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Authors: Herb Curtis

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BOOK: The Americans Are Coming
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Her first thought was that she’d have to kill him and run off with his car. The thought dissipated quickly, however, for Shirley Ramsey knew she couldn’t kill a fly and not feel guilt. She also knew she didn’t know how to drive a car.

“How did he find out so soon?” she asked herself. “Who could’ve know’d I took the money from the post office? The kids must’ve guessed and told it at school.”

Shirley had visions of bars and chains, of the kids being taken to orphanages all over the country, never to see her, or each other again. She grew so terrified that her legs began to tremble and weaken. She sat by the table and began to cry. When the constable knocked authoritatively on the door, she had already finished her second Hail Mary.

“Come in!” she sobbed openly. There was no sense in trying to hide the tears.

The door opened and there he stood like God himself. Three clunks of his big boots and he was in the kitchen looming over her.

She could smell his aftershave and thought she could even feel the warmth of his breath.

“Are you Mrs. James Ramsey?” he asked.

In the emotional condition she was in, she did not hear the gentleness in his voice.

She nodded. “I’m so very poor,” she whimpered. “I needed food for poor little Dry and Pal . . . and everyone.”

“My name is Constable Bastarache of the RCMP and . . . and, well, it seems you already know. Anyway, I was to inform you . . . I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry. It was me that did it.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, ma’am, I’m sure you must have loved him very much.”

“Him . . . who?”

“Your husband, ma’am. I’m sure you will miss him terribly. I lost a loved one myself recently. We just have to be strong.”

“My husband? Buck? Has something happened to Buck?”

“Ah, then you don’t know, ma’am?”

“Know? Know what?”

“Ah, Mr. Ramsey has been found, ah, dead, ma’am.” Shirley uttered something incoherent. What she was trying to say was, “My God, my God, my God!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said the Mountie. “Can I get you a glass of water, a cup of tea, perhaps?”

“No, no, I’ll be all right How did it happen? When? How did he die?”

“He was found on a wharf in Saint John on the ninth of February. Exposure. He may have frozen to death.”

“The ninth of February? That’s six weeks ago.”

“Yes. He wasn’t carrying any identification. It took the Saint John police until yesterday to track things down.”

“Is he buried yet?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am. You could have him exhumed and brought back here, if you wished.”

“No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I suppose he should’ve been buried in Gordon. Buck’s Catholic. But he never liked it around here much. He’s prob’ly happy where he is.”

“He was buried in a public cemetery, ma’am, but we could arrange for a priest to sanctify the grave, if you wished.”

“Yes, yes. Could you? And I’ll see the priest in Blackville about a Mass.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s one more thing, ma’am.”

“Yes?”

“His belongings.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Ramsey had a room at 371 Collier Street in Saint John. There’s this envelope” – the constable handed Shirley an envelope – “and I’ve several items in the car.”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

Buck’s worldly possessions consisted of a guitar, a radio, a pocket watch that didn’t work and a hundred and sixty-three dollars and eighty-two cents in cash. The cash was in the envelope.

After Constable Bastarache left, Shirley Ramsey cried a few solemn tears, but the twinge of fear she had felt was replaced with a flood of relief.

*

A week later Shirley Ramsey’s bill at Bernie Hanley’s store was paid in full. There was ten dollars worth of new stamps in the post office and Dryfly was being the Lone Ranger more often than not, with his shiny new cap gun.

Shirley’s family allowance and post office cheque had arrived and she found herself sitting, for the moment, on the proverbial pig’s back.

three

Shirley Ramsey, in a peculiar sort of way, was becoming famous. She was becoming a symbol of poverty, ugliness and untidiness for Brennen Siding, for all the Gordon Road area, and even mothers as far away as Blackville and Renous were telling their children, “You’d better get to school and learn, or you’ll grow up to be poorer than Shirley Ramsey!” Because of her few yellow teeth and straight unkempt hair, her neglected figure and ragged clothing, she was literally becoming a household word in the community.

When Helen MacDonald was washing out the barrels she used for salting gaspereaux, she remarked, “Smells worse than Shirley Ramsey!”

Bert Todder got drunk on rum one night and told Helen MacDonald that she was the prettiest woman in Brennen Siding. Helen promptly replied, “Git out with ya, ya drunken fool! I’m homelier than Shirley Ramsey!”

Bert once described the antlers of a buck he’d shot. “’Pon me soul to God, they had sixteen points and were wider than . . . than . . . than Shirley Ramsey’s arse! Tee, hee, hee; sob, sniff, snort!”

