The Americans Are Coming (26 page)

To go to bed with somebody, to actually feel the warmth of another body next to his, to reach out in the night and find somebody beside him and to make love to somebody had never been anything more than fantasy for Nutbeam.

*

Shadrack awakened to the smell of bacon frying. Nutbeam was cooking them a breakfast of bacon, eggs and biscuits.

“Mornin’, Nutbeam. Sorry ’bout takin yer bed. Guess I must’ve fell asleep.”

“Don’t matter. Had some figurin’ to do, anyway.”

The two sat at the table and ate. Conversation was nothing more than an occasional comment. Shadrack had talked himself out during the night and had only slept a couple of hours. He was sore, his clothes were crumpled, he was homeless and broke, there was nothing much to say. Nutbeam had something to say, but the presence of the weary boy sitting across
from him, shoulders slumped with the stress of guilt, fear and emptiness, gave the matter a certain delicacy that needed time. Nutbeam would hold off until after breakfast.

Shadrack ate slowly, giving each morsel the consideration of a scrambling mind. Over a bit of bacon, he looked around the tiny camp. “It’s mornin’ and the sun is high in the sky,” he thought, “but it’s always night time in here.”

When you go to bed at four or five in the morning after a night’s rendezvous with the river and sky, you find yourself dreamed out, and so you dream a dreamless sleep. The river creeps into your soul, like a god or a demon, sought on possessing you and holding you in her lush valleys. Shad had been playing on the river a great deal for the past several months and had found great comfort and joy in its grasp, but now the river was starting to reject him. It’s just not the same in the autumn. The river tends to give you the cold shoulder after her bout with the frosts and the northeast rains. Shad was losing his friend, the river, and the time spent was being replaced by the restlessness of the idle. He had replaced the river with the banjo and was playing it fanatically. He was plucking fantastic, mind-boggling little melodies from the strings and flew off with them into dreams. Bob Nash found the banjo playing a beautiful thing, an accomplishment for his boy. But in his envy, it was a rasp that constantly filed his nerves, driving him from the house, or more drastically, into the arms of Elva. Bob Nash found that the Elva he once loved was not there anymore. Elva was a bitch, Shad played the banjo and Bob was given to fits of argument and temper – no warmth, no communication, no love – an unfit place to live.

Over a bit of egg, Shad eyed Nutbeam – the mysterious, tall man who looked like an elf, who lived alone in a tiny camp with no windows that smelled of kerosene and woodsmoke – Nutbeam, the Todder Brook Whooper, the man who haunted everyone in Brennen Siding in one way or another. This man was like the river – he summoned dreams from within you. Where John Kaston claimed to know the Lord, Shadrack Nash could claim to know Nutbeam. Nutbeam was something for Shadrack to hold on to.

Shadrack hadn’t held or kissed his mother and father since he was five years old. It was the absence of love, warmth and communication that sent him to the river, Nutbeam and Dryfly.

After breakfast, Nutbeam opened the door to let the light of day in. He cleared the breakfast dishes from the table and replaced them with two tin cups. He poured the tea and sat to confront Shadrack.

“Shad,” he began, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about letters.”

“Letters?”

“Yeah. Writin’ letters. Kin you write a letter, Shad?”

“I s’pose, I don’t know.”

“I can’t,” said Nutbeam. “I know. So?”

“So, I wish I had gone to school.”

“So, why didn’ ya?”

“Because I was weak.”

“You was weak, Nutbeam?”

“When I tried to go to school, everyone laughed and made fun o’ me. The other kids thought I was a freak and threw rocks at me, wouldn’ let me into their games, and I . . . I use to think it was them that was weak.” Nutbeam grinned thoughtfully and shook his head negatively. “Wasn’t them, Shad, it was me that was weak. I was too weak to stand up to them.”

“So you didn’ go back to school anymore?”

“You know, Shad, I’ve been thinkin’ a lot lately. I’ve been thinkin’ that I got the best ears of any man in this whole world. I’ve been thinking that I should’ve held me head right back and stepped into that school like I owned it; walked around not just like I was as good as everybody else, but better. Hey boy, I can hear a robin sing from across the river! I kin hear a deer walkin’ from a hundred yards away! I kin hear yer heart beatin’!”

“So, what are ya comin’ at, Nutbeam?”

