The Americans Are Coming (18 page)

“Where ya been all night?” asked Shad.

“I . . . I’ve been with . . . Bill Wallace.”

“How’s you and Lillian makin’ out? You in love with her, Dry?”

“Naw, jist settin’ up there talkin’, that’s all.”

“An awful lotta talkin’, Dry! You been up there all day!”

“Jist talkin’, that’s all we were doin’.”

“I saw you and Lillian walkin’ down the front holdin’ hands!”

“So?”

“So, where were ya goin’?”

“Lindon Tucker’s.”

“Walkin’ down the front, holdin’ hands in broad daylight! Good thing I left her when I did!”

“You left her?”

“Didn’ she tell ya?”

“No.”

“Course, I left her! Good thing too, by the looks of it, or you’d be holdin’ hands with another man’s woman! You think about that, Dry?”

“No.”

“No! Course ya didn’! You don’t think o’ nothin’, do ya! You never stopped to think o’ me and how I might’ve got hurt. Course, I didn’ get hurt, cause I left the jeezless tramp, but it’s a good thing for you that I did!”

“Lillian ain’t a tramp, Shad.”

“Course she’s a tramp! Last night me, tonight you, God knows who tomorrow night! That tramp don’t care about us lads, Dry! She’s prob’ly up there in the camp right now laughin’ her head off at ya. Wouldn’ surprise me at all!”

“I don’t think so, Shad.”

“I saw through her, so I did! No woman’s gonna make a fool out o’ Shadrack Nash!”

Dryfly didn’t like what he was hearing. To Dryfly, Lillian

Wallace was not a tramp. To Dryfly, Lillian Wallace was the most refined, wonderful, kind, sweet girl in the world.

“I don’t care if she laughs at me,” said Dryfly.

Dryfly’s love for Lillian Wallace was the first real possession he’d ever had. He knew it might not be a possession that would hang around for very long, but he was going to enjoy it and make the most of it while it lasted. He did not want to fight with Shad, though. He would let Shadrack and anybody else say whatever they wanted. He would not give up the precious moments he was spending with Lillian.

“She kin laugh, and you kin say what you want, I don’t care!” said Dryfly.

“And you shouldn’ care! She’ll be gone in a few days and she’ll laugh and make fun o’ you, all the way home!”

Dryfly endeavored to change the subject. “What’ve you been doin’ all day, Shad?” he asked.

“I’ve been . . . I’ve been . . . you’d never guess who I met up with today, Dry.”

Saturday night at dusk, Bill Wallace and Lindon Tucker stood outside the Cabbage Island Salmon Club camps. They were saying goodbye. They would not see each other again for a year. Bill paid Lindon for guiding him and tipped him twenty dollars. Twenty dollars was the biggest tip Lindon Tucker had ever received for guiding. Bill Wallace had had a few drinks and was feeling generous. He could afford to be generous. Bill Wallace was a millionaire who had just purchased a fifty thousand dollar salmon pool for a thousand dollars. Lindon Tucker had been drinking too, and was feeling quite good.

“I didn’t catch any salmon this year,” said Bill, “but I’ll be back next year. I want to put up a cottage next year, Lindon, and by God, I want you to be one of the carpenters.”

“Yeah, sure, yeah, sure, sure! Done a bit o’ carpenter work. Wouldn’ mind workin’ on it. Yeah, sure, sure! I’ll work on it.”

“Well, Lindon, I think I’ll get my gear together and go to bed. I’ve got a long drive tomorrow, and Lillian and I will be rising early.”

“It’s been good doin’ bus’ness, yeah. See ya next year. We’ll git lotsa fish next year.”

“If we could figure out what that young Palidin Ramsey is doing, we’ll catch them all right, Lindon. How many do you think he’s caught in the last few days?”

“Well, he got six one day, he told me, so he did. Six, yeah. Six one day and four the next. Yeah, yeah, yeah, six one day and four the next and seven today. That makes . . . six and four and seven . . . how many?”

“Seventeen, I believe, Lindon.”

“Seventeen, yeah, yeah, seventeen. Did ya buy a few from him to take back with ya?”

“I sure did, Lindon. I bought eight from him. I’ll tell the boys back home that I caught them myself.”

“Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir. Tell them ya caught them yerself, yeah, yeah yeah. Yeah. Ha, ha.”

“Well, good-night, Lindon.”

“Yes sir, yes sir. Good-night.”

“We’ll see you next year.”

“Next year, yeah. Yeah, yeah, next year, yeah. Yep. Take ’er easy.”

Bill Wallace escaped into the camp.

Lindon Tucker was in a mood for celebrating and headed for Bernie Hanley’s store.

