Footprints

by Robert Rayner

  “Get real,” says Drumgold.

  “Harper’s right,” says Isora.

  Harper looks at her gratefully.

  “We don’t want to start with anything too drastic,” Isora goes on. “That way Anderson at least has a chance to start taking down the fence, and if he doesn’t, we can do something more serious. Let’s start with something that’ll be just annoying or inconveniencing.”

  “Or intimidating,” Drumgold adds.

  “That’s for later, perhaps,” says Isora.

  “Got it!” says Harper. “We’ll get a load of salmon fertilizer delivered to the cottage. Dad got some for the garden and it’s rank. We can have it dumped right in front of the gates.”

  “They’ll know it’s kids ordering it,” says Drumgold. “They’ll guess it’s some kind of joke.”

  “Not if it’s an adult who calls,” says Isora. “Dex will do it for us.”

  They look across the road at the cottage gates.

  Drumgold laughs. “Imagine Anderson arriving in his fancy car and finding his way blocked by a load of stinking fertilizer.”

  15

  Camera Woman, who is on Special Assignment to the Back River RCMP detachment, looks up from inspecting the contents of the red envelope Mr. Anderson has delivered to Sgt. Chase. “This is the work of kids.”

  She’s squat and blocky, with grey eyes and burnished silver hair like a helmet, dense and unmoving. When, soon after she arrived in his office, Sgt. Chase asked how long she had until retirement, she told him he was being insensitive and sexist. He’s decided she’s not as old as she looks, maybe only in her late forties, although she looks ten years older. He thinks she looks – and acts – like a robot.

  “I know it’s the work of kids,” says Sgt. Chase. “And I think I know which kids.”

  “It could be related to the attacks in Saint-Leonard,” says Camera Woman.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s directed at Mr. Anderson, like the attacks.”

  “It’s not an attack. It’s a few kids protesting the fact that they can’t play on a beach that people in Back River, me included, have been going to all their lives. That’s all.”

  Sgt. Chase wonders how little he can get away with doing about the ultimatum. He grew up in Back River, where his father had worked all his life at the mill, and after doing most of his policing in the city, he’d returned to his hometown to put in the required number of years before he retired, a year from now, and not to harass old friends like Doug Meating because their kids were doing what kids had been doing forever, namely, thumbing their noses at authority. Damnit, it was what kids were supposed to do. It was what he’d done when he was a kid; he didn’t like to think how many years ago.

  He doesn’t want to upset Mr. Anderson, but he’s got more important things to do right now than deal with the high spirits and natural rebellion of a few kids. He knows they mean no harm. The Meating kid was about as dangerous as a golden retriever; the Drumgold kid may be a little disturbed and unpredictable, but who wouldn’t be, with a father like his? He didn’t know the boy well, but he knew the mother, a sweet young thing who worked hard to make a go of it, bringing up a difficult youngster on her own. They’d both had a hard time of it, the woman and the boy, with the threat of the heavy hand of her former man hanging over them. He remembered the frantic 911 calls from Mrs. Drumgold – and the boy – when the father came calling, and he wasn’t about to add to the problems of that little family. Then there was the girl, Isora Lee. She was always hanging around with the Drumgold and Meating boys, and he was sure she was the third member of the trio that had allegedly assaulted Mr. Anderson’s security guards and that had undoubtedly hung the red envelope on the cottage gates. He’d seen the three of them behind the post office a week or two ago, up to some mischief around the dumpster. A girl who looked like she did was no threat to anyone. He’d have a quiet word with their folks when he had the chance. Not a special visit; he’d catch them at the grocery store or the curling club. All in good time.

  Meanwhile he was under pressure to keep poor old Garrett Needle and a few other characters “known to police” under surveillance and to make regular checks on all government buildings and to liaise with the security guards there and to maintain what his bosses described as a High Profile Presence throughout his district at all times in order to send the message to the community that the force was on top of the security situation.

  Yeah...right.

