The Americans Are Coming (29 page)

“Well, all right,” said Dryfly. “I’ll go, if we can catch a ride.” Dryfly had conceded for adventure’s sake, but he was hoping there’d be no Blackville-bound traffic on the Gordon road.

They had waited on the road in front of Bernie Hanley’s store for an hour when Ally Dunphy showed up. Ally Dunphy had hunted the deep forests of Dungarvon until it was too dark to see. On his way home to Blackville, in his 1958 Ford, Ally stopped at Bernie Hanley’s store for a snack. When he was getting back into his car, a red-haired lad approached him.

“You goin’ to Blackville?” asked the lad.

“Sure am.”

“Kin me and Dryfly get a ride with you?”

“Sure can.”

In thirty minutes, Shadrack and Dryfly found themselves standing in front of LeBlanc’s Canteen in Blackville.

*

With the coming of the chainsaw, more money and cars, came the necessity to improve the byroads. Shirley Ramsey sold a hundred and sixty dollars worth of gravel during the summer of l962. Cars and gravelled roads made Blackville a center of commerce and entertainment for all the surrounding settlements. Blackville, being more accessible, became a meeting place. Every weekend, young people would crowd on the backs of pickup trucks, or in old cars and head for Blackville. Sometimes there’d be a movie to go to, sometimes a dance, but mostly the teenagers would just walk up and down the street from one take-out restaurant (canteen) to another. There were three canteens in Blackville. No more than five hundred yards separated one from the others.

“What do we do now?” asked Dryfly.

“Let’s walk down to the other canteen,” said Shad.

When they arrived at the second canteen, Shad suggested that they check out the third. From the third, they walked back to the second, stood around for a few minutes, then walked
back to LeBlanc’s. They had done everything there was to do in Blackville, except eat. Shadrack and Dryfly completed the social itinerary for Friday night in Blackville by ordering a paper dish full of french fries and three wieners each.

They were just finishing their snack when Peter Bower showed up with Jim MacNeil, Gary Perkins and David Carlyle.

“G’day, Shadrack. How’s she goin’?”

“The very best, Peter.”

“Who are you?” asked Peter.

“Dryfly Ramsey,” answered Dryfly.

“Dryfly Ramsey! Any relation to Shirley Ramsey?” asked Peter. One of the other boys chuckled.

“Me mother,” said Dryfly.

The boys all glanced at each other and grinned.

“What brings you guys out of the woods?” asked David Carlyle.

“Come to chase the chicks,” said Shadrack. “What happened to your hair, Dryfly?” asked Jim MacNeil. Dryfly scanned the four Blackville boys in their clean black pants, the expensive jackets with the collars turned up, the black jetboots, the trucker’s wallets chained to their belts, jutting from their hip pockets, the rings, wrist-watches and the well-groomed Elvis Presley haircuts.

Until now, Dryfly had forgotten that he wasn’t very well dressed and that his hair was parted in the middle.

Shadrack scanned Dryfly and saw, maybe for the first time, what the other boys were seeing – the straight brown hair parted in the middle, the ragged jeans that Shad himself had given to him, the mackinaw coat, the black rubber boots with the red soles, the long nose. Shadrack was even more conscious of Dryfly’s appearance than was Dryfly, and wished he hadn’t brought him along. He had wanted Dryfly for company, in case he had to walk the twelve miles home, alone. He hadn’t anticipated that Dryfly might jeopardize whatever chance he might have of being in with the in crowd.

“Where ya get the boots, Dryfly?” asked Gary Perkins, making no attempt whatsoever to hide the mockery in his voice.

Shadrack eyed the grinning Blackville boys and knew he
would have to make a decision – go with the in crowd, or be out with Dryfly Ramsey. He decided to try and play it down the middle. He grinned, but not for mockery’s sake. He grinned to try and keep it light.

Shy and very uncomfortable, Dryfly blushed and looked down at himself. The discomfort grew as he compared his own clothes to the others. He said nothing. He wanted to go home to Brennen Siding.

“How’s your mother?” asked Peter Bower, nudging David Carlyle and winking at Gary Perkins. Peter Bower, for the moment, was the leader of the pack.

Dryfly wondered how the Blackville boys knew his mother. He didn’t know that the byword “Shirley Ramsey” had leaked into Blackville.

People in Blackville took their children on Sunday drives past Shirley’s, pointed and said, “Look, kids! There’s Shirley Ramsey’s house.” The kids would all look at the epitome of local poverty: the sagging, paintless house, the dirt lawn, the car tires on each side of the driveway culvert. Ogling arrows of curiosity, they might think, “Shirley Ramsey . . . the woman who invented the culvert ends.”

