The Americans Are Coming (30 page)

After smoking a couple of cigarettes, Shirley put on her coat and boots, tied a red scarf over her hair and went for a walk around the gravel pit.

The gravel pit was getting a little bigger each year. Shirley’s land was nearly all dug up. What land was left around the pit’s periphery was covered with hawthorn and blueberry bushes, and the occasional fir tree. The Ramsey boys had harvested the land completely and the fir trees had sprouted and grown within the last ten years.

“They’re jist right fer Christmas trees,” thought Shirley. “Dry could cut them and sell them to Rudy Baxter.”

Rudy Baxter, from Blackville, owned a truck. Every November, Rudy Baxter bought a thousand Christmas trees from the locals and trucked them to Boston.

“We’d have a little money for Christmas,” thought Shirley.

“Not much, but a little. Dry could snare a few rabbits, too, and sell them to the Frenchmen downriver.”

With the post office closing at the end of December, and with the selling of Christmas trees and rabbits, Shirley saw the ends meeting until the end of January, no further. After that, times would be tough.

Shirley thought of the tough times in the past. She was thinking of the past a lot lately. She recalled that her father, Bub, had raised his family almost entirely on moose, salmon and potatoes. With no wife and nine children ranging from ages one to twelve, Bub had no time for a regular job, so there was no money for clothes. The children were brought up on hand-me-downs. Shirley had never worn a new dress in her life.

Shirley remembered how Bub would play both mother and father, cook and work the potato field by day, and poach salmon, moose and deer at night.

“There was always something to eat,” she thought. “We weren’t poor then like I am now, or at least, not as poor as I will be by the time February rolls around.”

The bleak gravel pit sprawled before her, a cavity forever threatening her land.

“Another year and that’ll be gone, too,” she thought. “Never thought ya could run out of gravel.”

Shirley heard the distant whistle of the mail train and went to the house for the mailbag. Then, she walked to the siding house for the exchange. When she returned home, Dryfly was awake and sitting at the kitchen table.

“I walked all the way home from Blackville last night,” announced Dryfly. “I’m pretty near dead!”

“What took ya to Blackville?”

“Ended up at the dance. Saw a fight, too!”

“Who?”

“Some Kelly fella and another lad. Herman Burns broke it up.”

“Herman Burns? He’s related to Lester Burns. Use to hang around Brennen Siding a lot when he was a young lad. Nice boy, too. Him and Junior was good friends. Herman could’ve been a boxer, if he had’ve got the right trainin’.”

“He’s some kinda big and rugged.”

“He got that from the Pringles. His mother was a Pringle. All the Pringles were big.”

“I wouldn’ want to cross ’im!”

“There’s some Christmas trees around the pit, Dry.”

“Yeah?”

“Big enough to cut. You could earn us some money for Christmas.”

“Is there lotsa them?”

“Couple o’ hundred, maybe.”

“That’s a good idea, I’ll go at it first thing Monday.”

“I’ll get ya some rabbit wire, too. Soon’s the snow gets on to stay, you could snare some rabbits.”

“Sure. I might even do some trappin’ this year.”

“No luck in trappin’.”

“What’s the difference between snarin’ and trappin’?”

“I don’t know, but everyone always said that trappers never had any luck. I guess God don’t mind if ya snare rabbits, there’s so many of them.”

“Know what ya kin git me fer Christmas, Mom?”

“What?”

“A new set o’ guiddar strings. Them ones on the guiddar are hardly fit to play on. They’re startin’ to unravel.”

“Maybe. The fire’s gettin’ low, Dry. Would you get me some wood?”

Dryfly groaned as he stood. Both his feet and legs were sore from the long walk from Blackville the previous night. It had snowed a little bit while they walked, which did nothing to make the trek any easier. Dryfly recalled thinking that he wasn’t going to make it; that he would never do it again, supposing he did hear the best music he had ever heard. At the dance, Dryfly had enjoyed Lyman MacFee and the Cornpoppers very much. Dryfly put on his coat and limped his way to the woodshed.

“MOM!” he yelled from the shed. “MOM! COME ’ERE QUICK!”

Shirley heard the excitment in Dry’s voice and ran to see what was the matter.

When she got to the shed, she found Dryfly standing
looking up at the hanging carcass of a deer – gutted, skinned and cleaned.

“Where’d ya git the deer, Dry?” she asked, eyeing the most meat she’d seen in years.

“I didn’ get it! It was just here! Don’t know where it came from!”

“He was poachin’ last night,” thought Shirley.

“Nutbeam did it,” thought Dryfly.