  And like he had the staff to do it.

  16

  “So, what d’you think?” Isora asks.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” says Lully. “I’ll be happy to help.”

  He’s laughing, partly at the plan itself, mostly from relief that his young friends aren’t planning anything more serious than a prank at Mr. Anderson’s expense. He wishes he’d never got drawn into the discussion with them about de la Cruz’s third wave, still less that he’d spoken of it as intently as he feared he had. He couldn’t help himself. It was the way he always got when he talked about protest and dissent.

  Isora and Harper are sitting with Lully at his picnic table, drinking herbal tea. Drumgold is lying on his stomach, taking pictures of the wildflowers at the edge of the woods.

  Lully says, “I’ll do it now.”

  As he takes out his cellphone, Drumgold rolls over and sights the camera on him.

  Lully holds his hand in front of his face and says sharply, “No!”

  Drumgold lowers the camera and mutters, “Sorry.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Isora tells Lully. “He’s always taking pictures.”

  “I look awful in photographs,” Lully protests. “Really – please – no.”

  With one finger to his lips, he enters the number that Harper found on the invoice on his father’s desk and orders a truckload of salmon fertilizer to be delivered to the Beach Cottage, Old Beach Road, Back River. “That’s right,” he says. “Mr. Andrew Anderson.” Then: “No. This is Charles Foran, his executive assistant, speaking, and you can put the invoice in my name. You are to leave the load in front of the main gates, please – yes, in front of them – because I don’t want Mr. and Mrs. Anderson disturbed by the delivery, and that way the gardeners can truck it into the grounds at Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s convenience. Thank you so much. I’ll make sure Mr. Anderson is aware of your efficiency and co-operation.” Lully shuts off the phone and says, “It’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

  “Smooth,” says Drumgold. “Where d’you learn to lie like that?”

  Lully smiles.

  17

  They’re hiding in the woods again, watching the cottage. They want to witness the fertilizer being dumped in front of the gates, but there’s no sign of the delivery truck.

  Harper says, “I’ve got to get to math class. Last time I was there Mr. Browning asked me if I understood quadratic equations, and when I said I didn’t know what they were he went nuts.”

  Drumgold mutters, “Fuck school.”

  Isora says, “We better go. Your mom’s going to be upset if she gets another call from Mr. Matheson.”

  They’re about to leave when they hear the rumble of a heavy vehicle. They look at one another, grinning, and peer down the Old Beach Road, but nothing comes into view.

  Drumgold says, “It’s coming from inside the grounds.”

  At the same time the gates open and an Eastern Oil truck noses out and stops. Diamond Head follows it through the gates and calls to the driver, “Going to the club tonight?”

  The driver says, “Yeah, and I’ll beat you at darts again if you like.” Diamond Head laughs and waves. The driver raises his hand as the truck moves slowly forwards.

  Drumgold looks at Isora. “You know who that is. It’s that Curtis, who tried to hit on you last summer. Jerk.”

  Isora remembers. They were at a Young Teen dance put on by the Legion and she was on her way back from the washroom when Curtis, sallow-faced and heavy-set and obviously too old to be th
ere, stepped in front of her, stopping her. She thought it was accidental and said, “Excuse me,” and tried to pass him but he moved with her, grinning. He said, “Want to dance?” and she shook her head. He pressed, “Got a boyfriend, eh?” and she shook her head again. She was with Drumgold, but he wasn’t her boyfriend. He was just...Drumgold. She could see him moving towards her and pushed past Curtis before he could intervene.

  Drumgold repeats, “Jerk.”

  They watch the oil truck disappear before hurrying to school.

  Harper’s last class before noon is social studies. The students are studying current affairs. They have to listen to a news broadcast and then discuss it. Harper daydreams his way through the national news, paying attention only when the announcer reports another terrorist act against Eastern Oil in which one of the company’s trucks, left running while the driver was getting coffee from a café, has been stolen and driven off a cliff, causing an oil slick that was moving out to sea. The police didn’t know whether the driver had jumped clear at the last moment or had gone over the cliff with the truck. Harper drifts off again until the local news comes on, when he rouses himself, hoping to hear something about an unwanted delivery of fertilizer to the Anderson cottage, but there is nothing.

