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Authors: Herb Curtis

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BOOK: The Americans Are Coming
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“Why can’t I go, too?”

“She can’t be with the both of us, kin she?!”

“Why not?”

“Damn, you’re stupid! I wanna maybe pass the hand. Can’t do that with you watchin’ us, can I?”

“Well, don’t be all day, then.”

“I won’t be no time. Jist gonna feel things out.”

“Okay, I’ll wait.”

Shad walked from behind the tree and rounded the camp to where Lillian Wallace sat reading. He was unsure of what his approach should be, but he feared he’d mess it up if he got too near her. He moved to within ten feet of where she sat, and with hands in his pocket and shoulders back, he pretended to be eyeing the river for something or other. From the corner of his eye, he could see her watching him. He knew he would have to acknowledge her sooner or later, but was hoping she would make the first move.

Luck was with him.

“Is something wrong?” asked Lillian.

“Naw, jist lookin’. Nice day, eh?”

“Yes, it is.” Lillian had the strong, confident, arrogant voice of an American. Shad was thrilled with the sound of it.

“You from around here?” asked Shad.

“No,” smiled Lillian, “I’m from Massachusetts.”

“Heard of it. Big place?”

“Yes, it’s quite big. Where do you live?”

“See that house down there on the bend, the one with the blue bottom and the pink top?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where I live. It’s got an indoor toilet.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Only one around here.”

“Well! How wonderful.”

“You stayin’ here long?”

“We can only stay a week, I’m afraid.”

“Doin’ any fishin’?”

“No. I’m not a fisherwoman, I’m afraid. I’m leaving the fish for my father.”

“Is yer father gettin’ any?”

“Not yet.”

“Must be usin’ the wrong fly.”

“Perhaps you could point him out something more productive.”

“Is he around?”

“He’s still out, but he should be back any minute.”

“Like to meet ’im. Hear he’s a nice lad. Got a big salmon this morning on a fly he might be wantin’ to know about.”

“Really? You caught a salmon this morning?”

“Oh yeah, I kin ketch ’em any time at all.”

“Well! You should, indeed, talk to my father. He’s not very productive when it comes to salmon, I’m afraid.”

“Usin’ the wrong fly. Gonna be here tonight?”

“I imagine so.”

“I’ll come up.”

“Well . . . all right. He likes to fish in the evening, but he’ll be back about dusk.”

“Good. That a Gene Autry book you reading?”

“No, it’s called
Gone with the Wind
. Have you heard of it?”

“No, read a lotta Gene Autry, though. Any good?”

“It’s not bad. Not as good as Gene Autry, perhaps, but it’s not bad.” Lillian smiled so beautifully that it quickened Shad’s heart.

“Well, I gotta go. I’ll come up later and talk to yer father.”

“Good. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

“Yeah, well okay then, see ya later.”

“Bye.”

Shad went around the camp to where Dryfly was waiting behind the tree. The first thing he noticed was Dryfly petting Helen MacDonald’s dog. The second thing he noticed was that the blueberry pie was gone from the kitchen window.

“What happened to the pie?” asked Shad.

“Fed it to the dog. Hope it don’t hurt ’im,” said Dryfly.

*

That night when Shadrack went to the Cabbage Island Salmon Club, he did not take Dryfly with him. He would meet Dryfly later. Shad had no intentions of going to work in the morning and that meant that he and Dryfly could play on the river for as late as they wanted. Shadrack and Dryfly’s favourite pastime was playing on the river at night. Dryfly would be somewhere on the river (he always was), and all Shad would have to do was whistle and wait for an answer. Dryfly would eventually answer and they would swim or just canoe about until the wee hours of the morning.

“Good evening, my boy! Come in! Have some lemonade. You’re just the man I’ve been wanting to see. I hear you have a fly to show me.”

Shad didn’t have a fly to show Bill Wallace, but he had prepared himself.

“Yeah, but I kin only tell you of it,” said Shad. “I lost it in a big salmon earlier this evening.”

“Really! Christ, I’ve been whipping the rivah all day and never had as much as a rise.”

Shad sat on the sofa beside Bill Wallace. Lillian sat at the table eyeing her father and the strange boy with the greased red hair. The boy had cleaned up since the afternoon and had changed his awful clothes for a plaid shirt with the collar turned up, blue jeans and sneakers. Lillian saw in Shadrack’s icy blue eyes a certain zest for life . . . and naughtiness perhaps. She thought she kind of liked him.