Shadrack and Dryfly were making frequent visits to one of the cabins owned by the members of the Cabbage Island Salmon Club. A dozen forty-ounce bottles of liquor had been left in the cabin in September, and by Christmas, due to Shadrack and Dryfly’s little parties, only three were left. The hearth of the stone fireplace was piled up with Parody and cigarette butts and ashes; the sofa cushions were strewn about; the hardwood floors were tracked up with sand and leaves and pine-tree needles, courtesy of rubber boots and gumshoes.

“They got lotsa money,” said Shadrack, “they’ll never miss the stuff.”

“Maybe we should move to the other camp,” said Dryfly. “God knows what’s in the other ones!”

“I checked them all out,” said Shad. “All locked.”

“Shit’s gonna hit the fan when them lads come back and find all their liquor and cigars gone.”

“They won’t even remember how much they left.”

“I hope you’re right.”

It was the twenty-fourth of December, and Shad and Dry were having a few drinks to help them get into the spirit of Christmas. Outside the frosty windows that looked down over the frozen Dungarvon River, the temperature was about five below zero; inside, it could have been colder, they weren’t sure. They didn’t plan to stay long, anyway. “Jist enough to get feelin’ good,” was their plan.

“I hope I get them jetboots for Christmas,” said Shadrack. “I’d like to have a trucker’s wallet, too.”

“Did you pass in school?”

“Jist failed French and not by much.”

“You’ll get the boots.”

“Maybe.”

“Ya like goin’ to school, Shad?”

“Not too bad, once ya get used to it. Lotsa girls.”

“Yeah. No good for me though. I don’t feel like running ’round on Lillian.”

“You’re crazy, Dry. I bet she hardly remembers who you are. You’ll be lucky to ever see her agin.”

Dryfly shrugged at the possibility. “Those Blackville women wouldn’ go out with me anyway,” he thought. He didn’t realize it, but he was beginning to sound like Nutbeam.

“You ever think about going back to school, Dry?”

“I’m gettin’ too old. I’m pretty near sixteen.”

“So?”

“So, I’d be in the same grade with all them little kids. I wouldn’ look none too stupid, would I! Me, a big lad o’ sixteen, settin’ in school with a bunch o’ little kids!”

“Maybe you could learn at home and ketch up.”

“How would I do that?”

“I don’t know. Find out.”

“Ya think Nutbeam’s home yet?”

“He might be. The train should’ve come by now.”

“Let’s go back and check him out.”

*

Nutbeam sold six hundred dollars worth of fox, bobcat, mink, weasel and beaver pelts to his Jewish buyer in Newcastle and went shopping. He bought himself a complete set of clothing which included Stanfield’s underwear, pants, shirt, woollen socks, another parka and two pairs of boots. He also bought a trucker’s wallet, a pipe and tobacco, a half gallon of Lamb’s rum, a turkey and six yards of linen, black with red roses on it. Needless to say, when he left the train to make his way to Todder Brook, he was more than just a little burdened. The foot of snow on the ground didn’t make the walking any easier, and although it was zero degrees out, Nutbeam was sweating and panting by the time he reached his camp.

He placed everything on the table and proceeded to build a
fire in the stove. He made a pot of tea, poured himself a mug full, spiked it with an ounce or so of rum, then sat to contemplate his situation.

“If the boys show up soon, the better the plan will work,” he thought. “If they don’t show up, I’ll have to play Santa Claus.”

From his pocket, Nutbeam removed the three hundred and fifty dollars left over from his shopping spree. He went to his cot, reached underneath and removed a shoe box. He removed the top and added the three hundred and fifty dollars, adding considerably to the bills already in the box.

“One day I’ll get Dryfly to count it for me,” he thought. “Another day, me and Dry will go to Fredericton and visit that Graig Allen fella; see how much he’s askin’ for the old farm. Old Doctor MacDowell only bought the shore. There must be a couple o’ hundred acres of woodland and pasture left, maybe more. I’ll build a house on the old foundation and live normal. No more hiding like a . . . a bear.”

He put the shoe box back in its hiding place, added a bit more courage – rum – to his tea and sat once again.

“Let me see,” he thought, “ . . . deer, a bunch of partridge, a can o’ tobacco, and this.” He slapped the turkey.

He rubbed his fingers across the linen with the roses on it. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, little lady!” he said. Then, he heard the crunching of approaching footsteps in the snow outside.

Knock-knock-knock.

Nutbeam went to the door, unlatched it and welcomed the boys.

“Come in! Come in!” he said.

“G’day, Nutbeam.”

“G’day, g’day.”

