The Americans Are Coming (25 page)

“What you run into, a bear?” asked Dryfly.

“Dad’s gone crazy! Beat me up!” panted Shad. “Kicked him in the nuts! I’m done for!”

“You kicked Bob in the nuts?” Dryfly was amazed.

“I’m a dead man! He’ll kill me! He’ll stomp me into the ground! He’ll chew me up and spit me out! He’ll . . .”

“Holy dyin’!” said Dryfly, “he’ll shoot ya sure as hell! What’re ya gonna do?!”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Shad, like Lindon Tucker. “I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead!”

Shadrack paced back and forth in the tiny camp until Dryfly jumped up and told him to sit down. Shad sat in Dryfly’s chair, his breath coming in puffs that caused the lamp to flutter. Nutbeam’s ears seemed to flap like wings in the dancing light.

“Take it easy,” said Nutbeam, “he’ll get over it. He jist got ugly for a while, that’s all.”

“You don’t know my father,” said Shadrack. “He’ll kill me and not think twice!”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“Can’t go home, I know that!”

“You’ll have to hide out at my place,” suggested Dryfly. Shadrack was not thinking too clearly, but he knew immediately he did not want to stay at Shirley Ramsey’s. Something like staying with Shirley Ramsey would not be at all good for the reputation. “No, that’s all right. I’ll think o’ something,” he said.

“You could maybe stay here with Nutbeam!” offered Dryfly. “This is a great hideout!”

“There’s no place for ya to stay here,” said Nutbeam.

“He could sleep on the floor,” said Dryfly.

“Ya couldn’ sleep on that old hard floor,” said Nutbeam, “and besides, they’ll come lookin’ for ’im.”

“But they’ll never find him here!”

“They’ll come lookin’ and they’ll find him!”

“They never found you!”

“That’s different. They’re not looking for me.”

“I can’t go home, I know that much.”

“You go home and I bet yer father will’ve forgot all about it. He ain’t out to kill ya. You shouldn’t have kicked him anyway! You shouldn’ kick yer father!”

“I had to, Nutbeam! He would’ve killed me!”

“I don’t believe he would’ve killed ya.”

“Maybe you’d let me stay for just a while,” said Shadrack. “Just until I figure out what I should do.”

“They’ll come lookin’ for ya,” argued Nutbeam.

“Just for a couple o’ days,” said Shadrack.

“They’ll find ya sure as hell.”

“Just for tonight, then. I’ll feel things out tomorrow.”

“I don’t like it.”

“C’mon, Nutbeam, just for the night!”

“I don’t know.”

“Please?”

“Well . . .”

“Ah, thanks, Nutbeam! You’re a pal!”

“Just for the night!”

*

When Lindon Tucker starts feeling his liquor, he likes to talk, or at least, likes to repeat the things other people say. Lindon was sitting at the bar. After the second double rye, he swung and eyed the gentleman sitting on the stool beside him. Lindon thought the gentleman was wearing either a black or purple suit; he wasn’t sure, the room was dimly lit. He had a black vandyke beard, but otherwise, his head was as bald as an egg. He had one of those timeless faces. Lindon couldn’t tell if he was thirty-five or much older. Oddly, for the lighting was very low, the gentleman wore sunglasses, hiding whatever lines of wisdom, happiness and pain – age – the eyes might have revealed.

Lindon scanned the candle-lit room, then came back to eye the stranger whose glasses reflected the light like cat eyes.

“How come yer warin’ smoked glasses in here?” asked Lindon.

“Shade. I like the shade.” The gentleman’s voice was soft and deep.

“Oh, yeah. Shade, yeah. Okay. Shade.”

The gentleman was eyeing Lindon’s mackinaw, which he didn’t remove despite the room’s exceptional warmth.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Cool enough, yeah.”

The gentleman removed his eyes from Lindon and lifted his head as if to eye someone across the room.

“Lookin’ for someone? What’re ya lookin’ at? Ya could see better without them glasses on.”

“A lovely lady across the way.”

“Ha, ha, ha, yes, sir. Yes. Oh yeah, yep. Quite the lady, yep. You from around here, are ya?”

“I’m from . . . the south,” said the gentleman.

“Hot country? Hot country? Hot country?”

“It can get hot. It can get very hot.”

“What do ya do fer a livin’?”

“I’m a musician. I play the violin.”

“Yeah? Yeah? Like the fiddle, you mean?”

“Yes. Like the fiddle.” The gentleman nodded toward the corner of the room to where a small triangular stage was located. “I’m here tonight,” he said.

