“Okay by me. Does it have a name?”
“Of course not. No one knows about it but us.”
“Can we call it Gwendolyn?” I asked.
Tennessee Ernie’s face lit up. “You betcha. Comet Gwendolyn it is.”
I looked around at all the weird gear — the TV monitors, the electronic equipment, the row of car batteries along the wall. Tennessee switched off the TV and looked at the can I was holding. “What’s the paint for?” he asked.
After sharing the discovery of a previously unknown comet with this man, I felt a little foolish in telling him what the paint was for. “I want to let the uranium creeps know how I feel about them,” I said.
Ernie scratched his jaw. “Communication is an excellent idea, Ian. I agree. Just how strong a message did you have in mind?”
“I thought I might say that they weren’t wanted on the island,” I said, still not sure how he would react to the rest. “And then I was going to punctuate the message by pouring sand into the gas tank of the drill truck.”
Tennessee raised his eyebrows, shook his head up and down like he understood, then looked around the room. “I’m not quite clear on exactly why you came over here to tell me this.”
“I guess I was looking for some company. I wanted to see if you wanted to come along.”
He looked a little confused. “Son, that is a very interesting proposition for a man like me. A man who has a few gripes, yes, against the nuclear industry but who has declared to his daughter and before her friend that, well, I approve of pacifism. But this, I must say, sounds like an act of vandalism — a destructive act, a hostile one even.”
“Yes sir,” I said. Maybe I had made a mistake by coming over. “But remember, you just said you approved of pacifism, yet you weren’t a pacifist yourself.”
He turned to me now, a finger shaking at me. “That’s right. You have captured the logic of the moment. And, like your father, I can see that you are, in essence, a politician, for this is indeed a political act. And while I cannot fully approve of your act of destruction, perhaps I can do what men of science have always done for politicians down through the ages.”
“What’s that?”
Tennessee Ernie lit up into a smile. “Improve the weapons of destruction without feeling any sense of moral responsibility whatsoever.”
I didn’t understand what he was getting at.
“Sand is not a totally effective revolutionary weapon against diesel equipment. There are gas line and carburettor filters which would catch much of it. I have a better solution.” He pointed to the string of car batteries on the floor.
As we walked through the marsh to the drill truck, I held the plastic quart bottle of acid away from my chest, anxious that it would not eat through and burn my hands to bloody stumps.
“You see, Ian, it’s very interesting what will happen once the acid is inside the piston chamber and that’s why I think this is an excellent revolutionary tool.”
“I guess it’ll really muck it up pretty bad, huh?”
“I’d say the operative terms are corrosion and seizure. Those are two very powerful words.”
I agreed that they were two powerful words and as we arrived at the truck, each of us carrying one quart of the revolutionary liquid, Tennessee jimmied opened the truck door, popped the latch on the engine bonnet and held a flashlight towards the engine block. “Take off the air cleaner and carefully pour each bottle down the carburettor. Keep your face well away; you’ll not like the stench.” I emptied both bottles in, replaced the air cleaner beneath the beam of Ernie’s flashlight and obvious approval. Then we lowered the hood.
“There’s the punctuation,” Tennessee said, collecting the two plastic bottles to take home, “Now what’s the message?”
I picked up the paint can, pried off the lid and stirred it with the brush. I had thought it over long and hard but wasn’t quite sure of how to word it.
“Be direct and to the point,” Tennessee suggested.
I dipped the brush into the paint and began to paint the message: “Go Home!” I wrote. “Long Live The Republic of Nothing.”
Tennessee shone his bright flashlight on my awkward scrawl. “I think they’ll get the picture. Science and politics sometimes work well together hand-in-hand, don’t they?”
Late the next morning, I watched from my vantage point up on the hill as the Mannheim/Atlanta men shouted at the drill operators who screamed back at them. When the shouting subsided, Bud Tillish could be seen walking out through the marsh in his city-slicker clothes and, when he’d had a chance to read my message, he started waving his fists up at the sky and using very foul language. I guess I was fool enough to think right then that it was almost over, that Mannheim/Atlanta would go away and that everyone would leave us alone. I was a fairly inexperienced terrorist and had high hopes for the politics of anarchy.
Instead, two hours later an RCMP car passed over the bridge and began making the rounds, asking everyone if they knew who might have wrecked the diesel engine in the drill rig. The Mountie, a square-headed man who introduced himself as Corporal Bellefontaine, caught up with me as I was walking home from a visit with Hants Buckler. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Ian McQuade, sir,” I said. I was feeling cocky in the great success of my first truly important act of vandalism. I had already decided I wanted to be an anarchist for life and that my first step beyond mere diesel destruction was to turn myself in and become a full-fledged martyr so as to drum up a ground-swell of support for the cause of preserving this beautiful island and liberating the Republic of Nothing from the Mannheim/Atlanta mining people.
“Jesus, are you the premier’s son?”
“Yes sir,” I said. “Everett McQuade is my old man.” This was almost too perfect. I was ready to throw a wrench into the works of my father’s political career and get myself busted for a good cause all in the same breath. If only Gwen could be here to see this.