“I think they would’ve left me alone after a while if I hadn’ been so weak. I think I would’ve had friends and maybe even a woman. But instead, I crawled back here in this camp, no good to anyone, even meself.”

Nutbeam rose from the table and walked to the open door.

He stood thoughtfully for a moment, gazing at the generous colors of autumn in the forest around him.

“You like girls, Shad?”

“Pretty likely.”

“When I was fifteen I wanted a girl so bad that I use to wish on the evening star and pray to the moon. One night, I was walking and a heart-shaped cloud drifted up so that the moon looked as if it was framed by a heart. I took it as an omen that said, ‘Don’t worry, Nutbeam old boy, love will come to you.’”

“And did it?”

“A few days later I met this girl I’d never seen before. She was very nice to me; said she was stayin’ at a neighbour’s house and that she would like for me to come a callin’. She said she’d be waitin’ in the kitchen for me at eight o’clock.”

“So, did ya go?”

“Yep. I went and knocked on the kitchen door at eight o’clock, feeling on top o’ the world. Can you imagine how I felt, knowing that a pretty little lady was waiting for me inside?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Can you imagine how it felt when I found out that it wasn’t a girl at all, but one of a bunch of boys that were playin’ a trick on me? The girl opened the door slightly and talked sweet-talk to me for a minute, then threw the door open all the way to reveal six other boys all laughing their heads off.”

“So did you hit the bastard?”

“No! I was too weak! I crawled into a deeper hole and cried for two weeks! Are you gonna do that, Shad? Are you gonna crawl into a hole and live in the woods like me?”

“Well . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Shad, what I’m sayin’ to ya is, get off your ass!”

“So, what am I to do?”

“I think you should start goin’ to school! You’re a smart lad, Shad! You could be an engineer some day!”

“You’re starting to sound like me mother!” said Shad.

“Then maybe you should be listenin’ to yer mother!”

“My mother don’t know nothin’! She ain’t never been anywhere!”

“Just like you’ll be, if ya don’t go to school.”

Shadrack was beginning to sweat a little. He did not expect this line of talk from Nutbeam and he did not like what he was hearing.

“But why would I wanna go back to school?”

“Because you don’t wanna live like me, a hermit for the rest of your life!”

“Ah, you’re crazy!”

“A little bit crazy, maybe, and you’ll be a little crazy too, if you live alone long enough! What about the girls, Shad? Do you think that a girl wants a man with no schoolin’ and lives in a cave in the woods?”

“No.”

“You like workin’ in the woods, Shad?”

“No.”

“You think you’re ever gonna git a job doin’ anything else, with schoolin’ like you got?”

“No . . . maybe, I don’t know!”

“Put it this way, Shad: you’d have it easy! As long as you went to school, you wouldn’ be expected to work in the woods. You’d be hangin’ around with young girls everyday and everyone would look up to you. You’d have ’er made!”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Nutbeam. I thought you and me was friends!”

“We are friends, Shad. You and Dryfly are the only friends I got.”

“So, leave me alone!”

“Well, you think about what I’ve said,” said Nutbeam. Nutbeam saw he had talked enough. Shadrack had a contrary nature; to push him would only make matters worse.

“You think about it, Shad. I’m goin’ for a walk.” Nutbeam stepped into the autumn day feeling more confident than he’d ever felt before in his life; his talk to Shad had been good therapy. With the letter addressed to Johannah Banks in his hip pocket, he headed for the post office. He walked to the edge of the forest and, for the first time in
nearly nine years, stepped out without concern for who might see him.

On the footbridge, Nutbeam came face to face with Lindon Tucker.

“Hello, Lindon,” he said.

“G’day, g’day, g’day, g’day,” said Lindon.

Lindon was in a good mood. He was home again. Any other time, he might have been nervous in the presence of Nutbeam, but today, Nutbeam could have been an old friend.

Lindon’s pleasantness, his I’m-happy-just-to-see-you attitude, encouraged Nutbeam. “This is going to be a good day,” he thought.

The Cabbage Island Salmon Club Camps were vacant and closed for the winter. They would re-open on April fifteenth, when the club members and guests returned to fish the black salmon.

Shadrack sat on the same veranda where he’d sat with Lillian Wallace. The river was quiet and uneventful – no swimming or canoeing, no fishermen laughing, talking and wading about. The river, too, was closed for the winter.