“Good, good, good. Like the fiddle. Always liked the fiddle. Play somethin’ fer us. Give us a tune. You know ‘Mutty Musk,’ do ya?”

“I’m not familiar with it. Perhaps I could play you something else.”

“Sure, sure, sure. Don’t matter. Anything at all.”

The gentleman checked his watch. “It’s about time,” he said. Standing up, he nodded farewell to Lindon, nodded to the lady across the room and headed for the stage.

In a minute the gentleman and two other musicians started to play. Lindon was not familiar with the melody and he thought it was unbearably loud. But as if he were in a Miramichi dance-hall, he commenced to stomp his feet and whoop. “Drive ’er!” he yelled. “Walk back on ’er! Whoop! Yea-whooooo! Keep ’er close to the floor!”

Then Lindon felt the eyes upon him. There were more people looking at him than at the men on the stage. He quieted down and ordered another drink.

“Sober crowd,” he said. “The music ain’t that great, anyway.”

The bartender served Lindon another drink, which he tossed back as if it were water. He chased it once again with ale. He was feeling very good and wanted to talk to someone, but he noticed that nobody was sitting near him at the bar. He
contemplated moving to another seat and eyed the room for a likely place. He spotted the lady the fiddle player had been eyeing and was surprised that she was eyeing him. He nodded. She nodded back. He winked. She smiled.

“Hm,” he thought. “If I had another drink, I’d give that lady a little rub.”

He ordered and was served once again. He tossed the rye back, eyeing the woman all the while. He felt he nearly had enough confidence. One more drink and he’d confront her.

But then, to his surprise, the middle-aged woman with the red hair and dark-rimmed glasses left her table and moved to the stool next to Lindon. She ordered a screwdriver and lit a Rothman’s.

Lindon eyed her with blurred vision.

The woman saw Lindon staring, smiled and said, “Hi.” Lindon leaned toward her and shouted above the music. “Havin’ a little drink, are ya?”

The woman nodded and smiled. “From around here?” she asked.

“Brennen Siding!” he yelled. “Brennen Siding! Blackville!”

“Oh! You’re from God’s country.”

“The Devil’s country, devil’s country, devil’s country, more like it! Ho! Ha, ha, ha! Boys! Ya havin’ a little drink, are ya?”

The screwdriver was served and the woman started digging into her purse for money. She removed her gloves, a makeup kit, a package of spearmint gum and a handkerchief. She removed a little black book, her eyeglass case and a ring of keys. The bartender waited patiently. From her purse, the woman removed a pen, a cigarette lighter, several Kleenex, a nail file and a hair brush. Her wallet was the last thing to be removed.

“How much?” asked the woman.

“Same as before – a dollar twenty-five.”

“Oh, my goodness,” said the lady. “I seem to be out of cash. Would you cash a cheque for me?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. It’s against the rules.”

“Well, what am I to do?”

“I’ll have to take your drink back, Ma’am.”

“Oh! I’m so embarassed!”

“I’ll get that,” said Lindon. “I’ll get that. Let me buy that. How much?”

“A dollar twenty-five.

Lindon paid for the drink and noticed that the woman seemed impressed with the wad of bills. She inched her stool closer to Lindon’s.

“Thank you very much,” she said.

“No trouble, no trouble, no trouble. There’s lots more where that came from.”

“Oh! What do you do for a living?”

“Nothin’, nothin’, nothin’! Don’t have to work. Guide some. Don’t have to work!”

Lindon Tucker was wearing heavy woollen APH pants and a plaid Mackinaw coat. Lindon Tucker with his pot belly, un-shaven face and missing cuspids, did not look like a doctor, or a lawyer.

“Oh,” said the woman. “I’d have thought you was a doctor or a lawyer.”

“No, no, no; could, could, could, might, might, ya never know, might. Bartender! Get me and this here little lady another drink.”

“You shouldn’t be spending your money on me,” said the woman sweetly, placing her hand on Lindon’s thigh.

“Lots more where that come from! Make them big ones, bartender! Never mind them little sips! Make ’em big ones!”

The bartender poured them two doubles and sat them in front of Lindon and the woman. “Nine dollars,” he said.

“Nine dollars!” exclaimed Lindon.

“Yeah, they’re triples.”

“Oh, oh, oh well then.” Lindon paid the bartender.

An hour went by and Lindon grew more and more intoxicated. The woman got prettier and prettier, and very, very friendly. It became quite clear to Lindon that she wanted him to get a room in the hotel.

At first he didn’t know how to bring the issue up, but a couple of more doubles looked after that little holdup.

“What d’ya say we get a room, little lady?” said Lindon.

“Oh, my goodness, I hardly know you!”