  After class, Harper goes to the main gate, where Drumgold had said they’d meet before returning to the cottage. Isora joins him there, and they wait in the crush of students walking out of school. Some of the kids greet Isora as they pass, and the boys eye her openly. No-one acknowledges Harper. He knows the students regard him as a sad figure, think he’s playing second fiddle to Drumgold, unable to attract a girlfriend of his own.

  A grade twelve student, about whom Harper knows nothing except that he’s called Greg and plays on the basketball team, brushes against Isora as he passes, and whispers something.

  Isora says, “Get lost.”

  Greg laughs.

  Harper knows Greg wouldn’t dare say anything to Isora if Drumgold was within earshot. The last time a kid made a lewd remark to her, it had taken Drumgold only about five seconds to deal with him, five seconds for which Mr. Matheson had suspended him for three days.

  Greg sniggers, “What do you and Drumgold do with old Harper here when you want to get it on?”

  Harper colours. He doesn’t care what kids like Greg think of him, but the insult strikes at his fear that Drumgold and Isora might, indeed, sometimes resent his presence. Further, it plays on his ever present doubt: Why would Drumgold and Isora want him around at all?

  Isora says, “Piss off, dickhead.”

  Greg laughs again and walks on.

  Isora says, “You can’t let arseholes like that bother you, Harp.”

  He doesn’t answer and she goes on, “I can read you like a book, Harp. You’re upset because you’re afraid Drumgold and me really don’t want you around sometimes, right?”

  Harper shrugs. “No reason you should want me around any time.” He can’t help saying it, although he knows he sounds sulky and self-pitying.

  The stream of students has thinned.

  Isora moves close to Harper and takes his arm. “We need you, Harp, Drumgold and me. And... I need you.”

  He thrills at Isora’s telling him she needs him, but he says, “Nah.”

  She shakes his arm. “Listen, dummy. I need you because you’re my friend, who’s kind and trusty and mannerly like no-one else I know, and that includes Drumgold. And I need you to help me keep Drumgold in check, like you did at Anderson’s office, and like when he wanted to get straight into third wave stuff. He listens to you, because he knows you stay cool and sensible while he’s liable to go crazy. And not just that.” She grins. “You and me, we’re his only friends. All the other kids are afraid of him.”

  Harper thinks, And I don’t have any friends except you and Drumgold. What a truly sad figure I’d be without you.

  Drumgold arrives and says, “What are you two talking about?”

  Isora, still holding Harper’s arm, says, “You, of course.”

  She takes Drumgold’s arm, too, standing between the boys.

  Drumgold says, “Let’s go.”

  They hurry back to their hiding place in the woods and peer across the Old Beach Road at the cottage. A truck and a backhoe are parked outside the gates, while two men rake up a few strands of fertilizer and shovel them into the truck. Diamond Head is leaning against the gates, watching.

  One of the rakers complains, “I don’t see why we have to clean up your boss’s road.”

  Diamond Head says, “No-one asked you to dump a load of fertilizer out here.”

  “Mr. Foran ordered it,” the raker insists.

  “Never heard of him,” Diamond Head scoffs. “There’s no-one of that name works for Mr. Anderson, and it’s as well for you he’s away and won’t know anything about it, otherwise it’d be him talking to you, not me, and you wouldn’t want that. You oughta know better than to deliver a load of shit without checking first.”

  Still grumbling, the men throw their rakes and shovels after the last of the fertilizer and leave. Diamond Head watches them go, shaking his head and grinning, before going into the grounds and closing the gates.

  The members of BARF look at one another.

  “What a waste of time,” says Isora.

  “My stupid idea. Sorry,” says Harper.

