A Chapstick Orange

Leslie & Sheppard

2011-07-13T20:17:00.000-04:00

A stoned boy in an army jacket
rocks with restrained impatience
___at the front of the bus
as the traffic light
delays his assignation
with his stop.

Nay, kid

2011-07-13T20:16:00.000-04:00

Sacrosanct
___Sank your sac:
___ ___Religion
___ ___ ___Ate my balls

We cannot be
___What we are born:
We must invent modesty
___For imagined shame

Now Retrenching

2011-07-13T20:13:00.001-04:00

Unfolding, life
___The map fills in
Unknown places fall into
___place
With the ease of overflight

Made lovely
___Ugly
___or learned and forgotten
More and more there is
___less and less
___ ___to know

Awaiting Route 85

2011-03-25T12:36:00.004-04:00

The Sheppard Station
gluttonous, swallows buses
disgorging not one

Under a Mastic Tree (script)

2011-01-14T08:35:00.001-05:00

This is an adaptation of a short story by the same name.

EST. CANADIAN PRAIRIES

FADE UP FROM BLACK:

The establishing shot opens to the Tom Waits tune Yesterday
Is Here, which plays throughout the opening sequence.

Much of the opening sequence is seen as if from a
crop-dusting biplane, moving quickly, swooping low, the view
not quite steady. The first shot moves long over abandoned
fields and ruined farms, harshly lit by the sunrise. It is a
cold, clear autumn morning.

DISSOLVE TO:

The view passes over what quickly becomes apparent is the
remnants of a tank battle, fought many years before. Several
dozen ruined tanks and support vehicles are seen, scattered
across the countryside.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. THE TANK BATTLEFIELD

Seen from the ground now, as if standing amid several of the
ruined tanks, a few closer by than others.

CUT TO:

A tight close-up of a tank, with soil on it and plants
growing upon it. After a moment, the view pans, and the
markings make it clear that the tank is Chinese.

DISSOLVE TO:

Another tank, this one with Canadian Army markings, with the
wind shaking the weeds growing on and around it.

DISSOLVE TO:

An overturned troop transport, bearing US Army markings.
Clearly, a large continental defencive battle was fought
here, many years before.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. OVER THE ASSINIBOINE RIVER

Return to the biplane shots, this one flying along the
Assiniboine River, with the sunlight dazzling the eyes.

The view lifts from the water. In the distance, a small city
can be seen hugging the river.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

As if from a slowly-moving vehicle on the crumbling asphalt.
Heading into the sunrise, with the broken pavement harshly
lit. It should be obvious that twenty or thirty years have
passed since the road was last properly maintained.

DISSOLVE TO:

A weather-beaten sign, fallen into the grass, barely
legible. It reads: WELCOME TO BRANDON, MANITOBA and boasts
that the city is the GEOGRAPHICAL CENTRE OF NORTH AMERICA,
and gives its population as 89,000. At the bottom is an
array of the logos of the city's service clubs.

CUT TO:

Another sign, still standing, black with white stencilled
lettering, reads: BRANDON REGIONAL SECURITY DISTRICT, and
under that PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF THE CENTRAL PLAINS
COMMUNITY. The sign warns that: ALL PERSONS WITHOUT THE
RELEVANT IDENTIFICATION OR TRANSIT DOCUMENTS ARE SUBJECT TO
ARREST AND FINE AND/OR INDEFINITE DETENTION, as well as
RESISTANCE TO LAWFUL AUTHORITY MAY RESULT IN SUMMARY
JUSTICE.

CUT TO:

A view of a ruined farmhouse, with part of the upper floor
blown away, as if by a shell strike. The view holds on it
for a few moments, then pans to the view of the city, a mile
or two in the distance.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. OVERFLIGHT OF BRANDON

Return to the biplane shots, now flying over the City of
Brandon. Many buildings are destroyed, but the streets have
long since been cleared of debris. Newer-looking, but
obviously ad hoc, constructions can be seen where rubble has
been cleared. A few cars, trucks, and buses can be seen
moving about, suggesting that the city functions again, if
only marginally.

The view passes what seems to be the edge of town, heading
toward the sunrise.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. FIELD NEAR A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Seen from above, a large body of men are glimpsed in neat
rows, in a field north of the highway, all of them holding
objects of some kind.

DISSOLVE TO:

The highway, seen from ground level, about waist-height. Men
slowly pass the camera on either side, moving forward
slowly. They are carrying metal detectors, sweeping them
back and forth before them as they advance.

The song Yesterday Is Here ends.

CUT TO:

A shot of CAMERON as he stares down, wearing headphones and
sweeping the metal detector. The sound of the clicking he
hears is audible.

