Isora has her father’s hunting rifle. He stores it in a locked cabinet, but Isora knows where he keeps the key and has borrowed the rifle while he’s at work. Harper carried it from the trailer park for her, hidden under his long coat.
“Are you sure you know how to use it?” he asks as Isora plants her elbows in the sand and cradles the barrel in her hand.
“Dad taught me. He says shooting is a useful skill for a girl,” says Isora. She settles the stock against her shoulder.
“Go,” says Drumgold quietly.
There’s a metallic thud and one of the big picture windows in the cottage shatters. Isora reloads and fires again. Another window shatters.
“That’ll do it, eh?” says Harper, preparing to run.
“Keep going, Is,” says Drumgold.
She reloads.
Floodlights snap on around the cottage, spilling light down to the beach, just beyond where they’re lying. Someone – Harper thinks it’s Droopy – shouts, “Shots! Coming from the beach!” Another window shatters. Droopy and Diamond Head are at the top of the steps, crouching low, shining flashlights down at the beach. The beams fall short of the hollow. Drumgold grabs the spent cartridges and sets off running along the sand, Isora beside him and Harper following. The security guards are descending the steps warily, sweeping their flashlights across the sand. When Drumgold and Isora reach the gully where they hid the day before, they throw themselves in. Harper, panting, slithers in behind them. The tide has moulded the gully deeper, and the sides steeper, than before. A channel of water runs down the middle, and as they lie on their stomachs to look toward the cottage, it washes over their feet. Diamond Head and Droopy have split up. Diamond Head is heading down the beach, jumping over the hollow where they were lying a few seconds before, while Droopy is heading straight towards them. They pull their legs up and flatten themselves lengthwise just under the lip of the gully, bracing themselves so they don’t slide down. Isora and Drumgold lie face to face. Harper’s head is centimetres from Isora’s feet. Droopy stops a few metres from them and sweeps his flashlight from the sea to the woods on the other side of the gully.
Sirens sound in the distance.
Droopy calls, “See anything?”
Diamond Head answers from somewhere close by. “Nah. They must have headed into the woods.”
“Think it was those kids again?” says Droopy.
“Kids round here don’t start toting guns just because they’re pissed off about not being allowed on a beach,” says Diamond Head. “I’ll bet it’s the same crew that’s been attacking Mr. Anderson’s office in Saint-Leonard, which means we’ve got some serious security work ahead of us.”
The whoop of sirens is growing louder. The sound peaks and fades. A few seconds later flashing lights appear at the far end of the beach, at the end of the Old Beach Road. Police jump from three cars. They start along the beach. There are six of them, strung out in a line from the woods to the sea, their flashlights playing over the sand. Diamond Head and Droopy set off to meet them.
Diamond Head shouts, “I think they took off in the woods, which means they’ll come out on the Old Beach Road or on the highway.”
“They’re covered,” one of the police shouts back.
When the security guards are a safe distance away, Drumgold whispers, “Let’s go.”
He takes the rifle from Isora and leads the way up the gully toward the woods. When the gully widens and the sand flattens out, he holds Isora’s hand as they splash through the stream. Then they trot along the edge of the woods toward Seal Point. They glance back along the beach. The line of lights is approaching the gully where they were lying a few seconds ago. Behind the line, two police have stopped to shine their flashlights over the hollow where Isora lay to shoot with Drumgold and Harper beside her. The friends plunge into the woods and through the camp, Harper labouring behind. As Isora scrambles under the fence at the edge of the bog, her hair catches in the wire mesh and she cries out. Drumgold frees her while Harper pants beside them. They jog on, Drumgold in the lead. He stops, listening, as they approach the old logging road. He goes cautiously forward and peers both ways. To the left, in the direction of Back River, there’s darkness. To the right, on the Old Beach Road, flashing lights play over the tops of the trees.
“They’ve called the whole cavalry out,” says Harper. “Just for us.”