“How’s she goin’, boys?”

“We were here earlier,” said Shad. “You weren’t home.”

“Went to Newcastle. Sold me furs.”

“Get a good price?”

“Real good.”

“See ya got a turkey,” said Dry.

“You boys want a drink?” asked Nutbeam.

“Sure.”

“Might have a small one.”

Nutbeam poured each of the boys a drink and touched up his own. It was evident by the grin on his face that he was in a jolly mood.

“That turkey ain’t all I bought today,” said Nutbeam, raising his tin mug as if to toast the turkey.

The boys waited.

“Wanna know what else I bought, boys?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

“Well . . . I got meself two pairs o’ boots.”

“Yeah?”

“Two pair?”

“Two pairs o’ boots. Want to see ’em?”

“Sure.”

Nutbeam took the boxes from the table and opened one. “I bought meself these here jetboots.”

Nutbeam took a boot from the box and passed it to Shad. “Boys! Nice boot!” said Shad, admiring the soft, shiny black leather. “Try it on, Nutbeam.”

Nutbeam took the boot from Shad, removed his gumshoe and slid his foot into it. It slipped on easily, a good fit for his oversized foot.

“Nice!” said Dry. “You’ll get the women with them on!”

“Boys!” said Shad.

Nutbeam grinned.

“Let’s see the other pair,” said Dry.

Nutbeam removed the cover of the second box and exposed the second pair of shiny black jetboots.

“They’re just the same!” exclaimed Shadrack. “Why two pair the same?”

“Didn’ know which ones would fit,” said Nutbeam. “Let me try these ones on.”

Nutbeam kicked off the first boot and tried on one from the second pair. He barely got the end of his foot into the boot before it tightened. “This pair’s too small,” he said. “Here, you try it on, Shad.”

Shad removed his gumshoe, put his foot in the jet boot and flopped it around. “Way too big for me,” he said. “They must be a ten, I take a seven. You try it on, Dry.”

Dryfly slid off his red and black rubbers and tried on the expensive leather boot.

“Perfect,” he said. “Boys, they’re nice!”

“Sure are,” said Shad.

“Too bad I didn’ have the money to buy them from ya,” said Dry. “Too bad ya have to take them back.”

“I ain’t takin’ them back,” said Nutbeam. “I got them for you.”

Dryfly’s mouth fell open.

“They’re yours,” said Nutbeam. “Mine?”

“All yours.”

“You mean it?”

“They’re yours.”

Dryfly wanted to whoop a whoop that would echo across the Dungarvon woods. Dryfly wanted to dance and laugh and sing. Instead, a lump lodged in the back of his throat and for a moment it seemed he would cry.

“They’re the nicest boots I ever saw in my whole life,” said Dryfly. He threw his arms around Nutbeam and squeezed, hiding his tears the best he could behind Nutbeam’s big floppy ears. At that moment Dryfly loved the trumpet-playing, Dungarvon-whooping, mysterious hermit as much as he loved

. . . Lillian Wallace? . . . Shirley Ramsey?

“Thanks, Nutbeam,” he whispered.

“Sit down,” said Nutbeam, somewhat embarrassed by the unaccustomed affection. “They’re only an old pair o’ boots.”

Shad was smiling with envy. He tossed back his rum, said, “Merry Christmas, boys!”

“And for you,” said Nutbeam, “this here.”

Nutbeam handed Shad a small brown paper bag. Shad reached in the bag and pulled out the trucker’s wallet – the wallet with the golden chain and belt attachment – the wallet Shadrack wanted.

“Hello! No wallet!” said Shad. “S’pose I ain’t gonna look
none too cool or nothin’, am I? G’day! S’pose the women ain’t gonna like that none! No! No! No they ain’t! No!”

“You’re a saint, Nutbeam,” said Dryfly.

“A real saint! A cream o’ tartar!” agreed Shadrack. “I got a good price for me fur, “said Nutbeam. “Decided to share the wealth.”

“Thanks, Nutbeam.”

“Yeah, thanks a whole lot. You’re a saint and a half.”

“Now, for your mother, Dryfly, I got this can of tobacco, that turkey and this pretty cloth.”

“For Mom?”

“For Shirley?”

“Yes sir! She’s entitled to a good Christmas, too. Merry Christmas, boys! Have another drink!”

The boys and Nutbeam drank the rum straight from the bottle. They were all in very high spirits.

Two hours later, after much talking and laughing, Shad and Dry departed Nutbeam’s camp. They followed the moonlit path homeward through the forest and fields. High on rum, the winter wind did not nip at their heels as it would have otherwise.