“Get to know me, git to know me! Git to know me in a room!”

“Well, I guess I could party a little bit. Got any booze?”

“Booze?”

“Vodka, rye, rum, something to drink?”

“No, but there’s lot’s of it here! Could get it here!”

“Would you be so kind as to sell my friend here a bottle of vodka, bartender?” said the woman.

“I’d have to sell it by the ounce,” cautioned the bartender.

“Give us some vodker!” yelled Lindon.

The bartender reached under the bar and sat up a forty ounce bottle of vodka. “Fifty dollars,” he said.

The music had been wearing on Lindon. He hadn’t liked one tune the band played all evening. But as he left the room with his little lady, he heard them playing the first tune he was familiar with, “The Devil’s Dream.” Lindon whooped as he was going through the door.

At the front desk, after paying for a room, Lindon noticed that he only had seventy-five dollars left. His only comment was, “Jesus.”

He was more than just a little upset, but he decided to worry about the spending later. “Right now, there’s something else that needs spending,” he thought.

“You know somethin’ darlin’?” said Lindon, as they entered room 405, “I don’t even know yer name.”

“Call me Molly, darlin’.”

“MOLLY, MY NAME’S LINDON TUCKER! THE BEST MAN TO EVER SHIT A TURD IN THE DUNGARVON RIVER! HA, HA, HA, WHOOP!”

“You sit on the bed, darlin’, and I’ll pour us a drink.” Molly found two glasses in the bathroom and poured them each a drink. She poured one ounce in her own drink and topped it off with water. In Lindon’s glass, she poured five ounces of straight vodka. She delivered Lindon his drink, they toasted – clink. “Down the hatch,” she said and drank her glass empty. Not to be outdone by a little lady, Lindon downed his glass also.

For five minutes, Lindon raved, fondled and boasted; then he went to sleep.

Molly took Lindon’s seventy-five dollars. She took his pocket watch and Zippo lighter. She considered taking the rest of the vodka. “Why not?” she said, “I might need it for another sucker at the bar.”

As she was leaving the room, she said, “Good night, Lindon,” to the best man to ever shit a turd in the Dungarvon River.

*

Shadrack stayed up as late as he could and talked to Nutbeam. Nutbeam stayed awake much longer than he wanted to, talking to Shadrack. At four o’clock a.m., Shad sat on Nutbeam’s cot, yawning. At five o’clock, Shadrack was fast asleep on Nutbeam’s cot. Nutbeam only had the one cot and therefore had no place to sleep. He was left sitting alone at the table. The lamp beside him was turned low, so that Nutbeam appeared as a silhouette with an incredibly strange face. His big lips gave him a negroid appearance, although his white skin and blue eyes denied any possibility of black ancestry. His ears in the shadow on the wall behind him made him look like a Labrador Retriever. His nose was so long that two of him back to back would have looked like a pickaxe. Nutbeam was staring at the letter Dryfly had written for him.

Dryfly had tried his best to write well, but the address, crooked and slanted, indicated he needed much practice.

“I wish I could write good like that,” thought Nutbeam.

Nutbeam didn’t like the fact that Shadrack had stolen his cot, but he figured it would soon be time to rise anyway. Nutbeam knew that Shadrack couldn’t possibly stay with him for very long and that Shadrack surely knew that too. With a fleeting inspection, one could easily see that the camp was not designed to accommodate more than one person. Nutbeam had an idea for Shadrack and planned to tell him as soon as he awakened. For the moment, though, going to the post office had to be planned.

“If she laughs,” he thought, “I’ll just pretend I don’t know
what she’s laughin’ at. I’ll buy a stamp and tell her . . . tell her . . . tell her I like her dress or somethin’.” Nutbeam knew that conversation with Shirley would not be easy. To Nutbeam, Shirley Ramsey was a beautiful woman and he was an ugly man. “No ugly man ever won the heart of a beautiful woman,” he thought.

“If I could get that woman,” he thought, “I’d be the happiest man in the world. I’d make her happy, too. I’d fix up the house and build a permanent woodshed. There’d be enough room in the shed to keep enough wood to last a year, plus room to hang a couple of deer and a moose. I’d plant whatever land she has with potatoes and vegetables and build a root cellar in the gravel pit. If I could get that woman, I wouldn’t care if people laughed at me. I’d take her to dances in the village and to church on Sundays, and I’d get some nice clothes to wear. Maybe I’d even buy that old farm and this woodlot from Graig Allen, build a barn, a new house, the works. Dryfly could live with us and sing to us at nights. Other nights, while Dry’s running the roads, we could sit and talk till maybe twelve o’clock and then go to bed.”