They hear the static-y crackle of radio messages. Drumgold motions with his head for Isora and Harper to follow. They pad silently on the logging road. Through the trees they see flashing lights on the highway. They freeze in the shadows where the logging road emerges from the woods on to Main Street as a police car turns in from the highway and cruises slowly past. Sgt. Chase is driving, Camera Woman beside him. Both of them are peering right and left.
“Split,” says Drumgold. “Make yourself visible. Do something. Make like you’ve been doing it all evening. You go first, Is. Can you manage the gun?”
She nods. She unbuttons her jeans and stuffs the rifle as far as she can down one leg, settling her sweater over the top.
Drumgold says, “Let’s cool it for a few days, eh? No more action for a while. We won’t even see one another for a week or two.”
Isora nods, and with a glance up and down the road, slips across and disappears in the trailer park.
“You next, Harp,” says Drumgold.
“D’you think they’ll know it was us?” says Harper.
Drumgold shakes his head. “We’ll be okay. Now go!”
Harper takes two steps towards the road. He feels his coat grabbed from behind and lurches backwards. He reels into the woods and falls over. Drumgold flattens himself beside him. Harper starts, “What?” Drumgold points at the road. Harper looks up as Sgt. Chase cruises slowly past again, now heading for the highway. Camera Woman seems to be peering right at Harper. The car stops. Its flashing lights come on. It speeds out on to the highway and turns towards the Old Beach Road.
“Go,” says Drumgold.
Harper picks himself up and stumbles to the edge of the road. He looks carefully both ways before hurrying along Main Street. When he reaches the subdivision, he sneaks into his house and stops inside the door to listen. The television is on. He creeps upstairs and immediately clumps down again. He finds his father watching the news.
Mr. Meating grunts, “I thought you were out with your friends.”
“I was,” says Harper. “There’s nothing going on, so I came back. I’ve been reading in my room.”
Harper wishes he’d washed his face and done some deep breathing upstairs instead of rushing down. He’s afraid his face is sweaty and red from his anxious race back from the beach and through town, but his father doesn’t even look at him. His attention is on the television news, which shows images of what the announcer is calling “another in the series of terrorist incidents aimed at Eastern Oil.” An oil tanker has been hijacked on the outskirts of Saint-Leonard that afternoon by a hooded gunman, who told the driver he had five minutes to get clear, then blew the truck up.
Mr. Meating grunts, “What’s the world coming to when people do this crazy stuff?”
Meanwhile, at the trailer park, Isora can’t decide whether or not she wants to find her father at home. If he’s at the trailer, she can settle in with him, and then if asked later to recollect the evening, he’ll say she spent it at home with him. She feels guilty she doesn’t do it very often, like she used to when she was younger, although he never complains, and when she does spend an evening at home, he tells her every half hour she must be bored and have something better to do than stay in with him. They usually do crosswords together, or take turns playing CDs to one another. Sometimes they sit behind the trailer and try to identify all the birds they hear and see at the edge of the woods, and as it grows dark, her father names the stars as they appear.
But if he’s home now, she has either to smuggle the rifle in and lock it away without his seeing her or explain why she’s carrying it around town.
She doesn’t think she’ll be successful with either course of action.
She opens the door quietly. The house is empty, and there’s a note from her father saying he’s working at the elementary school and will be home around eleven. She locks the rifle away and goes next door, planning to visit Lully until her father gets home, but the ceramic dog is on the doorstep. She lets George out, puts him on his leash, and sets off for a walk with him. She passes the elementary school and sees her father sweeping one of the classrooms. She taps on the window and waves. On Main Street she meets Al, who is out for a stroll. They stop to talk and Sgt. Chase drives past with Camera Woman. Isora waves but Sgt. Chase doesn’t seem to notice.