Dan Brennen, Bob Nash, John Kaston, Bert Todder and Stan Tuney were all standing around Bernie Hanley’s store gossiping, eating oranges and drinking Sussex Ginger Ale. When Lindon Tucker arrived, he pulled a pint – already half empty – from his belt, ordered a bottle of ginger ale and treated the boys.

“Yes sir. Yes sir, yes sir, the best sport I ever guided. Tipped me twenty dollars, so he did. Twenty dollars! And, and, and gimme a fishin’ rod. Brand new rod! Give it to me, he did. Twenty dollars and a fishin’ rod, jist like that! He said, he said, he said, he said, he said, he said, what he said was I want you to have it, he said. Gimme a rod, jist like that, yeah.”

“That old lad I was guidin’, didn’ ketch a fish all week and didn’ tip me a cent!” said Stan Tuney.

“My sport fished from daylight to dark, caught four salmon and a grilse and only tipped me two dollars. I reached right in me pocket and give ’im five. Told ’im he might need it to get home on,” said Dan Brennen.

“Remember that old lad I was guidin’ in April? The old lad that wouldn’ piss in the river?” said Bert Todder.

“Yeah, I remember him. Same lad you were guidin’ all week, weren’t it?” asked Stan.

“Yeah, that’s the same old jeezer!”

“I never heard that story,” said Dan Brennen. “What happened?”

“Well, I was guidin’ him in April and he wouldn’ piss in
the river. I was goin’ up the river with that ten Johnson out-board motor and he was in the front. When he needed a piss, he pulled out this pickle bottle and started to piss in it. The wind was blowin’ real hard and the piss kept blowin’ back all over me . . . jist kind of a fine spray, if ya know what I mean. I snubbed ’er up some quick, I tell ya! I ain’t drinkin’ yer piss all the way to Gordon, I told ’im!”

All the men laughed.

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah,” commenced Lindon. “Sold that old shore o’ mine. Sold it, yeah. No good, that old shore. Got rid o’ it, so I did. Got rid o’ it. Might sell the whole place, yet. Move to Fredericton, I think. Move to Fredericton and take ’er easy.”

There were no secrets in Brennen Siding. All the men knew that Lindon had sold his property. Somehow, Bert Todder had found out.

“You’ll get a job lookin’ after that lad’s camp when he gets it built, won’t ya, Lindon?”

“He didn’ say for sure. I might, I might, ya never know, I might! I think I’ll sell the whole place and move to Fredericton. Lay right back in Fredericton.”

“I’d sell that old place o’ mine some quick,” said Bert Todder. “That old shore, anyway. Them old shores ain’t no good to a man.”

“Should be able to sell that old shore o’ yours, no trouble, Bert. The mouth o’ Todder Brook is right there. There’s always salmon at the mouth o’ the brook. Why don’t ya sell it and get a big chunk o’ money for it?” said John Kaston. “Them old shores ain’t worth nothin’.”

“Ain’t worth nothin’, no,” said Lindon Tucker. “Sold mine, so I did. Yep. Think I’ll move to Fredericton. Lay right back, take ’er easy, yeah.”

*

Lillian Wallace was not laughing. Fifteen-year-old Lillian Wallace had a tear in her eye. Lillian Wallace said, “I’m going to miss you, Dryfly,” and meant it.

“Gonna miss you too,” said Dryfly.

“I’ll come back next year, Dry. We’ll get together again next year.”

“A year’s a long time,” said Dryfly.

“You could come down and stay with us, play at the Red Lion.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Will you write to me?”

“If you write to me.”

Over the past few days, Dryfly had spent every possible minute with Lillian Wallace. They walked and talked, sat around on the veranda drinking lemonade and “soda”; they swam and went on picnics and kissed and hugged forty-two thousand and one times.

They were very much in love, but the word “love” was never spoken. Dryfly wanted to say it now. Dryfly didn’t want Lillian to walk out of his life without her knowing how he felt, and he wanted to know how she felt about him. He wanted to say, “I love you,” and he wanted to hear her say, “I love you, too.”

He held her close, smelling the fly repellent on her neck, feeling her warm young body against his own. He kissed the tears from her cheek. “This is it,” he thought. “This is the last time I’ll hold her. I might never see her again.” Dryfly wanted to cry too.

Dryfly would never forget her. He would never forget the few short days and nights they’d had together. He was totally in love – in love with Lillian; in love with the stars and the moon; in love with the river and the warm July night.

