hand.

“Okay,” said Max, “I’ll give it a go.”

“Me too,” said George.

“Count me in,” said Dryfly, “I could do with a marble.”

“Okay,” said Shad, “we’ll judge each other. I’ll count to three, then everyone gape as wide as they can. Ready? One, two, three.”

Max, George and Dryfly all opened wide, revealing their cookie-coated tongues and teeth. Shad started to do likewise,
but instead, he took careful aim and tossed the marble into Dryfly’s mouth.

The marble was not a marble, however, but one of the dung-balls the rabbit had left behind.

When he saw that his aim had been perfect, Shad snorted with laughter, spraying tea and cookie crumbs all over the blue-checked hunting jacket of Max Kaston.

The first thing Dryfly did was swallow.

Secondly, he gagged.

Thirdly, he ran home crying.

Dryfly could still hear the boys laughing when he crossed the railroad tracks. He felt he would never be able to face his friends again.

In his bed of old coats and rags, Dryfly could still hear them laughing. “I’ll hear them laughing,” he thought, “for the rest of my life.” Dryfly sighed. “I’m a hermit already.”

“If you don’t git out here and go to school, I’m gonna go out and cut a switch!” yelled Shirley from the kitchen.

Dry relaxed a bit. Shirley’s threat was idle, had lost its spark. “Her tail’s probably waggin’,” thought Dryfly and began to plan his day of freedom.

*

Dryfly was right about the spark. Shirley had lost it, but her tail was not wagging. Shirley had lost her spark the last time that Buck came home. In a manner of speaking, Buck’s last visit was the last time she had wagged her tail to any degree.

“It’s been” – Shirley counted – “five, six. Dryfly’s eleven. Must be twelve years since Buck was here. No letters, no money. What’s become of him, I wonder?”

Although Shirley was not aware of the anniversary, Buck had landed twelve years ago to the very day. Palidin was the baby, Junior was twelve . . . Bonzie was still alive.

Buck had taken her to the Legion in his old Ford. She drank three beers and Buck had a half dozen or more. They danced. She remembered he smelled of aftershave and his hair had been
slicked back with that fancy grease stuff. When the Legion closed, they went to Bob Nash’s and drank rye until four in the morning. Bob played the banjo and Buck played the guitar and sang Hank Snow and Doc Williams songs. Buck had been the hit of the night and Shirley had never been happier in her life.

Later they drove around to the pit and parked. Buck put his hand on her knee and told her how pretty she was; then he said he loved her and then he got serious.

“I suppose you’re wonderin’ why I never send you any money?” he asked.

“No, Buck, I know you ain’t got any.”

“Had me a job as a janitor for awhile. Good job, too. Only had to clean the ground floor.”

“What happened, Buck?”

“Got caught stealin’. Took some old jeezer’s pipe and it fell right out of me pocket in front of the boss. Fired me on the spot. Livin’ in Fredericton now. Workin’ at the bottle exchange and junk yard. Breakin’ batteries mostly. No money in it though. How you gittin’ long?”

“Gladys sent me a bag o’ clothes and Dad sent me a bag o’ potatoes. Know what I’m thinkin’ bout doin’?”

“Gettin’ in the back seat?” Buck slid his hand up her thigh.

“Don’t be foolish! No, I’m thinkin’ ’bout takin’ over old Maud’s post office.”

“Kin you do that?”

“Sure kin. All you have to do is collect the mailbag at the Siding, bring it home and give it out, stamp a few letters – anyone kin do it and Bert said he’d like me to do it. Thirty dollars a month.”

“Why don’t Bert do it?”

“Can’t read. Maud did it all. I’m gonna set it up in the livin’ room.”

“I’d ask you to come to Fredericton with me, but there’d be no room for the kids.”

“I know, Buck. I know you mean well. What d’ya think o’ me runnin’ the post office?”

“You’ll have to do it, I guess. It’ll be good for ya.”

“You could come home and help me, Buck. I’d run the post office and you could go to work.”

“Who for?”

“You could talk to Frank Layton. He might give you a job at the club.”

“I ain’t workin’ for Frank Layton!”

“Why? Frank’s a fair man!”

“I’d rather break batteries.”

“You got another woman in Fredericton, Buck?”

“You know I ain’t got no other woman, Shirley. You know I ain’t that kind of man!”

“Then why won’t you come home?”

“Let’s not talk about that now. Let’s get in the back seat.”

“You’re crazy, Buck.”

“If I do come home, I’ll have to go back and get me clothes and me radio.”

“You got a radio?”

“Yep. Heard the last Joe Louis fight, settin’ right back in Fredericton. Ever hear of Hank Williams?”

The conversation continued. Shirley fell in love again and Buck negotiated seduction with promises and lies. Shirley was never happier. Buck was leaving and hadn’t asked for her family allowance check.

They climbed into the back seat and Shirley wagged her tail to Buck’s delight. Nine months later Shirley added another point to Buck’s antlers and called it Dryfly.

*

Dryfly figured the time was getting on to nine o’clock. The rest of the children had already left for school and Dryfly was left to himself to enjoy the little room.

Dryfly shared his bed with Palidin and Bean. Jug and Oogan slept in the bed across the room. Naggy slept in Shirley’s room and Neeny and Bossy slept in the room next door. Junior was married to Mary Stuart and lived with Mary’s father, Silas. Digger, as usual, was tramping the road somewhere. Skippy, the
oldest girl, wasn’t married, but was shacked up with Joe Moon in Quarryville. Joe Moon had a dog that occupied more of his time than Skippy. Skippy was the homeliest one of the family and considered herself lucky to be living with a bootlegger. Bonzie, of course, was dead.

It happened on a Sunday. The family was having a picnic back of the big hollow. Some of them were fishing in the nearby brook, others sat in the shade discussing members of the opposite sex and some picked flowers. Palidin, Bonzie and Dryfly were pretending they were moose.

“I need to have a dump,” said Bonzie and hurried into the woods in search of a roost.

Bonzie Ramsey found his roost, a broken down birch tree, and dropped his pants, sat and found relief. He was just pulling up his suspenders when he heard the sound of rustling leaves and the crackle of a dead alder bush giving way to a passerby.

The sound was nearby, but it was only a sound; he could see nothing but the trees and underbrush of the forest.

“Who’s there?” he called.

No answer. Bonzie waited and listened.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

“It would be just like Palidin and Dryfly to be watchin’ a lad havin’ a dump,” he thought. “They’re prob’ly tryin’ to scare me.”

“All right boys, come out! I know you’re there!”

He heard the sound again, but this time it had moved – it was more to the left.

Without giving what he thought was Palidin and Dryfly any chance to flee, he dashed into the bush, thinking he would take them by surprise.

There was nobody there.

He listened once more. “Palidin? Dryfly?”

The song of a bird came up from the brook. He could not identify it.

“When I get my hands on you lads, I’m gonna introduce you to the rough and tumble!” he shouted. He hoped he sounded like the Lone Ranger.