Dan Brennen drove all the way to Newcastle for a pair of boots for his son Charlie. When he entered the boot store, he realized he hadn’t asked Charlie his boot size. Dan muttered, “Bejesus, I’m getting stupider than Shirley Ramsey!”

Shirley’s name was used in other ways as well. For instance, if Shirley had a tool shed (which she didn’t), it would have but two things in it, an axe and a dull rusty bucksaw.

Besides the chopping and sawing of whatever stove wood the Ramseys could collect, the saw and the axe were also used for the execution of whatever repair jobs were needed to be
done. The outdoor toilet was built, for instance, with the saw and the axe. The porch over the door was also built with the saw and the axe, and so was the lean-to shed erected every November for a wood shelter.

These constructions did not go unnoticed. Most of the cuts were crooked, and many of the nails, driven with the back of the axe, were bent over.

John Kaston started the Shirley Ramsey-the-bad-carpenter ball rolling when he made a bad cut while making his kitchen cupboards. “Darn!” he swore, “I Shirley Ramsied it!”

While Buck was living, nobody in Brennen Siding would lift a finger to assist Shirley in any way. Buck was supposed to be responsible. If the Ramsey family starved to death, the inhabitants of Brennen Siding would not have felt the slightest twinge of remorse or guilt. After all, if a man can’t look out for his family, he can’t expect someone else to. “Buck went away and let that whole family starve to death,” Dan Brennen might say, while cutting into a roast of beef.

When the people of Brennen Siding learned of Buck’s death, however, Shirley Ramsey took on a different status, “the widow.” Shirley Ramsey, the estranged wife, deserved nothing. Shirley Ramsey, the widow, needed help. Stan Tuney gave Shirley a bucket of potatoes and a bucket of carrots. “You kin keep the buckets,” Stan told her. Dan Brennen gave Shirley a bucket of corned beef. “The bucket kin be used for carrying water from the brook,” said Dan. “Water is good for bathin’ in.” Dan Brennen said this as though it was a great new revelation. He said a lot of things that way. Brennen Siding was named after his grandfather. He felt that made him special, that he was perhaps smarter and better than everyone else.

John and Max Kaston were cleaning out the summer kitchen. Max was gazing into a keg of brine.

“What’ll I do with these old gaspereaux?” he asked. “They ain’t no good for anything.”

“Might as well throw them out. The gaspereaux will soon be runnin’ anyway.”

“Maybe we should give them to Shirley Ramsey.”

“Good idea, Max. I’ll take them down to her later.”

John Kaston was religious; he wanted to be a preacher. When he got up to Shirley Ramsey’s with a bucket full of gasp-ereaux, he said, “When the fish are gone, you can use the bucket for carryin’ water. Cleanliness is Godliness, you know.”

Shirley Ramsey was a Catholic and John Kaston was a Baptist forever trying to convert her. He had one reservation though; he wasn’t sure if he wanted the likes of her associated with the church. Who’d want to sit beside her?

Lindon Tucker, who was never previously known to give anything away, gave Shirley an old galvanized tub he’d found in the barn.

“No, no, no, I want you to have it, Shirley old girl. Want ya to have it, yeah, yeah, yeah. Good tub, that. Yep. Oh yeah, yep, good tub, yep.”

“Thanks, Lindon. It’s awful good o’ ya.”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t mention it, Shirley old girl. Glad, glad, glad to do it, don’t, don’t, don’t mention it.”

Bert Todder showed up, too, with a black salmon. Bert Todder was short and fat; he had a single tooth in the front of his mouth that you saw whenever he laughed. He’d show his tooth, squint his eyes and commence to jiggle and shake; the sound coming from within, more like sobs than laughter. Everyone liked him and he visited everyone in Brennen Siding once a week. He was the reporter. When he visited, he’d mean only to stay for five or ten minutes. When ten minutes was up, he’d stand and say, “Well, I gotta go.” Then, he’d talk for five or ten more minutes and say, “Boys, I should be off.” Before he got through the door, though, he’d remember that he hadn’t told you about Lester Burns falling in the river and narrowly escaping drowning, the story taking ten minutes to tell. He might sit down again to tell it, at the end of which he’d say, “It’s time to leave, I gotta go home.”

Bert Todder usually stayed all evening.

Bert Todder even paid weekly visits to Shirley Ramsey. She made good news.

Because of Bert Todder, there were no secrets in Brennen Siding.