“Shirley Ramsey’s boy, boys!” laughed Jim MacNeil. “Great boots, Dryfly!”

Shad made a stab at changing the subject. “What’s goin’ on, boys?” he asked.

“There’s a dance at the public hall,” said Peter Bower. “Goin’?”

“I don’t know, might.”

“Ya might as well. That’s where the chicks are.”

“I dunno,” said Shad, shrugging, eyeing Dryfly.

“C’mon, Shad! Get with it!” said David Carlyle.

“Polly was askin’ about ya, Shad.”

“Was she?”

“She’ll be at the dance, Shad.”

“S’pose?”

“Saw her down the road.”

“C’mon, Shad.”

Shad continued to eye Dryfly. “Dryfly is gonna have to learn to handle it,” he thought.

“Great! Let’s go,” said Shad.

Dryfly wasn’t invited, but he had nothing else to do, so he followed the others. He walked behind, ashamed of his clothing and his hair, still wishing he was home. Dryfly did not like Blackville and he did not like the boys in the in crowd. “At least by walking behind, they don’t make fun of me,” he thought.

When they got to the public hall, they lined up at the ticket booth and, one by one, paid to enter. From the stage within came the harmony of Lyman MacFee and the Cornpoppers, singing, “Wake Up Little Susie.” When it was Shad’s turn to pay, he turned to Dryfly, said, “I ain’t got enough money for both of us, Dryfly. Why don’t you try to sneak in?”

“I’ll get caught,” said Dryfly.

“No you won’t. Just wait till nobody’s watchin’. You can do it!”

A lump had suddenly developed in the back of Dryfly’s throat. He was being abandoned. He swallowed the lump.

“I’ll wait out here,” he said.

Shad shrugged and followed the Blackville boys into the hall, leaving Dryfly alone on the steps.

Dryfly waited on the steps of the public hall for what seemed like a very long time. Men and women came and went, but few paid much notice to Dryfly, and Dryfly hoped it would remain that way. As a matter of fact, Dryfly wanted to hide. “How could Shad do this to me! Some friend!”

By the time an hour had passed, Dryfly was feeling very cold in the damp night air. He was also bored and a little bit afraid. Some men had gathered around on the steps to drink some wine and Dryfly sensed that trouble was brewing.

Some fellow by the name of Kelly was displeased for some reason or other with a fellow named Benny Crawford.

“You’re nothin’ but a rotten bastard!” said Kelly.

“I ain’t scared o’ no Kelly that ever walked!” said Benny.

“By Jesus, I came here to dance, not fight, but I’ll beat the shit outta the likes o’ you!” said Kelly.

“C’mon and fight then! I’d just love wipin’ the street up with you! C’mon! C’MON AND FIGHT!”

Kelly and Benny threw off their coats and squared off in the street in front of the hall. Someone ran into the hall and yelled, “Fight!” The hall emptied – the fight needed an audience.

Until the crowd gathered, Kelly and Benny were having a verbal fight with the intention that whoever had the biggest vocabulary of swear words would win. Sticks and stones were discussed, but as long as they were only being discussed, nobody would get hurt. But now, they had an audience and the pressure was on.

“Hit him, Kelly! Hit the bastard!” somebody yelled.

“Don’t take that off ’im, Benny! Plant the rotten jeezer!”

Kelly made a swing for Benny and missed. Benny made a kick for Kelly and also missed. They stood then, eyeing each other, breathing heavily, obviously very nervous about the showdown, wishing it was over.

Kelly thought that a bluff might discourage his foe, and flew into a spiel of swear words and threats that would make a dead priest turn over in his grave. He touched on the apes and how they were related to the whole of the Crawford family; he spoke of the peculiar smell the Crawfords had picked up doing the only thing that Crawfords were good for – shovelling shit; he recalled that there was never an exceptional mind in the entire history of the Crawford family; he left nothing out that he considered worth a swear word or ten or twelve. At a climactic point of his spiel, for effect, he hit Benny on the shoulder and whooped, saying, “Take that, ya sonuvawhore! Ya think I’m scared o’ you?”

Benny Crawford hit back, catching Kelly on the arm.

The two backed off again and yelled a few more obscenities. Kelly made a kick at Benny. Benny took a swing at Kelly. They still remained unscarred.