Cameron is seen moving forward slowly, trying to keep pace
with the other men as they clear the field. They sweep in
time, so that their detectors meet, assuring the entire
field is swept as they move forward.

A high-pitched whine begins and grows in volume. Cameron
suddenly whistles loudly to the others.

OVERSEER
(blows a whistle)
Halt the line!

Cameron swings the detector back and forth a few times,
getting a tab on exactly where the mine is. He crouches,
carefully setting the detector to the side, while the other
men pause, holding the line, watching as he reaches into the
bag on his hip and carefully plants a flag near where the
mine is. He rises again and nods.

OVERSEER
(blows a whistle twice)
Advance the line!

Cameron and the other men begin to move forward again.

Seen from behind, with the flag in close-up view, the line
slowly moves ahead in the dry, windswept field.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. HILLSIDE WITH OLD TREE

It is evening now, the sun setting and shadows long. A tall,
gnarled, possibly dead tree clings to a hillside.

Cameron climbs the hillside into view. He pauses, looking up
at the tree, and smiles. He carefully looks around.

The view of the plain below Cameron, as seen by him, is
empty of other people.

Cameron advances to the tree. He reaches into a hollow in
the tree, and pulls out a brass metal box about half the
size of a loaf of bread. When he opens it, a considerable
amount of military scrip can be seen inside.

Cameron pulls more money out of his breast pocket of his
jacket. He counts out a few bills, puts them back in his hip
pocket, counts out several more and puts them in his breast
pocket, and deposits the remainder in the box. He closes it
up and puts it back in the hollow of the tree.

Cameron pauses, looks around again, and satisfied no one is
watching, he heads back down the hill.

INT. ADMINISTRATION BUILDING

It is dark now. Cameron is in one of several lines in a
noisy, busy administration building, dimly but adequately
lit. It has a high ceiling and has the air of having once
been a central train station.

The woman in front of Cameron in the line finishes her
business and turns away.

MAIL WOMAN
Next!

Cameron advances to the till.

MAIL WOMAN
Name, address...

CAMERON
Belanger, Kensington Crescent.

The woman glances down, world-weary, and looks up again.

MAIL WOMAN
No mail.

CAMERON
(resignedly)
What's new.

Cameron turns away. As he leaves the building, he passes by
a counter and quietly takes an envelope, tucking it into his
jacket. He leaves the building.

INT. ABANDONED CAR IN A FIELD

Cameron, in an old car lit from above by a street light,
works at faking up a payment stamp on the envelope. He
deliberately smudges it, and works the envelope to make it
appear travel-worn. He reaches into his breast pocket and
takes out the bills. He puts them into the envelope and
seals it.

EXT. SMITHFIELD ROAD

Seen from behind, Cameron walks through the semi-darkness up
Smithfield Road, past a ruined jeep and a tank covered with
graffiti. He stops, looking off to the right as his name is
called.

DAVID
Cammy! Hey, Cammy!

Cameron turns to face his brother, DAVID, as he emerges from
behind a ruined building and comes up quickly on his
crutches. The two of them begin to walk together, slowly,
given that David has only one leg and must rely on the
crutches.

DAVID
How'd it go?

CAMERON
(shrugging)
Same as usual. Pulling vegetables.
What changes?

DAVID
Yeah, I guess so. Same in the
claims office. Stamp, file. Stamp,
file. Nothing much changes there
either.

CAMERON
Why are you walking?

David is panting, and Cameron slows his pace noticeably.

DAVID
Aw, bus never showed up. Probably
broken down again. Maybe tomorrow.

CAMERON
You shouldn't go if you don't see
it.

DAVID
That'd be nice, if I were rich
enough to turn down a day's work. I
wouldn't mind.

CAMERON
(nodding)
I know. I didn't mean you shouldn't
go... I just meant you shouldn't
have to.

DAVID
I know, Cammy.

Cameron pulls the envelope from his jacket pocket.

CAMERON
Hey, I think we got a letter from
Uncle Jack.

DAVID
Aw, great! That'll make Mom happy.
Be a load off her mind. That's
terrific.

Cameron smiles, nodding.

EXT. KENSINGTON CRESCENT

The street the Belangers live on is dark; both sides are
full of two-story row houses. Oil drums on the corners
provide what little light there is.

Cameron and David make their way home. They pass a woman
working a hand pump, retrieving a bucket of water. A couple
of kids chase around her, laughing and calling out.

CAMERON
I think I like power in the
evenings best.

DAVID
Me too. Hot suppers. I don't mind a
cold breakfast, but supper should
be hot.