  “Anderson won’t even know about it,” says Drumgold bitterly.

  “He’ll know something,” says Isora.

  She produces a can of red spray paint from her backpack, darts across the road, and spray-paints BARF in jagged red letters on the wall beside the gate.

  18

  In June, when school is out, Back River celebrates Back River Daze. Harper has served at the Seniors’ Tea, volunteered there by his mother, who was making sandwiches. Drumgold has photographed the Rubber Ducky River Race and the Family Canoe Run for the town web site, at the request of Mayor Green, while Isora has helped her father at the Hobbies and Crafts Exposition put on by the Men’s Support Network to which Mr. Lee belongs. On Friday night, after watching the Welcome Spring Parade, the friends went to the rides, where they ate cotton candy and rode on the tilt-a-whirl until Harper had to run behind the Darts Shoot to throw up.

  On Saturday afternoon, Mr. Anderson throws a street party. Main Street is closed to traffic. The Back River Dixies perform on a low stage in front of the post office and a few of the older people dance listlessly in the street. The stores have sidewalk sales, with trestle tables set up along the road, the Baptist Youth Group offers face painting for the little kids, and old Mr. Dempsey brings his horses into town to give hay wagon rides down Main Street and back beside the river on Main Street Parallel. At three o’clock, while the Back River Dixies take a break, Mayor Green leads Mr. Anderson to the microphone and announces, as he sweeps his hand to indicate the length of Main Street, “None of this would have been possible without the generous support of our very own resident benefactor, Mr. Andrew Anderson, whom I have asked to say a few words.” Mr. Anderson declines with a shake of his head. Mayor Green addresses the crowd gathering in front of the stage, “Would you like to hear from Mr. Anderson himself?” The crowd applauds. Mayor Green gestures at Mr. Anderson, who approaches the microphone with a show of reluctance. The applause swells.

  Sgt. Chase is parked beside the stage and leans against his car, watching Mr. Anderson, while two auxiliary police stand in the crowd. Camera Woman is on the post office steps, taking pictures.

  Mr. Anderson says he’s happy to see so many people enjoying themselves at this wonderful celebration of family and community. He thanks the residents of Back River for welcoming him to the stage today and for accepting him and his family into the community when he built the cottage a couple of years ago. He hopes he can contribute to the well being and prosperity of Back River not only by being a good citizen, but also by buying the mill and restoring it to its full operational capacity, as well as continuing to support community beautification projects lik
e planting trees on Main Street and restoring the Memorial Gardens.

  The crowd applauds enthusiastically.

  He says he doesn’t want to keep people from enjoying the afternoon’s festivities but hopes they have time to listen to one story of his early days in the pulp and paper business, a story from which he’s afraid he doesn’t emerge in his best light – that’s if he has a best light at all – but in which he thinks there’s a lesson for all, himself included.

  The crowd applauds again and there are cries of, “Let’s hear it.”

  Harper, standing at the back of the crowd, thinks Anderson sounds like a kindly uncle and is looking forward to hearing the story when he feels a sharp tug on the back of his shirt. He turns. Drumgold and Isora are behind him.

  Drumgold murmurs, “It’s time.”

  They drift towards Portage Lane, a narrow, winding road linking Main Street and Main Street Parallel. Drumgold produces a knife. Isora takes a can of red spray paint from her shoulder bag. Harper pulls a jar of sand from his pocket. They linger at the junction. The crowd is laughing as Mr. Anderson recounts his story. Sgt. Chase and his colleagues have been drawn into watching him, too. Camera Woman is still intent on taking pictures of the crowd.

  Drumgold says, “Ready?”

  They slip into Portage. AA1 is parked a few metres from the junction, blocking the way through.

  Isora says, “Wait,” and points.

  Anderson’s driver is in the car. He’s reading a newspaper, which he holds so that it blocks his view up the lane towards Main Street. They duck into a short passageway leading to the rear doors of the building on the corner.