The Americans Are Coming (22 page)

“The damn nets are ketchin’ all the fish,” commented Dan. “’Pon me soul, yeah. Nets are gittin’ them, Dan old boy. Nets, yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Couldn’ ketch the clap with all them nets in the river, Dan old boy, chummy pard.”

“Tee, hee, hee. Sob, tee, sob.”

“It’s not the downriver nets,” commented Palidin. “It’s the Russians and the Danes fishing off the coast of Greenland.”

“It’s them damn Frenchmen! Them lads want ’er all!” Dan was disagreeing with Palidin. “Ain’t that right, boys?” He was looking for support.

“Frenchmen, yeah, Dan old boy. Frenchmen. Want ’er all, they do,” agreed Lindon.

Bert Todder said, “The damn Frenchmen are tryin’ to take ’er over!” He was agreeing with Dan, but deep down, he felt Palidin was right . . . but Dan was older and that was reason enough to agree with him.

Palidin knew their way and shrugged off the conversation.

“I sure put that brat in his place!” thought Dan.

No one spoke for a few minutes. The men fished and scanned the water’s surface with well-trained eyes. A salmon jumped upstream.

“You’re not fishing clean,” yelled Palidin.

No one commented.

“
Ing
,” thought Dan. “Fish
ing
! Couldn’t say fishin’, like every-one else!”

Bert Todder was fishing the upper end of the pool. Lindon and Dan were moving too slowly for him. He decided to take a break and waded ashore.

“You go try ’er, Palidin. I’m gonna have a smoke.”

Palidin stood to let Bert sit down.

“How’s George Hanley, these days?” asked Bert.

“I . . . I . . . good, I think,” said Palidin.

Palidin eyed Bert’s countenence for a few seconds, trying to see any expression that might betray Bert’s motive for asking about George. Bert seemed to know something. “But how?” Palidin asked himself.

“I’ll give it a try,” said Palidin and walked to the water’s edge. He waded waist-deep into the September water, thinking that he should have waders.

Palidin hooked a fish on the first cast. The salmon weighed about ten pounds and used every ounce, the current and every trick it knew, combined it all with strength and fury, to avoid being beached. The hook was embedded deep in its gills, the leader strong, the fisherman skilled. The salmon lost the battle. Palidin killed it and placed it in the pool with Lindon’s and Bert’s.

Bert Todder and Lindon Tucker seemed genuinely happy with the action, with Palidin’s performance. Dan Brennen had left and gone home.

*

On the twentieth of September, the mail came as usual, but this time when Shirley opened the bag, there was a letter in it addressed to her, from Ottawa. It was a notice from the Director of Postal Services, saying that a change in the postal system was occurring. Her address was being changed. RR #5 was replacing Brennen Siding, N.B. The rural post offices were to be replaced by a rural route. On the first of January, Shirley would be out of a job.

Shirley read the letter, put it down, rolled a cigarette, lit up and began to take inventory.

“Jug is married and living in Renous. Oogan is workin’ in Newcastle. I haven’t seen Oogan in six months. Bean is married to Mary Francis Shaw and they’re havin’ their own problems. Bean’s outa work and Mary Francis is gonna have their third baby any day. I’ll be grandmother again. Naggy’s workin’ at Eaton’s in Moncton. Nagg might be able to help me. She’s got a good job, don’t do nothin’ but clerk in that big store. Neeny and Bossy are married and livin’ in Gordon. Junior’s married to Mary Stuart and still livin’ with old Silas. Junior’ll get that place when old Silas dies, which shouldn’t be too far away . . . I hope. Digger’s in Toronto or Leamin’ton or some place. Last time Digger come home, he stayed drunk all the time he was here. Skippy finally married Joe Moon and is livin’ in Quarryville. They finally got married, thank God . . . done it just after Joe’s dog got killed. That just leaves Palidin and Dryfly home with me.”

Shirley butted her cigarette and went to the piece of mirror that hung over the water buckets.

“Me hair’s startin’ to turn grey,” she thought. “I ain’t but forty-five, I got eight grandchildren and me hair’s turnin’ grey. Me teeth have just about had the biscuit, too. And I’m gettin’ fat. I wished I could get rid o’ that wart on me cheek.”

Shirley sighed. “I won’t be gettin’ fat this winter when there’s nothin’ to eat in the house and no money.”

Shirley went back to the table and rolled herself another cigarette.