CAMERON
I wish it could be like that all
the time.

DAVID
It will be, one day. It's coming.

CAMERON
(non-commitally)
Sure...

EXT. FRONT STEPS OF THE BELANGER HOME

The steps up to the common entrance the Belangers share with
another family are ornate and well-formed; they were once
posh. Cameron helps David to climb them. He opens the door
to the common hall, and they enter.

INT. ALCOVE OF THE BELANGER HOME

Cameron and David enter the apartment from the common hall
and close the door.

DAVID
(calling out)
Hi, Mom...

MOM
(from the kitchen)
Hi, Dave...

CAMERON
I'm home too, Mom!

David sits, removing his single boot, and Cameron kicks off
his work boots. Their MOM leans in from the kitchen, framed
by the light of a half dozen kerosene lamps.

MOM
Oh, both my men come marching home
together. How were your days?

DAVID
Same as usual, for us both.

CAMERON
Except...

Cameron pulls out the envelope, supposedly from Uncle Jack.
His mother takes it with a small, joyful exclamation.

MOM
Is it...?

CAMERON
I think so. Open it and see.

His mother works the envelope open with her finger. She
cannot hide her relief when she retrieves the money Cameron
has placed in it.

MOM
Praise God.
(she looks in the envelope)
...Though I do wish Jack would
write. It's clear he's doing
fine... but I'd like to know how he
is.

CAMERON
He's probably too busy. Oh, and...

Cameron pulls out the other bills he has tucked in his
jacket pocket, meant to be his day's wages from farm work.
David takes out his wages as well, and they both pass the
money to their mother. She reaches out to embrace them
together.

MOM
You're both good boys, you know.
Not like some of the louts around
here.

GRANDDAD appears in the doorway of the kitchen.

GRANDDAD
(in greeting)
Fellas...

CAMERON
Hey, Granddad...

DAVID
Hi, Granddad...

INT. THE KITCHEN

Granddad heads back to his chair as Mom, David, and Cameron
come in. There is a young girl, TAMMY, already sitting at
the table. Something is cooking on a kerosene stove, even
though there is an old power range in the kitchen. Granddad
sits with Tammy, and picks up the lit cigarette sitting in
the ashtray. Mom goes over to the kerosene stove, keeping an
eye on the meal.

TAMMY
Hi, guys!

DAVID
Hey, Tam-Tam.

Cameron gives Tammy a smile and a wordless wave.

GRANDDAD
What's the good word today?

Cameron regards the shortwave radio on the table, glowing
faintly with a constant, soft stream of words.

CAMERON
You tell us.

Granddad reaches over to a small gizmo attached to the radio
and begins to turn the hand crank. The light in the radio
glows stronger and the volume rises a bit.

GRANDDAD
Word is that that council in Paris
is making headway.

TAMMY
Just like the old days, huh,
Granddad?

GRANDDAD
Starting to look that way,
Princess.

David sets his crutches against the wall and gently waves
off Cameron's help as he sits at the table. Cameron leans
against the wall by the door, arms folded on his chest.

DAVID
You won't like it, Tammy. School
used to last about twenty years,
before the war.

TAMMY
(laughing)
I heard that. I don't think that
was true.

GRANDDAD
Oh, pretty near. Sometimes even
longer.

TAMMY
(dubious)
Really?

GRANDDAD
Honest.

TAMMY
When would anybody ever get
anything done?

DAVID
Things were complicated back then.
People had to know a lot more than
they do now.

MOM
Like with the steel works in
Pittsburgh. Complicated jobs.
Things like that are starting up
again. People are going to need
more schooling.

TAMMY
Like oil fields out west, things
like that?

There is a subdued, uncomfortable silence for a moment or
two. Cameron and David regard one another.

GRANDDAD
Things like that.

TAMMY
I wish Dad would come home.

MOM
We all do.

Mom stirs the pot, tastes the meal, adds a bit of salt.

DAVID
They ought to have a continental
council over here like they're
having in Europe. We could really
use it.

GRANDDAD
Things are getting better. Hasn't
been any border trouble for a
while. It'll happen.

CAMERON
I'm more worried about China coming
back.

Granddad laughs, stubbing out his cigarette, and reaching
for another.

GRANDDAD
That'll be a while. We showed them
a thing or two.

DAVID
Showed us some stuff first, I
think.

GRANDDAD
(lighting his cigarette)
We kept what was ours.

DAVID
Mostly. But it seems to me there
was a time you could go from
Brandon to Calgary to work in the
oil fields, or to Toronto or
Montreal, without asking anyone's
permission.