She walks on past the Masonic Lodge, where, through the open door, she sees Drumgold sweeping while his mother dusts. Without looking up from his work, he briefly lifts his fingers and thumbs from the broom. It’s their secret sign. They’ve been companions for ten years, since their kindergarten teacher sat them together, with the admonition that Drumgold learn to sit quietly like Isora. They quickly discovered a kinship of disposition, both being willful, although Isora kept it in check better than Drumgold, and of situation, both having single parents preoccupied with work. With Mrs. Drumgold working overtime rather than accept welfare, and Mr. Lee, as chief accountant at the mill, often working late, Drumgold and Isora ran free after school. When they realized that playing on the streets of Back River drew accusations of parental neglect, and visits from social workers, they took to playing on the edge of town, in the woods and by the river and on the beaches. That was how they discovered the camp.
Isora catches Drumgold’s eye and opens her hands in return as she moves on.
22
In accordance with Drumgold’s instructions, Harper makes no contact with the other members of the Front for over a week. He wonders how he’ll know when it’s okay for them to be together again. Will Drumgold somehow tell him, or is he supposed to seek out his friends after – what did Drumgold say – a week or two?
He hears nothing on the news, or around town, or in his parents’ discussions of town events, about the shooting out of the cottage windows.
He’s relieved at the prospect of a few days without his nerves being frayed and his anxiety stretched to breaking point by Drumgold’s demands, but he feels a let-down, too. He misses being with Isora, of course, but it’s more than that. He misses the excitement of being around Drumgold. He’s aware of how easily he slips into dullness, and of how appealing he finds it, at the same time as it shames him. Sometimes he’s afraid his timidity will chart him such a peaceful, easy course through his whole life that he’ll slide through it without ever disturbing, or influencing, anyone or anything around him. He sees the attraction of such a course and wonders if it would be such a bad thing, at the same time as he knows that in embracing it he’ll deny himself the reflected sheen and glamour of Drumgold’s companionship, which might render him more attractive to himself, as well as to someone, perhaps, like Isora.
He goes for a walk around the town and sees Isora and her father on their bicycles. He doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to wave. Isora’s hand never leaves the handlebars but she flutters her fingers and smiles. Harper wriggles his fingers in return, without raising his arm from his side. Under the guise of tying his shoelaces, he stops and watches her until she’s out of sight. He thinks a bicycle ride through town with Isora would be the apotheosis of ecstasy.
He walks on to Al’s and thinks of going in, but is afraid he’ll feel awkward without the company of Drumgold and Isora, afraid, too, he’ll appear a forlorn figure, with nothing to do and no friends to hang out with.
He walks home and sees a police car in the driveway. Sgt. Chase is leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets, talking to Mr. Meating, who is leaning on a rake. It’s too late to turn back and too obvious to avoid them by walking around the side of the house and going in the back door.
He walks slowly towards them, thinking, If it wasn’t for Drumgold, I wouldn’t be feeling sick right now.
Mr. Meating is saying, “I’m glad you’ve decided to play after all.”
Sgt. Chase says, “Don’t get me wrong. I think the gentlemen’s baseball league is a great idea. It’s just that I hate letting the team down when I can’t show up because I’m on duty or something comes up at the last minute.”
“That can’t be helped,” says Mr. Meating. “All the guys know you’re busy right now.”
“Tell me about it,” Sgt. Chase sighs. He turns to Harper, who is hovering at the end of the driveway, and greets him with, “You’re in trouble.”
Harper thinks even if he manages not to vomit, he’ll still faint. He says quickly, “Sorry.”
“What for?”
Harper stutters, “Er...er...”
He wonders how much the police know.
“I was going to say,” Sgt. Chase continues, “that you’re in trouble if you don’t come round and cut my lawn soon. Have you got room for me on your client list again?”
All Harper can manage is a nod.
“It needs cutting now. Come any time you like.”
“You can help Sgt. Chase another way,” says Mr. Meating. “You can tell him if you hear anything about who’s doing this vandalism around town.”
Harper stammers, “Va...vandalism?”