“It’s what you call a Green-arsed Hornet,” said Shad. “Jist looks like a hornet, ’cept it’s got a green arse ’stead o’ yellow.”

“Well, I’ll have Bert tie me up a few. A Green-assed Hornet, huh?”

“Yep. Best fly on the river!”

“Lillian, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but young Shadrack here is somewhat familiar with the Dungarvon Whooper.”

“Really!”

Shadrack leaned back on the sofa, put his arm on the back, crossed his legs and made ready for whatever lies he might
have to conjure up. He wished he had brought Dryfly, after all. Dryfly was good at lying and stuff.

“Lindon Tucker told me about it this morning,” continued Bill Wallace. “Young Shadrack here is quite a hero in these parts.”

“Tell me about you being a hero, Shadrack,” said Lillian in the same way Shadrack reckoned she would talk to a child. Shadrack was losing confidence. These people were very different from the people he was used to. He couldn’t read their faces. He couldn’t decide whether they were making fun of him or not.

“What did Lindon tell them?” was the question on Shadrack’s mind. He tried to remember all the stories. Shad decided he would go into the story in a roundabout way. That way, he’d have time to remember things.

“Well,” breathed Shad, “this thing was screamin’ in the woods, see, and . . .”

“What did the whooper sound like, Shad?’ asked Lillian.

“Well, sorta like a . . . a . . . a train whistle, a panther hollerin’ . . . and the . . . the devil screamin’, all in one . . . only louder. Everyone was scared to death of it. So one night when the moon was full and the thing was makin’ more noise than usual, me and Dryfly thought we’d better be doin’ somethin’ about it. So, by God, I grabbed the old .303, and, and, and Dad’s flashlight and struck ’er for the woods.”

Both Lillian and Bill were smiling friendly smiles. Shad thought that they might be swallowing his yarn and it gave him a bit more confidence.

“So, anyway, we didn’t get no more than a mile or two in the woods when we smelt this awful smell. ’Pon me soul, it just smelt like . . . like Shirley Ramsey’s arse and, and I had to swing and throw up right then and there. And, and, and then this awfullest scream struck ’er up and Dryfly turned as white as a ghost. I said, ‘By God, Dryfly, we’re done for.’”

“So, what did you do?” asked Lillian.

“Well, I said the only way we’ll be able to git rid of it is to go down to the brook where the thing seemed to be, so we went down. Well, sir, you never heard anything like it in all your life!”

Lillian and Bill exchanged glances.

“Anyway,” continued Shad, “I saw this big black thing down through the woods and I said to Dryfly, I said, I said Dryfly, I think I see it. Dryfly never said aye, yes or no. I didn’t know what it was, but I could tell that it had horns like a cow and was about the size of a, of a bull elephant.”

“Dryfly said ya’d better shoot the sonuvawhore before it sees us, or we’re as good as dead. So I pulled up the old .303 and let ’er drift. Well, anyway, the noise stopped right up and that thing swung and took a look at us, I could see its eyes shinin’ in the flashlight beam and, and, and they were about as big around as that ashtray. I thought we were dead men but it didn’t do a thing, just swung and trotted off down through the woods. I wanted to go after it, but Dryfly said, he said, he said, we’d better not. We might get lost, so we swung and come home. We never heard it after, but you could smell it for three days.”

“Did anybody else ever see it?” asked Bill.

“Not that I know of,” said Shad.

“Did anybody else ever go back to look for it?”

“I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“Do you think it was a ghost?” asked Lillian.

“I dunno, maybe.”

“Or, maybe Satan?”

“I don’t know. Could’ve been.”

“Did you go back after to look for its tracks or anything?” said Bill.

“No, no, I never went back.”

Shadrack was beginning to feel uncomfortable with all the smiling questions. “They’re makin’ fun o’ me,” he thought. “They think I’m lyin’. Course lyin’s what I’m doin’, so I might as well stick with it.”

Bill Wallace got up from the sofa and went to the bar, poured himself a double scotch and tossed it back, grunted the hot liquid along to his stomach, then poured himself another. He was moving away from the kids. He was not interested in the Dungarvon Whopper, as he called it. The Dungarvon Whooper was Lillian’s thing. Bill Wallace commenced to think
about salmon pools and a place of his very own, private, away from this club of cabbage heads.

Between the chair where Lillian sat and the sofa where Shadrack sat, it commenced to rain electricity.

Shadrack was unprepared. He wanted to get outside with Lillian so that he might get a chance to pass the hand.