GRANDDAD
It'll be that way again, don't
worry. Sooner or later people will
come to see there’s no point in
bickering over scraps. But it takes
time to build the economy back up.
It was the economy collapsing that
really led to the wars. It wasn't
that people wanted to fight; they
just got desperate. I remember how
it was.

MOM
Well, I wish they'd get on with it.

TAMMY
Granddad, if that happens, do you
think we'll see Dad again?

Granddad reaches out, patting Tammy on the shoulder.

GRANDDAD
We'll see him.

Mom sighs. She turns, carrying the pot with pot holders.

MOM
Come on, let's eat.

Cameron comes forward to join the others at the table.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. SUNRISE OVER THE PLAINS

A view of the sunrise over the river.

INT. CAMERON'S ROOM, MORNING

The window of Cameron's room looks out to the north. Beyond
their home are small, single family houses, most abandoned
or in disarray; Cameron's vantage point looks past them to
the highway and the ruined airport beyond. The window is
covered in fronts.

Cameron sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. His breath is
visible. There is a quiet, but definite, distant bang. He
gets to his feet and looks out the window, rubbing it with
his hand.

CAMERON
Frost... a hard frost...

He peers out the window. In the distance he can see a cloud
of stirred-up dust drifting away in the morning air.

CAMERON
(very quietly)
...setting the mines off...

Cameron nods to himself. He pulls off the heavy shirt he
sleeps in.

INT. STAIRS

Cameron, dressed in his work clothes, creeps quietly down
the stairs. He peers carefully at the kitchen, but his
mother is not up yet. He makes his way to the apartment door
and quietly leaves.

EXT. PROVINCIAL ROAD 457

Cameron walks alone along the road, heading east out of
town.

EXT. FIELD NEAR A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Cameron is gathered in a group of scruffy men of all ages,
back in the same field he'd been in the day before. Cameron
makes eye contact with a few; one or two nod but no one
speaks.

The FOREMAN and several overseers push through the crowd.

FOREMAN
Alright, newcomers, form a line up
here.

About two dozen men and teenage boys emerge from the crowd.
One, ROB, moves up past Cameron, who notices him in passing.
Rob moves up with the newcomers to stand in the line before
the foreman. The foreman raises his hands, and the chatter
of the men dies off.

FOREMAN
You've been told by now how to work
the equipment, and anyway, most of
you have probably done this before,
so I'll just explain the
assignment. Everything between the
stakes. The parameter is a hundred
meters across. What you're working
on, if you don't know, is the
TransCanada. This is a re-opening
effort. We have a 25 kilometre
stretch to sweep before
mid-November. We don't make that,
you don't make your bonuses. That's
how it works. You don't make your
stretch for the day, we yank you
for someone on the fields tomorrow.
Plenty of guys want to sweep this
stretch if you don't. So pay
attention to what you're doing and
move along. Don't dawdle. And don't
step on a mine because the
detectors aren’t cheap.

Some of the men chuckle. The foreman's steely gaze quickly
silences them.

FOREMAN
Okay, that's it. Let's get going.

OVERSEER
Alright, form up behind yesterday's
safe line.

The men wander over to the safe line.

Cameron stands in the line. To his right, Rob, the scruffy
blond newcomer, stands beside him. In the distance, one of
the overseers moves down the line, counting men off with
ones, twos, and threes.

ROB
You seem a little young for this.

Cameron turns to look at the man, first shocked, then
indignant.

CAMERON
What do you know about it?

Rob shrugs.

ROB
I guess you have your reasons. I
didn't mean any offence.

Cameron grunts. He and Rob tense up as the counting-off
overseer comes along behind them.

OVERSEER
(tapping Rob's shoulder)
Three...
(tapping Cameron's shoulder)
One...
(tapping the next man)
Two...

ROB
(to Cameron)
Do you want to trade places?

Cameron turns to face Rob, pausing for a moment.

CAMERON
I'm not scared.

Rob nods.

OVERSEER
Ones, forward!

Cameron puts on his headphones and switches his detector on.
He forms up with the men at the front.

OVERSEER
Ones, advance! Twos, forward!

Cameron's line begins to move past the safe line. The next
set of men form the second line.

OVERSEER
Twos, advance! Threes, forward!

Rob moves up, taking his place in the last line, and puts on
his headphones. He looks ahead and sees Cameron slowly
sweeping the field with his detector. He simply stares for a
moment.

OVERSEER
Threes, advance!

Rob and the men of the last line move forward.

DISSOLVE TO:

Seen from above, in a long pan, the men of the three lines
sweep slowly over the field, like farmers of centuries past
with scythes.