But the cop had lost his cold, businesslike style. “I always kind of appreciated McQuade. He’s okay. That free fish thing and then just sweeping into Halifax and showing up those other dickheads. I kinda like the idea of a premier coming from right here on the Shore. I hope he makes prime minister some day. Listen, you don’t know anything about somebody vandalizing that drilling truck, do you?”
I swear to God, I was about to tell him the truth. The words were just getting all nervous and jumpy in the back of my throat like a pack of birds ready to get released from a cage. But then I saw something that made me stop. A pink and blue Volkswagen van was just driving over the bridge. As soon as it passed over onto the island, it stopped. Someone looked out the window, someone who clearly didn’t like the look of the RCMP car. It was somebody with long hair, but I couldn’t make out the face. It could have been a girl or a guy with really long locks. Whoever it was quickly veered left, down the old rutted lane towards Mr. Kirk’s old place. The cop had noticed nothing in his rear view mirror. His radio was crackling and he hadn’t heard the van as it pulled away.
“Never heard of any vandalism on the island the whole time I lived here and I’ve lived here my whole life,” I heard myself say.
“I must admit that, up until now, you’re right. Shit, we never get a call to come out here. Wait till you get a bunch of them miners out here digging that ore they been talking about. Then you’ll have a mess of fights and piles of trouble. Wait and see.”
“Sorry I can’t be of more help,” I said.
“Let me know if you see anything odd, okay? And say hi to your dad for me. Tell him he’s done real good work.”
“Sure thing,” I said as the Mountie turned his car around and drove back to the mainland. I couldn’t get the image of the VW van out of my head. Whoever was driving seemed to know where to go, and I had the clear impression that the driver didn’t want to get seen by the cops.
41
I had never seen a Volkswagen bus come across the bridge onto our island before. It rep
resented an exotic other culture — the world of American hippies, protesters, a beautiful bag of mixed craziness and spiritual purpose. But today, to me, it meant only one thing. Gwen was back on the island. I had seen the license plate and had made sure that the Mountie was looking at me so he wouldn’t see it head down the lane to the old Kirk house. As soon as the cop was across the bridge and out of view, I ran. I forgot about uranium and remembered my heart, the poor, busted up thing inside me that ached for this girl. I was tired of being half alive; she had come back to me.
Or had she? As I got closer I realized that she was not alone. There was at least one other person in the van. I stopped in my tracks and ran through the scenario — the awful, ugly possibility. Gwen was back with another guy. She had found herself a new boyfriend, a lover. I wasn’t sure I could confront that. Not here, not now. Not ever. But what could I do? Disappear from the island? Go hide somewhere? I felt completely screwed. Yet I couldn’t just stand there forever in the muddy rut and not know. So I walked to my execution.
As I approached the Kirk property, I saw Ben first. He was up on the boards of his roof, talking to someone on the ground. A girl in a long paisley dress. Her long light brown hair spilled out from under a leather hat down to the middle of her back. It was Gwen and, already, I could see that she was different. And yes, there was someone else sitting in the van. Definitely male. Something about him seemed dark and sinister. I expected that Gwen had taken up with the devil himself. It could only be appropriate.
Ben saw me and waved, nearly losing his footing. “Look who’s back!” he yelled.
Gwen turned around and I could see how different she really was. The hat. A pair of round, rose-tinted glasses, her long hair dangling down either side of her head. I forgot how to walk. Then I forgot how to breathe. I looked up at Ben who had a shit-eating grin on his face. He didn’t understand. I looked at the sinister figure still huddled in the van. He was smoking something. A thin vapour trail rose up out from the window. The devil smokes, I thought.
Gwen hoisted her skirt, kicked off her sandals and began to run towards me. “Ian!” she screamed. I could see her teeth sparkling in the sun. I watched her lovely legs bounce from rock to rock along the path — that incredible skill we had learned as children running on the island. But she was not a child; there was no doubt of that. She flowed like a woman as she ran towards me; she floated as if in a dream. Good news/bad news/good news/bad news? Breathe, I instructed myself. Damn it. You remember how to do it. I let go a lungful of stale air and my throat automatically pulled in one good gulp of oxygen before she pounced on me.
My back, my legs had never been tested by this manoeuvre. Gwen took flight from one final stone and leapt upon me, wrapping her legs around my back and grabbing me with two long beautiful arms. I staggered backwards but did not topple. Her mouth was on mine and her tongue shot like a javelin down into my throat. “lanlanlanlanlanlan,” she said over and over when she withdrew her tongue. Could I have bargained with the devil in the van or with any god-wielding power, I would have paid handsomely to have us left in that wild, abandoned interlock for then and for forever. Pillar of salt, structure of granite, whatever it would take. This was the moment of my life I had waited for, the reason I had been put on earth, the reason I was alive. Don’t touch anything, please God. Don’t even think. Just let me have this forever.
“I love you,” I said to the female creature who had usurped my soul. “I missed you and need you. I can’t live without you,” I said. These were the words. Others have spoken such syllables, I’m sure, but the text can never do justice to the heart. These were potent messengers, these uttered phrases, and they demanded their audience.