Todder Brook was named after Bert’s grandfather and ran
through Bert’s property. Bert lived the nearest of all to the Todder Brook Whooper.

*

Shadrack Nash wanted to investigate the Todder Brook Whooper, but didn’t want to do it alone.

He went to Max Kaston and was laughed at. Max snorted, said, “You’re crazier than Shirley Ramsey.”

“There ain’t nothin’ to be scared of,” said Shad.

“Then go alone.” Max eyed Shad over his chubby cheeks.

“You’re just too lazy to go,” said Shad and left.

Shad found George Hanley and Palidin Ramsey, smoking cigarettes, out behind Bernie Hanley’s barn.

George Hanley’s ears were too big, as were his hands and feet; but his teeth were white and even, he had long eyelashes and was almost pretty in the face.

“I wouldn’t take a million dollars to step one foot into that woods!” said George.

The fair-skinned, brown-eyed, mysterious Palidin Ramsey (all the Ramseys were mysterious) said nothing. Palidin knew he was not being invited on the adventure. Shadrack Nash did not know that Palidin Ramsey had no fear.

Out of desperation, Shad went to Shirley Ramsey’s. He found Dryfly sitting on the doorstep, strumming a G chord over and over again on Buck’s guitar. Shad had learned a few chords from his father and had passed his knowledge along to Dryfly. He had traded the G chord for a Glenn Hall. By mid-June, he was on the verge of completing his hockey card collection. He was only missing Johnny Bower of the Toronto Maple Leafs. A Lou Fontenato and a Johnny Bucyk and he’d have the whole NHL. He was holding on to a C chord, just in case Dryfly might get lucky enough to get one of the cards he needed.

“What’re ya doin’?” asked Shad, as if he didn’t already know.

“Playin’ me guiddar.”

“Soundin’ pretty good.”

Dryfly shrugged. He was thin and needed a haircut.

“Don’t know any more chords yet, eh?”

“No,” said Dryfly.

“Gonna listen to the jamboree tonight?”

“Might.”

Shad was referring to the
Saturday Night Jamboree
that was broadcast from CFNB Fredericton every week – Earl Mitton on the fiddle, Bud Brown the emcee, Kid and Ada Baker the guests more often than not.

“I am,” said Shadrack. “Wanna come over and listen to it with me?”

“What for? I can hear it on me own radio.”

“I got something I want us to do afterwards.”

“Gonna be awful close to dark by the time the jamboree’s over.”

“I know,” shrugged Shadrack. “I want it to be dark.”

“What’re ya gonna be doin’ in the dark?”

“I’m goin’ back to see what’s makin’ that noise.”

“The Todder Brook Whooper?”

“Yep.”

“What if it’s a ghost?”

“I don’t care.”

“What if it’s a panther?”

“Takin’ Dad’s .303.”

“Yeah? How’d ya git that?”

“I know where it is. I’ll just sneak it out. Know where the bullets are, too. Wanna come with me?”

“Nope. Ya’ll never catch me in that woods!”

“Why not?”

“Cause.”

“Cause why?”

“Cause, ya wouldn’.”

“Scared?”

“No, but I ain’t goin’.”

“Why?”

“I just told ya!”

“Yer scared!”

“I’m not!”

“I’m taken the .303.”

“You’d be a pretty lad, shootin’ a ghost with a big rifle like that! Knock ya arse over kettles!”

“Don’t kick hardly at all. I’ll let ya try it, if ya want.”

“You fire it first.”

“I’ll fire it. It don’t kick. Fire it all the time, so I do!”

“What if ya get lost?”

“All we’ll do is follow the trail back and then follow it home again.”

“The flies will eat us up, back there in the woods at night.”

“No flies hardly at all. Work up a sweat and they never touch ya.”

It was approaching the middle of June and Dryfly doubted very much that he could work up enough sweat to combat the forty-two thousand and one flies that would be attacking him back in the Dungarvon woods. “Come with me and I’ll tell ya how to put a C chord on.”

“C chord?”

“Yep. Dad says if ya know C and G chords ya kin play any song at all.”

“How far back ya goin’?”

“Not far.”

“What if it’s a ghost?”

“It’s a panther.”

“How do ya know?”

“Dad says.”

“How ya gonna shoot a panther in the dark?”

“Takin’ Dad’s flashlight, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. You kin carry the flashlight and I’ll carry the rifle. We’ll jack ’im. You hold the light on his eyes and I’ll down the bugger.”

BOOK: The Americans Are Coming
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