“There’s been a spate of it,” says Sgt. Chase. “Stupid stuff like garbage cans tipped over, windows broken, graffiti on every bare wall, bottles smashed on Main Street, and even out at the Anderson cottage.”
“Imagine...the nerve,” says Mr. Meating. “When Mr. Anderson’s got all that trouble at Eastern Oil to put up with already.”
Sgt. Chase shrugs. “Probably it’s just someone drinking on the beach and tossing beer bottles around.” He grins suddenly. “Or could be it’s someone having too much to drink at one of those parties you hear about at the cottage.” He looks carefully at Harper. “If you hear anything about who’s responsible, I mean for the vandalism, you could let us know, even if it’s one of your friends. Nothing serious will happen to the culprits, I promise. It’ll just be a case of a friendly chat and a warning from me, and that’ll be the end of it. You don’t even have to talk to me. Tell your dad, and he’ll tell me, and no-one will know where the information came from. Know what I mean?”
Harper, his head down, nods. He glances up.
Sgt. Chase is still looking at him.
23
Harper grins. “Then, as Anderson drives through the gates – boom! He’s got a flat.”
“Who’ll mend it?” says Drumgold.
“Well...” Harper starts.
“And who’ll pick up the nails you’ve scattered around?” Drumgold goes on.
“Okay, not Anderson,” Harper concedes.
“You bet not Anderson,” says Drumgold. “He’ll tell Droopy and Diamond Head to get it fixed while he gets in AA2 and drives away. Then Diamond Head and Droopy will get the breakdown truck out here to fix the tire, and they’ll have a good time fooling around cleaning up the nails, and Anderson will think it was just bad luck getting a flat. Not a bad idea, Harp, but it won’t move the action closer to Anderson.”
The Back River Front had been out of action for nearly two weeks when Harper arrived home one afternoon after cutting lawns to find Drumgold and Isora waiting for him in his driveway, grinning. He suspected they’d seen one another during that time, secretly. He didn’t mind. He can’t think of them as separate beings. Even in his most intimate fantasies of Isora, Drumgold is there, somewhere in the background, inhibiting him.
Now the Front is hiding in the woods opposite the gates of the cottage again, trying to decide on the next move in the campaign to open the beach.
“How about I call the cottage, or his office, and pretend to be a hooker, and leave a message?” says Isora. She giggles. “I’ll tell him what a nice time I had the night before and ask when he wants to see me again.”
Drumgold laughs, but says, “W
ho’ll be most upset...just supposing anyone believes you?”
Isora confesses, “Mrs. Anderson, I guess.”
“And Anderson will think he’s some kind of cool stud, although he knows it never happened.”
“But we have to do something, or Anderson will think he’s won,” says Isora.
“He has won. So far,” says Drumgold. “We haven’t even touched him. We have to make him realize we mean business, and that he’s going to get...hurt...if he doesn’t open the beach. We have to make him realize what’s happening isn’t accidents, and that it’s going to get worse until he gives in.” He stares at the cottage and goes on, “Remember all that cardboard and straw and stuff we saw when we hid in the barn? Let’s set fire to it, like we should have done while we were in there.”
Harper points out, “First we’d have to get in the grounds, and then we’d still have to get in the barn.”
“We could get in the barn the same way we did before,” Drumgold muses. “But how could we get in the grounds?”
“Not like last time,” says Isora. “We’re not going to get away with climbing up the rocks from the beach and jumping over the wall and running through the garden again.”
They’re about to retreat into the woods when they hear the rumble of a heavy vehicle. An Eastern Oil truck rolls into view on the Old Beach Road and stops at the cottage gates. Curtis is driving. He waits for a few seconds, then reaches for something in the cab. He jumps out and opens a compartment in one of the gate posts.
“So that’s how you get in when Droopy and Diamond Head aren’t around to open the gates,” says Drumgold. “You punch in an entry code. If we could find out the code.”
“I know how to get it,” says Isora slowly.
Footprints Page 10