DISSOLVE TO:

Cameron looking down intently at his work, then glancing
over his shoulder at the newcomer, Rob, two rows back, then
resuming his work.

DISSOLVE TO:

A shot of the sun high over the horizon, suggesting the
passing of time.

DISSOLVE TO:

Cooks bringing out pots for the noonday meal.

CUT TO:

Cameron sniffing, catching scent of the food, glancing back.

There is a sudden explosion.

In slow motion, Cameron falls forward into the camera,
landing on his face.

Cameron is stunned. He lifts his head, shaking it. Whistles
are blowing. There is shouting.

OVERSEER
Halt! Back of the line! Hold up!

Cameron fumbles for his glasses, then with sudden fear,
reaches down for his legs, and finds he is still whole.
Looking behind him, he sees a hole behind him where a man in
the second line has set off a mine. The man is dead and
scattered around the crater. Cameron retches, and looking
around, he realizes that other mines behind him may have
been missed. He faces forward again and sees his metal
detector several yards away, in front of him, where he
cannot safely reach it. He is trapped.

Rob comes forward with his detector.

ROB
Stay there... I'll make sure it's
safe.

Cameron is on his back, trembling, watching as Rob slowly
approaches, sweeping the detector back and forth. He draws
closer to the dead man. As he steps past, he pauses,
swinging the detector in a tight range, and then crouches
and plants a flag. He rises, moving forward to Cameron.

ROB
Okay, I'm here. We can get back.
Come on.

Rob coaxes Cameron to his feet.

ROB
Hold onto my belt.

Cameron takes hold of Rob's belt, and Rob begins to lead him
back, sweeping the detector before them.

FOREMAN
Get his detector!

Rob ignores the man, as others grumble at the foreman, and
continues to lead Cameron back to safety. They reach the
third line, and the men there applaud, slapping Rob on the
back.

The men disperse a little, and the foreman comes up to Rob
and Cameron.

FOREMAN
We have rules, we have procedures.
You disobey another instruction and
you're both off the crew without
pay. Do you understand me?

Rob and Cameron nod.

FOREMAN
(to the men)
Alright, break!

The foreman takes off. Rob eyes Cameron.

ROB
You okay?

CAMERON
(nodding)
Just a little shaky.

ROB
You'll be alright. Come on.

Rob leads Cameron out of the scene.

EXT. BASE CAMP

Men are playing sandlot baseball during the break. Cameron
sits with Rob under a tree, watching the game.

CAMERON
I didn't really thank you, did I?

ROB
It's alright. You've been through a
lot.

CAMERON
It's not the first time I've
seen... that... but...

ROB
First time in back of you. Yeah, no
one expects that. Do you have a
name, son? Mine's Rob.

They shake hands.

CAMERON
It's Cameron. And thank you.
Really.

ROB
It's alright.

CAMERON
You've done this kind of thing
before, haven't you?

ROB
I've been sweeping for about... oh,
four years now, I think. On and
off.

CAMERON
Wow, I just started this spring.

Rob nods, watching the other men toss the ball.

ROB
Do your folks know you're sweeping?

Cameron looks a bit sullen, slightly resentful, being
treated like a boy again.

CAMERON
My dad's in a camp out west.

ROB
Oh, I'm sorry.

Cameron tosses a stone into the tall prairie grass.

CAMERON
Someone's got to get him out.

ROB
Do you know how much they want?

CAMERON
Five hundred.

Rob whistles, impressed by the sum.

ROB
Your dad must have been trying to
po-- ...To get oil work.

CAMERON
You can say it. Poach. He didn't
have a permit and they weren't
going to give him one.

ROB
How long's he been away?

CAMERON
Nearly a year. Around the end of
the winter we got the notice. They
picked him up in a truck with a
dozen other guys inside Calgary
East Mark. So that's where he is…
Detcamp CEM.

ROB
Five hundred. Even sweeping, that'd
take a while.

CAMERON
(with a bit of pride)
I've got most of it.

ROB
How much?

Cameron eyes Rob for a moment.

CAMERON
Most.

Rob nods, and sighs.

ROB
You make me wonder how my sons are
doing.

CAMERON
Do you see them much?

ROB
(shaking his head)
I send what I can to their mother.
We all came to a mutual realization
they were better off without me,
though.

Rob lifts his head, smelling the breeze. He gets to his
feet.

ROB
Come on, we’d better grab something
while the grabbing's good.

CAMERON
You go ahead... I don't think I
could.

ROB
Come on, Cameron. You aren’t going
to last long swinging that thing
all afternoon without something in
you. I know it's rough, but that's
the job. You gotta eat, son.
(offering his hand to help
Cameron up)
At least try.