“Palidin’s crazier than the birds,” she thought. “Don’t know where I went wrong with him. All he does is read and fish. I must’ve salted twenty salmon. Enough to do the winter, but ya can’t live on salty salmon, can ya?

Dryfly’s no good either. All he does is play guiddar. Well, I got till January. Somethin’ might happen before then.”

*

By the last week of September, Palidin ran into another complication. He didn’t have waders and the water was getting too cold for comfort.

Palidin had clients all over the Blackville area who wanted salmon; who paid good money to get them. He could afford to buy waders, but it was getting late in the season and he felt that waders at this late date might not be worth the investment. The salmon would be spawning within a few weeks and people would quit buying – the waders might not pay for themselves.

George Hanley, Palidin’s business partner, was having the same difficulties; plus, his father was getting suspicious and didn’t want him borrowing the car so often. If one got caught selling salmon from a car, one not only got fined and jailed; they’d take the car as well.

Palidin and George sat on two tombstones in the cemetery behind the Baptist church and discussed the situation.

A giant harvest moon lit up the night. From the forest back of Todder Brook, came the sound of a trumpet playing “Red Roses for a Blue Lady.”

“We got three hundred and fifty dollars between us,” said Palidin. “We could buy an old car for that kind of money.”

“Yep. Sure would be nice,” said George.

“Mom can’t afford to keep me any longer, and I’m no good for woods work, are you?”

“Never worked in the woods in my life.”

“What will we do, George?”

“We could get an old car and head for Fredericton, or someplace. We could get a job in Fredericton. We could hunt up Graig Allen, tell ’im who we are . . . he might get us a job in no time.”

“I wonder how Lindon Tucker’s doing over there?”

“Hard to say. Lindon got a big chunk of money for his shore. He’ll be all right.”

“A lot of lads from Blackville are going to Toronto.”

“That’d be nice. Livin’ in Toronto.”

“We should think about it, George.”

“Sounds good to me.”

*

Dryfly had but one thing on his mind: he was not getting any letters from Lillian. He couldn’t write her one, because he had been too dumb to get her address. All he could do was wait.

Shadrack Nash had started to work for his father, cutting logs. Shad did not like working with Bob’s new chainsaw anymore than he liked peeling pulp. Dry figured Shad would quit his job in a day or two.

Shad and Dry were spending a great deal of time with Nutbeam. Nutbeam was teaching them how to hunt and trap, and the boys were teaching Nutbeam some new songs to play on the trumpet.

“It just seemed to happen overnight,” thought Dryfly. “One day he couldn’t play a thing, and the next day he was doin’ the very best of a job on ‘Red Roses for a Blue Lady.’”

Nutbeam had become a good friend of the boys. His camp was a good place to party and play music. Nutbeam never seemed to care how late they stayed, or how dirty they talked. He’d often cook them up a pan of venison and occasionally sent them to the bootlegger in Gordon for Golden Nut. He never wanted them to share in the cost, but he did ask them to run a few errands. Shadrack and Dryfly did much of Nutbeam’s shopping at Bernie Hanley’s store, thus cutting back on the dreaded trips to Newcastle. They also helped him patch the roof of his camp and gather wood for the winter. The boys did not mind working for Nutbeam. It never seemed like work to them. It was more like play.

Some nights when the boys went to visit Nutbeam, he would not be there and they’d have to wait, sometimes for as much as a couple of hours, for his return. They didn’t know where he was going, or for what reason, and he never offered to explain. Nutbeam was spending many evenings listening to Shirley Ramsey’s radio.

This turned out to be one of the nights. When Dryfly arrived at Nutbeam’s camp, he found it empty. Dryfly sat beside the door to wait.

Dryfly knew that Shadrack might not come tonight, either.

Shadrack was rising at six in the morning these days, and working hard. Shadrack would be too tired to play at nights and would not show up until he finally quit his job. “In about three days,” thought Dryfly.

It was very pleasant there by Nutbeam’s camp. The evening was warm for September and a big moon rose from the forest to keep him company.

“That moon is shining down on Lillian Wallace the same as it’s shinin’ down on me,” thought Dryfly. “I wish I was with her. I wish she was here.”

In his mind’s eye, Dryfly visualized Lillian sitting beneath the moon somewhere in the States. He could see her big blue eyes and golden hair, the smile on the lips that had kissed him so gently. “God, let her write to me,” he thought.

Dryfly didn’t know it, but Lillian Wallace was, indeed, writing to him at that very moment.

“G’day, Dryfly,” said Nutbeam. Dryfly had not heard Nutbeam approaching, and was somewhat startled.