Lillian, on the other hand, experienced a feeling of bewilderment as she eyed the thin, red-haired boy. “He’s lying about the whooper,” she thought. “He’s a liar, just like every other boy. Except . . . he’s not the same. I’d hate to see this one in an Elvis Presley haircut.”

“Ever hear of Elvis Presley?” she asked.

“Yeah,” said Shad, thankful for the fact the topic had changed. “I heard ’im on the radio.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“No.”

“I have a picture of him in the bedroom. I’ll get it.” Lillian went off to get the centerfold from the
Teen
magazine she’d brought from home. Shad removed his wallet from his hip pocket and slid it between the cushions of the sofa. “An excuse to come back, in case I don’t get invited,” he thought.

Bill Wallace stood at the window, eyeing the river. “I should fish for an hour before dark,” he thought, “but I can’t leave Lillian alone with this hick . . . or would it matter? Lillian’s not about to get involved with the likes of him . . . she’s only fourteen . . . I could talk with Lindon . . .” Bill Wallace was still thinking about his very own salmon pool.

Lillian returned with the picture. She placed it on the coffee table in front of Shadrack.

“That’s Elvis,” she said.

Shad looked at the greased black hair, the black leather jacket with the turned up collar, the tight black pants and the jet boots. Shad looked at the smooth tanned skin with not a freckle on it, the sideburns and the slightly curled lip. “So, this is Elvis,” he thought. “He’s a good lookin’ lad, all right.”

Shad had heard that Elvis had his hair greased back, and had tried the grease himself, but Shad hadn’t known that Elvis’ hair was so much longer . . . and the sideburns . . .

“The girls are wild about him,” said Lillian. “Don’t you think he’s wonderful?”

“For a girl to look at, maybe,” said Shad, and to himself, thought, “I’ll have to let my hair grow.”

A knock came at the door. It was Lindon Tucker. Lillian let him in.

“You wanna fish this evenin’?” Lindon asked Bill.

“By God, Lindon old buddy, I’m glad you’re still about. Do you have a good fishing rod, Lindon?”

“Well, yeah, I got an old one that’s seen better days, as the feller says. Seen better days, an old one, yeah.”

“Well, I have this Shakespeare I’d like for you to try.”

“Sure, sure, the very best. Love to try it. Nice one, nice one, nice one, ain’t it?”

“Let’s go fishin’,” said Bill, putting his arm on Lindon’s shoulder.

As the two men were leaving the camp, Bill Wallace was saying, “I like you, Lindon! I’d like for you to come down to Stockbridge and visit us sometime! Would you like to have a rod like that, Lindon?”

“Sure, sure, sure, yeah, love to, yeah, nice one, ain’t it?”

Bill Wallace stopped at the door, looked at Lillian, gave a quick, dark glance at Shadrack and said, “I’ll only be gone for an hour or so, Lillian.”

Lillian Wallace knew that the quick, dark glance meant that Shadrack Nash had better not be there when Bill Wallace returned.

Although Shadrack was quite pleased with the situation, he was also somewhat confused. He’d never been alone with a pretty girl before.

Lillian Wallace was tall for her age and was physically well advanced in the transition from girl to woman. She had short blond hair, big blue eyes and an easy smile that revealed perfect white teeth. Earlier, while reading on the veranda, the mosquitoes had found her and she had sprayed her body with repellent. Shad was very fond of the repellent’s perfumey smell. Shadrack found himself lost for words.

“You go to school?” asked Shad.

“Yes. I’ll be starting high school this September.”

“Me, too,” lied Shad. Shad quit school when he was twelve. “How many kids in your class?” asked Lillian.

To Shad, a school was the one room building called the Brennen Siding School – a blackboard, a woodstove, desks, a bucket in the corner for water and not much more. Shad had never stepped foot in the high school in Blackville. Shad didn’t know what a class was.

Resorting to his knowledge of the exterior of Blackville School, he said, “Ninety-two.”

“Wow! That’s a big class!” said Lillian.

“Blackville’s a big place,” said Shadrack.

*

And so the conversation between Shadrack Nash and Lillian Wallace continued. Shadrack grew more relaxed as he became more familiar with his luxurious surroundings, with Lillian’s accent, tone of voice and smile, but part of him still wanted to get closer. A hug? A kiss? Pass the hand? Shadrack didn’t know what to do first.

For ten minutes, Shad sat on the sofa and she in the chair. Then, Lillian moved to the sofa, but sat at the other end.

BOOK: The Americans Are Coming
11.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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