Cameron takes Rob's hand and lets him help him up. They head
off to the tables where men are gathering to eat.

ROB
Smells like chicken.

CAMERON
As long as it tastes like chicken.

ROB
Son, you'll soon learn that in
these camps, everything tastes like
chicken. Except the chicken.

Cameron laughs.

FADE TO:

EXT. BASE CAMP

Late afternoon, sun going down. Cameron and the men gather
to line up for their pay. Cameron is looking at a photo of
his father. He looks up from it at Rob, then gazes off in
the direction of home, toward the skyline of the city. He
sighs, and tucks the photograph away. He steps toward Rob.

CUT TO:

EXT. COMPTROLLER'S LINE

Men are receiving their pay. Cameron is in line, and behind
him is Rob. As Cameron steps up, the COMPTROLLER addresses
them.

COMPTROLLER
Foreman’s docking you each five for
insubordination. You got anything
to say about it, say it to him. But
you can expect to stay home from
now on if you do.

He hands Cameron his pay, and then Rob, and waves them off.

ROB
Don't let it get you down. It's
just one day.

CAMERON
I guess I'll see you tomorrow.

ROB
Yeah. See you bright and early,
Cameron.

Rob smiles and gives Cameron a nod, then turns and heads
into the crowd of itinerants who live in the camp.

Cameron watches him for a moment, then turns away.

EXT. HILLSIDE WITH OLD TREE

Cameron takes the money box out of the tree. He pauses to
sigh over how light the day's contribution is, then places
it in the box and puts it back in the tree.

EXT. A DARK STREET IN BRANDON

Cameron passes the camera, his booted steps crunching as he
moves in silhouette into town.

INT. ALCOVE OF THE BELANGER HOME

Cameron comes in. He notices David's crutch already propped
against the wall near the kitchen door.

CAMERON
I'm home... sorry I'm a little
late...

INT. THE KITCHEN

Cameron enters the kitchen. His mother, grandfather,
brother, and sister are there. The radio is playing softly,
but there is a pensive air as he enters.

CAMERON
Hey, everyone… is anything wrong?

MOM
Cameron, didn't you say you were
working at Weiss's?

CAMERON
Yeah...

DAVID
Cammy, I processed a document today
that mentioned that Carl Weiss died
last April.

Cameron glances at him, then his mother, then his
grandfather, who glances at him casually, puffing on his
cigarette. Cameron gives a shrug.

CAMERON
Yeah, he did. Someone else took
over.

MOM
Who?

CAMERON
(taking a seat, casually)
I don't know, to be honest. But as
long as they pay me, I really don't
care who's running the place. I
never saw Mr. Weiss while he was
alive, either. Why, is it
important?

MOM
We just wondered why you never
mentioned it.

CAMERON
It never seemed important, before
now...

MOM
Well, alright... we didn't mean to
put you on the spot. It just struck
us kind of funny is all.

CAMERON
Yeah, I guess. So what happened
with everyone today?

TAMMY
We patched up everyone's shirts.
And I helped.

DAVID
Well, we won't be able to do
without you, pretty soon.

GRANDDAD
That's right. Already a big help to
your mother.

TAMMY
I cut up all the potatoes, too.

CAMERON
(grabbing Tammy's hands)
Oh, here, let's see... well, what
do you know, she still has all her
fingers!

TAMMY
(pulling her hands away)
Stop that, I know what I'm doing.

CAMERON
Well, okay, then.

TAMMY
(pointing at Cameron)
None for him.

MOM
Now, now...

TAMMY
Well, no potatoes, anyway.

Everyone laughs.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. BASE CAMP

Midday. Cameron is sitting with Rob and some other men,
having lunch. There are no lines in the scene, but it's
clear the men are swapping stories and jokes, laughing,
teasing each other. Cameron is obviously proud to be sitting
in, to be counted as one of them. He smiles at Rob, watching
him, obviously taken with how naturally the other men turn
to listen to him.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. A DARK STREET IN BRANDON

Cameron, again in silhouette, hurries home through the rain.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. FIELD NEAR A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Close-up of autumn leaves on a tree, shaking in the wind.
One or two leaves break off and fly away. The camera turns
slowly to show rows of men, slowly sweeping their mine
detectors back and forth.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. FIELD NEAR A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

A charge is set beside a mine flag.