“G’day! How’s she goin’?”

“Good.”

“Out for a walk?”

“I got a slug o’ wine left. Want some?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Nutbeam went into the camp and returned momentarily with a less than half-full bottle of Golden Nut.

Nutbeam was downhearted. He had just returned from watching Shirley Ramsey take a bath. Shirley Ramsey was looking more beautiful to Nutbeam everyday.

Nutbeam sat beside Dryfly, screwed the top off the bottle and they both took a drink. They did not talk for what seemed like a very long time; just eyed the moon and thought of their lovers.

Dryfly was the first one to break the silence. “Ever been in love?” he asked.

Because Nutbeam had been thinking that he was in love with Shirley Ramsey, Dryfly’s question surprised him. It seemed as if Dryfly had been reading his thoughts.

“I don’t know,” said Nutbeam. “It takes two to fall in love.

No woman ever looked sideways at me long enough to fall for me.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of livin’ alone?”

“It’s better than being feared, or laughed at all the time. I once went to a dance and asked every girl there to dance with me. Not one said yes. Even the homeliest old woman there, laughed and turned me down. People wouldn’ even set close to me.”

“I don’t think yer that homely, Nutbeam.”

“You’re jist gettin’ use to me, that’s all.”

“It don’t matter, anyway,” said Dryfly. “Look at me, I’m in love. But it don’t matter none. I’ll prob’ly never see her again, anyway. I don’t think she loves me as much as I love her.”

“Well, you’re young and ain’t nearly as homely as me. You’ll get a woman soon enough.”

“Ain’t no other woman like this one.”

“There ain’t no other woman like Shirley Ramsey,” thought Nutbeam. “There’s lotsa fish in the sea,” he said.

Nutbeam wanted to get to know Shirley Ramsey very much, but he didn’t know how to set up the opportunity. He had befriended Dryfly, hoping that it might lead somewhere. This was the first private conversation they’d had and Nutbeam sought a way to approach the topic. He drank some more wine, hoping that it would loosen his tongue a little.

“How’s yer mother?” asked Nutbeam. “She’s all right.”

“Yer father’s dead, ain’t he?”

“Never saw ’im in me life.”

“Yer mother must git awful lonesome with no man around.”

“I don’t know. Never thought about it.”

“She ever look sideways at another man after your father died?”

“I don’t know. Not that I know of.”

“Yer mother’s an awful pretty woman,” said Nutbeam.

“She prob’ly was a long time ago.”

“Still is.”

“I never thought of it before, but Mom never goes anywhere. Stays home all the time. Ain’t got a friend.”

“Sounds like me.”

“She should start goin’ to dances or somethin’,” said Dryfly. “Maybe she’d meet up with some friends.”

“You know what I’d like you to do, Dry?”

“What’s that?”

“Ah, ah . . . sing me a song.”

Dryfly eyed the moon and thought of Lillian Wallace. He sang:

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

*

“Get up, Shad, it’s time to go to work.”

“Day four,” thought Shadrack. “Another day in the woods and I’ll die. I’ll die, I’ll die, I’ll die! I hate it. I’ll starve to death before I pick that chainsaw up again!”

“Shad!”

“I’m too sore, Mom! I can’t hardly walk!”

“Don’t give me that! You get out here and go to the woods right this minute!”

“I tell ya, I’m too sore! I’m pretty near dead! Ya deaf?”

“Sore! Sore! A big boy like you, sore! Your poor old father’s been back there for an hour and you layin’ in bed sleepin’! Sore, my arse! Now, get out here and eat yer breakfast before I take a stick to ya! Sore! A big man fifteen years old gettin’ sore! Hangin’ around doin’ nothin’ like that . . . that . . . that Dryfly Ramsey. No wonder yer lazy, hangin’ around with the likes o’ that . . . that . . . that tramp! What’s ever gonna become o’ ya?”

Shad knew there was no stopping his mother. She had the stage, front and center, and would transmit spiel after spiel, condemning every man, woman and child that Shadrack ever as much as said hello to. She would start with Dryfly Ramsey and end with Dryfly Ramsey, but in between she’d find examples of depression and poverty from both ends of the river.

She would bring in her own aging, ailing state, Bob’s deterioration, the state of Bob’s grandfather who had been no more than a no-good tramp. The Bible would come into the picture and how she’d had hopes for Shad to become a minister some day like cousin Ralph. She would yell through the bedroom door for as long as Shad stayed in there.