Gwen hopped off me, straightened her dress. “God, it’s good to be back. It seems like it’s been a long time.”
“It has been a very long time,” I assured her. Time had ceased to be measured by clocks as far as I was concerned. It had gone into exponential overdrive.
“Burnet is in the van,” she said.
I looked away from her, saw an arm holding a cigarette and the trail of smoke ascending into the blue sky. “He’s here?” An avalanche of confusion swept over me. How could he be here? He was in the military. He had gone to Vietnam. Missing, then dead. Presumed dead, anyway. And now he was back. Gwendolyn had brought him. I was awash in guilt for once wishing him dead, relief in knowing that an old friend had survived the war and then, ultimately, terror at the thought that he and Gwen had come back together, that the bastard had taken her from me once again. I wanted to hug him and kill him in one swift motion.
“Come on,” Gwen said, pulling me by the hand. “I think you two need to talk.”
Oh shit, I figured. Here it comes.
“Be careful what you say,” Gwen advised me. “Go easy. He’s been through a lot.”
The door opened as we approached. He stepped out and stubbed his cigarette out on the ground. “Burnet?” Gwen hung back as I walked up to him. He was almost unrecognizable, thin to the point of emaciation, unshaven with a dark coarse beard and long greasy hair. He was wearing a heavy black leather jacket even though it was a warm summer day. And the face — drawn and pale, eyes full of uncertainty.
I guess I suddenly didn’t care quite so much what the news was, good or bad. I could tell by the look in his eyes that this was not the devil unless the devil was a beaten, humiliated creature. I went to give him a hug, but he pulled back. “It’s good to see you again, buddy,” I said. “I’m glad you’re back.” And then what was left of the old bully that was once Burnet collapsed on me and began to sob. He let out a low moan and I knew then that the earth was a place parcelled up between joy and pain and it was very necessary to hang onto the good things because out there was a world ready to shred you apart.
All four of us walked into Kirk’s old house, into the kitchen where Ben boiled a kettle of water and poured tea. There was so much I wanted to hear from Gwen, but I knew that there was a story waiting inside Burnet, a story ready to burst out like a missile from between his ribs, and that story must come first. Here was a soul in desperate need of repair. He had returned to the safe haven of the republic for mending. Ben gave me a look that said, “another refugee,” and I understood. Burnet had been a refugee from the moment he was born. He had weathered his old man’s bungled fatherhood and gone off to seek success as a hired killer and now he had found his way back to Whalebone Island. It was ironic that he had begun so close, moved away so far, only to find himself back in Kirk’s kitchen.
He lit another cigarette and studied the smoke.
“You can trust us,” Gwen said taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You can trust all of us. The hard part’s over now.”
“It’s not over until I talk to my old man.”
“That’s not necessary,” Gwen said.
It sounded absurd but I knew it was true. Few people ever even saw his father. Burnet Jr. didn’t even look like a shadow of his old self. If I hadn’t been told, I would never have recognized him. But what had damaged him so? And why had he arrived like this? “What did they do to you?” I asked. I didn’t know exactly who they were, but somebody or something more malevolent than his old man had beaten him down.
Burnet took another long drag, looked around him like he was afraid someone was trying to look through the windows or listen from the next room. “They put me in a uniform. They gave me a gun. They pointed me at the Jesus enemy and they told me to kill anybody who got in my way.” He shook his head like it was all a bad dream. “I enjoyed the first three. No shit. I enjoyed it. It felt so goddamn right. Like it was the thing I had wanted to do all my life. I loved pulling that trigger and seeing those little creeps fall down. Once I got started I wanted to keep going. I jumped into a nest of VC and just fired away until I had ‘em all hammered good. But then I looked up and there was one more. Up above me. So I let him have it and the sucker didn’t have a chance. He just took the lead in his chest and fell down over top of me. I
t knocked me over and I could taste the man’s blood dripping right into my goddamn mouth. And I was laughing. I was really enjoying it until I pushed him off and I saw that it was the captain of my own goddamn platoon. He was dead and up above me now were three of my buddies who had just seen what I did.”
The kettle began to whistle and Burnet jerked around until Gwen calmed him with a touch on the shoulder. Ben took the pot off the stove.
“So I just friggin’ ran. I got the hell out of there and I’ve been running and running and running.”
“He came into the Quaker counselling centre where I was working in Boston just three days ago,” Gwen said, her hand on his shoulder. “He told me who he was. I didn’t believe it.”
“You change after a couple of weeks in the jungle. I got sick a lot. Puked my guts out. Got captured by some locals who were with the VC. They tied me up in a pig shed and stuck sticks under my toe nails. I got loose and headed south. I slept in a sewer in Saigon for ten days. I’m not even gonna tell you what I had to do to get on a plane and get back to the States. But even then, there was no place for me. I’m a deserter, Ian, can you figure that? I don’t think it matters that I was a Canadian who didn’t have to go.” His face contorted in unimaginable pain. “I didn’t have to go over there. Once I realized what I’d done, what I’d become, what I’d been turning myself into all my life, all I wanted was to come back home and make it all different.”
“You are back home,” I told him.
The Republic of Nothing Page 29