Dryfly had wanted to say “I love you” so many times during the past few days, but for some reason, couldn’t twist his tongue around the three little words. Now, with tears welling from his eyes, while kissing her tears from her face, while looking into the big, tear-filled blue eyes he adored while feeling her warmth with the reality that he might never see her again, he thought he could say it.

“Lillian,” he whispered, “Lillian . . .”

“Yes, Dryfly?”

“Lillian . . . I love you!”

There was a silence, during which Dryfly could only hear their heartbeat and their breathing. Then, Lillian pulled away from him. She looked at his tattered sneakers and ragged jeans, the same shirt she had washed for him three days ago, his hair parted in the middle, his long nose and his eyes. He had tears in his eyes.

Crying with all the spirit of a child, she ran into the camp.

*

Dryfly swung and started walking. He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he needed to walk. “I’m in love,” he thought. “I’m in love with Lillian Wallace and she’s gone. I’m alone. I can cry now.” He unleashed a flood of tears.

When he got to the Tuney brook bridge, he found Shad waiting for him. He didn’t want Shad to see the tears, but there was no stopping them. He approached Shad and stood before him, weeping like a hurt child.

When Shadrack saw that Dryfly was crying, he did not speak. Neither did Dryfly. They stood eyeing each other, Dryfly crying and Shadrack not knowing what to say. Shadrack knew one thing though: he was sorry for the things he’d said about Lillian Wallace.

“You all right?” said Shadrack, when he finally found words.

“I don’t know . . . I guess.”

“I’m gonna miss her, too,” said Shad.

“I love her, Shad!”

“She’ll come back, Dryfly. Don’t cry. She’ll come back.”

“Maybe . . . maybe.”

“Let me pole you up to Gordon,” said Shad. “We’ll git some wine at the bootlegger’s. We’ll have a drink o’ wine and talk.”

“Wine? I ain’t got no money for wine.”

“I got that ten dollars Nutbeam gave me. We’ll git some wine and have a talk.”

“Okay. Might as well.”

Shadrack and Dryfly went to the Cabbage Island Salmon
Club and slid off, quietly so that no one would hear them, in one of the club’s canoes.

Dryfly found some consolation from being on the river and cheered up a bit. The river reflected the blue of the sky, the stars, the moon and the forested hills. Except for the swish-plunk, swish-plunk of the pole, and the rippling sound of the canoe cutting the water, all was quiet.

“She didn’t say it,” thought Dryfly. “She didn’t say ‘I love you.’”

“You know what, Shad?” said Dryfly a little later. “She’s the only woman I ever loved.”

“Me too,” said Shad.

The boys had one more bond between them.

*

Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?”

“Shadrack and Dryfly.”

“Ah, hell!”

Nutbeam arose from his cot, went to the door and opened it.

“What d’ya want?”

“We got some wine, Nutbeam,” said Shadrack. “Thought maybe you’d like a drink.”

Nutbeam had just gotten home from his radio listening trip. He had listened to
Saturday Night Jamboree
outside of Shirley Ramsey’s house. Again he had crept closer to the house so he could peek through the window at Shirley. Shirley was sewing a shirt for Palidin and looked very beautiful to Nutbeam. Nutbeam wanted very much to meet Shirley Ramsey.

Later, lying on his cot, he had given his predicament thought. “She’s a good woman. A man should have a woman. Shirley Ramsey needs a man. I could keep her, look after her . . . but what’s the use? She’d never look sideways at a lad like me.”

“I’m gonna have to do somethin’,” Nutbeam said aloud to the camp. “I’m not gettin’ any younger. Let me see . . . I’m forty-six years old. Forty-six and never had a woman. Sweet forty-six and never been kissed.”

Nutbeam had spent many hours during the last year, thinking about his lonely situation and had concluded that the loneliness was getting to be too much. He was beginning to talk to himself.

“I’m goin’ crazy,” he said. “Talkin’ to yerself is one of the first signs of goin’ crazy.”

When Shadrack showed up to unlock his little secret, Nutbeam had been very upset, nervous, yes, and even a little afraid. But now, there in the dark, on his cot, Nutbeam felt that maybe Shadrack’s appearance had been a blessing in disguise. Maybe the Good Lord was looking after him and had sent Shadrack to find him, to flush him out, to reveal him to the world that he would either have to face, or go insane. Setting all other predicaments aside, Nutbeam, there in the dark, on his cot, was a very troubled and bewildered man. And then:

Knock, knock.

“If I don’t face this young fella and play some sorta game, the young brat will blackmail me. I shouldn’ have offered him any money in the first place. And now, he’s brought that young Dryfly Ramsey back here in the middle of the night, lookin’ to blackmail me. I’ll have to face them. I’ll have to play some sorta game.”