Shadrack had the worst case of depression he’d ever had. “Dad and Mom don’t love me, Dryfly stole the only woman I’ve ever loved, and now Nutbeam’s turned again me! The homely bastard! They all want me to do what they want,” he thought.

Shad knew that Nutbeam’s suggestion to go back to school was practical enough and would probably solve most of his problems, but Shadrack Nash did not like being manipulated and told what to do. If he went back to school, the decision to do so would have to be his own. “If I go back to school, I’ll have to go suckin’ up to Mom and Dad,” he thought. “What I really should do is leave. Run away and never come back.”

“No sense runnin’ away,” thought Shad. “I got no money and I got no schoolin’! I might as well be dead! I’ll jump in the river and drown. I’ll drown and wash up on the shore for someone to find all bird-picked and wormy like Bonzie Ramsey was when they found him. They’ll be sorry then, I bet ya!”

Shadrack Nash was very depressed, but he was not suicidal. He was too curious about the future, the cars, the money, the women to seriously consider death.

“Maybe I could get into one of these camps and stay for a while,” he thought. “If I stay here and sneak around like
Nutbeam, they might all think I’m dead, anyway. They could look for me all they wanted, but they’d never find me. They’ll drag the river and everything. Dad and Mom will cry their hearts out thinkin’ they beat me the last time they saw me.”

Shadrack rose and started checking the windows. He checked all the windows on three cabins before he found one that was slightly ajar. He opened it and climbed over the sill. He was in! He looked about at the paintings of wildlife, the mounted deerheads and salmon; at the sofas and chairs, at the carpets and fireplace.

“Hello! No house, I suppose! I suppose I ain’t got no place to hide out!”

Shadrack inspected the cabin. In the living room, he found dozens of books, a rack completely stacked with rifles and shotguns. A drawer underneath the rifle rack was filled with boxes of ammunition. He found fishing rods and boxes of fly-hooks and a full case of various kinds of liquor. In a bedroom drawer, he found three dollars and change that someone had obviously forgotten about.

Shad cracked the seal on a bottle of Glen Livet and took a drink. He sat on the sofa, put his feet on the coffee table and sized up the situation.

“No food,” he thought. “I’ll have to figure out a way of gettin’ food. There’s everything else here, though.”

Shadrack guzzled another drink. The depression drifted off into oblivion.

“I got ’er made,” he thought.

*

Nutbeam walked to Shirley Ramsey’s with powerful, deliberate strides. He did not once stop. He did not dare to stop. To stop, even for an instant, might give the old inferiority complex a chance to slip into his plans, to undermine his determination. Nutbeam knew himself very well. He knew the limitations of his confidence. He was following providence. He had no specific course of action. His confidence was holding up quite well as of yet – he hadn’t shied away from Lindon Tucker – but
Lindon Tucker was not his concern. Shirley Ramsey would be the ultimate test.

And then there was the house. And then there was the door. His heart was pounding from a combination of walking fast and the excitement of seeing Shirley Ramsey. He knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was muffled from the depths of the house, but Nutbeam could hear it loud and clear. He heard its softness, its femininity – the Goddess had spoken.

“Come in,” came the gentle feminine voice once again. Yes, the voice was gentle and feminine, but to Nutbeam it could have been the thunderous bellow of a goddess who could tear him apart.

Nutbeam turned the knob, then let it go quickly, as though it was red hot and had burned him. He heard Shirley’s footsteps approaching from inside. She was only a few steps from the door. He eyed the corner of the house and contemplated hiding.

The door opened and there before him stood the Goddess in her hand-me-down dress. The Goddess was as afraid of Nutbeam as he was of her.

When Shirley opened the door to see Nutbeam standing on her step, she didn’t know what to do. Her ability to speak leaped from her mouth and into thin air.

“The mysterious man from the woods! He’s come to kill me, sure as hell!” she thought.

Nutbeam couldn’t find words either, but he was together enough to know that something had to be done. He handed her the letter.

“I . . . I . . . I . . .” tried Nutbeam.

Shirley looked down at the envelope.

“Five cents,” she said.

“Fi . . . five cents?”

“The stamp.”

Nutbeam started frantically searching his pockets for a coin. There wasn’t any. He came up with a five dollar bill, handed it to her.