The crowd were choosing sides a bit, and Dryfly sensed a potential brawl. He didn’t like what he was seeing and hearing, and he didn’t want to get involved. He looked around for Shad. The crowd was completely encircling the reluctant fighters and
Dry saw that Shad was on the other side of the circle, standing, acting cool, with his friends and some fat girl.

“There never was a Kelly any good!” yelled Benny Crawford.

“Look who’s talkin’, ya yellow bastard!” yelled Kelly.

“Hit ’im Kelly!” yelled somebody from the crowd.

“You stay out of this!” yelled someone else.

The audience was growing. People were coming from their houses to watch the fun, and the canteens emptied. The circle in front of the hall expanded and the whole street was blocked off to traffic. There was a lineup of thirty cars waiting to get through.

Benny Crawford’s two sisters showed up and were crying loudly and calling, “Benny, don’t fight! C’mon home, Benny!”

“Here,” said a man who was standing beside Dryfly, “Hold this! Look after this for me.”

The man passed Dryfly a bottle of sherry and stepped into the circle. “You lads want to fight?” he asked. “You lads wanna take on a good man?”

Everyone in the crowd hushed. The fighters shifted their eyes nervously, unable to hold the steady gaze of this new man on the scene.

“We don’t want no trouble with you,” said Kelly.

“Well, if you’re gonna ruin this dance fightin’, you’re gonna have to do it over me!”

“We got nothin’ against you,” said Benny Crawford.

“I don’t wanna fight with you,” said Kelly. “Me and you was always good friends.”

“We don’t want no trouble with you, Herman,” said Benny. Herman Burns had now taken over the show. Herman Burns was six-foot-four and muscular. He weighed nearly twice as much as either Kelly or Benny Crawford. He towered over them and everyone else. He was like a snake eyeing two unfortunate mice while a horde of other mice watched on. Everyone knew that Herman Burns was a dangerous man.

“We don’t want to fight no more,” said Kelly.

“But I thought you wanted to fight,” urged Herman. “Looked to me that you fellers were lookin’ for a fight! Well, if ya want to fight, C’MON!”

Herman Burns kicked Benny Crawford as hard as he could, breaking a rib and leaving him bent and moaning on the ground.

Kelly started crying and begging Herman not to do likewise to him. Herman hit Kelly on the brow, knocking him out cold. The fight was over. Everyone was admiring Herman for his great victory. Herman walked around like a rooster sucking up the sweetness of popularity.

“No, s’pose he can’t fight none!” someone behind Dryfly said.

“He beat the both of them, just like that!” said someone else.

With arms and shoulders back and chest thrust out, Herman Burns walked up to Dryfly. Dryfly handed Herman his wine.

“Thanks, lad,” said Herman.

Herman unscrewed the cap and took a drink. He then handed the bottle to Dryfly. “Have a drink,” he said.

Dry drank from the bottle of sweet sherry.

“What’s your name?” asked Herman.

“Dryfly Ramsey.”

Other boys were gathering around Herman and Dryfly. Herman looked Dryfly up and down, saw the poverty and the fear.

“You’re a friend,” said Herman, and offering his hand for Dryfly to shake, said, “Put ’er there.”

Dryfly shook the huge calloused hand. It looked to the other boys that Dryfly and Herman were the best of friends.

“Better not tangle with Dryfly Ramsey,” thought Peter Bower.

“Goin’ inside?” asked Herman.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“C’mon, Dryfly. There’s a bunch o’ young women in there, and they’re lookin’ for you.”

When Dryfly walked past the ticket booth with Herman Burns, no one asked him for a ticket. When he stepped into the
hall with Herman’s arm resting on his shoulder, the in crowd did not laugh at him.

*

Shirley Ramsey made a fire and put the kettle on. An inch of snow had fallen in the night and half-melted in the morning sun; it dappled the drab November landscape. Dryfly had walked all the way from Blackville during the night and was still sleeping.

Shirley made a pot of tea, poured some into a mug and a little onto a plate. Into the tea on her plate, she sprinkled some brown sugar, dipped her bread into it and ate. Shirley Ramsey either had bread dipped into pork fat and molasses, or bread dipped into tea and brown sugar, every morning for breakfast. While she ate, she listened to Jack Fenety on the radio. “CFNB – where New Brunswick hears the news,” said Jack, then went on to talk about the political dreams and schemes of Hugh John Flemming and John Diefenbaker. After the news, Jack played “Up on the Housetop,” a Christmas song by Gene Autry.

“Christmas,” thought Shirley. “’Twould be nice to have some money for Christmas. I wonder if Palidin will come home. I hope the poor little lad is doing well.”