Cameron and Rob, and the other men, crouch, covering their
ears as the foreman shouts. After a moment, the charge is
set off, blowing up the flagged mine. The men all get to
their feet and dust themselves off. Rob and Cameron wander
together back to the equipment.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. HILLSIDE WITH OLD TREE

Cameron puts more money in the money box, replaces it, and
hurries off.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. FRONT STEPS OF THE BELANGER HOME

Cameron comes out into the dawn, pausing for a moment to
watch his breath, and hurries off.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. THE KITCHEN

The camera does a slow rotation showing Mom cooking,
Granddad at the radio, and David helping as Tammy follows
her finger along the page of a book, obviously reading the
line out loud. Finally it pauses on Cameron, sitting with
them at the table, but looking a thousand miles away.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. BASE CAMP

During a break, Cameron is sitting close by while Rob plays
cards with some of the other men.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. FRONT STEPS OF THE BELANGER HOME

Evening. Cameron coming home, the air cold enough to show
his breath. He lopes up the stairs.

INT. ALCOVE OF THE BELANGER HOME

Cameron comes in and hauls off his coat.

CAMERON
I'm home!

INT. THE KITCHEN

Cameron comes into the kitchen, sniffing the air.

CAMERON
Oh, man... what smells so good?

MOM
Lamb. First time I've seen it in
the market since spring.

CAMERON
Wow!

MOM
Between you and David... I thought
we could splurge. Just this once.

Cameron crowds the stove, drawing in the aroma. He thinks
for a moment.

CAMERON
Mom, I have a chance to help with
work on some of the farm equipment
this evening. Do you think I could
get some of this in the thermos?
I'm going to be a few hours.

MOM
Of course, honey. There's plenty.
But sit down and eat with us first,
okay?

CAMERON
Okay.

DAVID
And hello to you too, greedy-guts.

CAMERON
The day you smell that good I'll
say hi to you first.

GRANDDAD
At least we know where we stand now
in the scheme of things!

CAMERON
Yeah, just one notch below lamb
stew.

DAVID
Only one?

CAMERON
Yeaaah, just one.

DAVID
Be still, my heart.

MOM
If you're all finished, perhaps we
could eat now.

GRANDDAD
Best idea I've heard all day.

TAMMY
I cut the carrots.

CAMERON
I'll eat them with due
consideration.

TAMMY
Better!

CUT TO:

EXT. BASE CAMP

It's dark out. Cameron, carrying a thermos, comes up to
someone in the camp, and seems to ask a question. The man
responds, turning and pointing. Cameron seems to thank him
and hurries on.

INT. COMMONS TENT

Cameron finds Rob playing cards and sharing whiskey with
some of the men. Cameron catches his eye and waggles the
thermos at him. Rob makes a puzzled face.

INT. ROB'S TENT

Cameron sits beaming as Rob digs into the stew, barely able
to eat at a civilized speed.

ROB
Honest to God, Cameron, it's the
best thing I've tasted in... I
really don't know how long. Thank
you.

Rob closes his eyes, savouring the taste.

CAMERON
You make me wish I could tell my
mom just how much you're enjoying
it. You'd have her blushing.

ROB
She deserves every second of that
blush.
(chuckles)
I used to hate turnip, but if it's
not straight off Heaven's table
now, I don't know what is.

CAMERON
I guess it's been a while...

ROB
Well, four years...

CAMERON
(signing)
I really wish I could bring you
home, Rob. I just don't think
they'd buy that you were digging
potatoes.

ROB
This late in the year, are they
still buying that about you?

CAMERON
For now. I'll tell them something
else in a week or two.

ROB
Well, maybe then, huh?
(laughs)
Nice of me to invite myself to
dinner.

CAMERON
You are invited. Just as soon as I
can make them believe we work
together.

Rob scrapes out the bottom of the thermos.

ROB
You're a good kid, Cameron. Brought
up right.

CAMERON
We have a good family. Well... we
did.

Rob nods.

Cameron turns, gazing into the lamp light.

CAMERON
It's not really Dave's fault. He
just wanted to make more money.
Like I do. But then he stepped on
that mine...

Rob sits quietly, listening to Cameron.

CAMERON
That's really how it started.
Dave's money helped us move where
we are. A nicer place. But then he
had the accident.
(sighs)
My dad... he was working for the
district. Industrial reclamation.
(meets Rob's gaze with evident
pride)
My dad is part of the reason
farmers here can get their crops on
the trains to Winnipeg now. He
helped that happen. But when Dave
got hurt... Dad had to make a deal
with some people. It cost so much.
That's why he went to Alberta. The
oil patch. And now he's in that
camp. They saved my brother... but
with Dad gone, it's going to take
us years.

Rob shakes his head slowly.

ROB
There was a time... I guess still
even when I was born... when a man
didn't need a permit to go work the
oil fields. He just went. They
belonged as much to someone here as
to someone right on top of them, if
only he got up off his ass. Now,
though, everyone owns their own
little square of dirt and no one
wants to share. Unless they get
paid for the privilege.

CAMERON
It's all China's fault. Chinks. I
wish there was one here now... I'd
roll him down the highway and use
him to clear the mines.

ROB
(rubbing his chin, trying to
choose his words carefully)
Well… Cameron... I'll tell you.
I've done some reading and I know
they had a rough time of it once.
Back then the shoe was on the other
foot. I guess we can't really fault
them for finally kicking back one
day. Not really.

CAMERON
You're sticking up for them?

ROB
I'm just saying... most of them
were just people. Kids, not much
older than you. I guess a few were
fanatics; there's always some who
are in any crowd. But I think most
of them were just doing what they
were told. I don't think most of
them wanted to be here. Not really.
Fighting and dying on a lot of
flat, frozen tundra, ten thousand
miles away from everyone and
everything they ever gave a shit
about...

CAMERON
But they came here. And we didn't
want them here.

ROB
Do you think your dad wanted to
leave, Cameron? Do you think those
oil field folks wanted him there?

CAMERON
That's different.

ROB
Maybe. Maybe. But to me, it kind of
looks like having to do something
you don't want against the wishes
of other people because you feel
like you don't have a choice. I
think you can stand up for what's
yours but still feel sorry for the
other fellow.
(gives a soft nod; quite for a
moment; takes a gulp of
coffee)
Your father is a brave man,
Cameron. I can see why you love him
so much.

Cameron looks up.

CAMERON
Just like you, I guess... Looking
after your family out here.

Rob looks down.

CAMERON
You miss them.

ROB
I deserve to.
(swirling the coffee, staring
down into it)
I used to drink, Cameron. A lot.
Every day. It just seemed to make
life brighter. I didn't see that I
had all the light a man really
needs in the faces all around me.
Or that I was taking away their
light.

CAMERON
But you stopped, right?

ROB
I'm not a good man like your
father. I drank the jobs I got. I
had a boy... younger than you. I
guess he's a little older than you
now, though. Name's Bill. One night
when I came home he just hauled up
and told me off. Put me in my
place. He had every right. I was a
shitty husband and a shitty father,
and he said so.

CAMERON
(mouth dropping in surprise)
He did? I can't imagine.

ROB
From the sounds of your father, you
never had to.
(looks away)
We got into a fight. I broke his
arm. I broke his arm...
(Rob’s eyes glisten; he sets
his jaw firmly. Takes a deep
breath...)
That's when I left. I knew I had
to.

There is silence. The sounds of other men, laughing,
shouting, calling out hand of cards and cursing each other,
etc., can be heard.

CAMERON
But you love them, right?

ROB
More than anything.

CAMERON
And you quit drinking?

ROB
Can't quite shake that one,
Cameron. Most of the time. But not
all the time. And when I get the
demon rum in me... I can do some
terrible things.

CAMERON
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make
you sad.

ROB
It's okay. It's good to remember.
It's what keeps me right. And
you're a good friend.

CAMERON
Really?

ROB
That's the God's honest truth. If
my sons are like you now, I'd be
busting with pride just to know it.

Cameron sighs, looks around.

CAMERON
Rob, you've been working on the
TransCanada, right?

ROB
Mostly. Well, a lot of the time.

CAMERON
Is there still lots to do?

ROB
(laughing)
Kid, the thing's six or seven
thousand kilometres long. We mined
most of it when the Chinese invaded
so they couldn't use it. When the
PLA retreated, they mined it so we
couldn't use it. Mines on top of
mines. Must still be ten years
worth of work to get it clear end
to end.

CAMERON
How much of it really has to be
swept?

ROB
All of it. You can't take chances.
There are long, long stretches we
never had time to desurface when
the invasion happened. So you can
see mile after mile of blacktop
even now. Crumbling, breaking up,
grass-grown, yeah. But still there.
Ready for wheels. Except the
Chinese... they had this great idea
on the retreat. Find a hole, make a
hole... plant a mine, tar it over.
Looks like a road repair. But it'll
do worse to you than hitting some
pothole if you drive over it. So
there's still lots and lots to do.

CAMERON
So after we're done here... are you
going to head west?

ROB
Probably. That's where most of the
work is. We’re pretty much cleared
to the Lakehead at this point.
Beyond that, it's someone else's
job, really.

CAMERON
Would you take me with you?

ROB
What?

CAMERON
My dad, Rob. I have to go get my
dad out of the camps.

Rob regards Cameron for a few moments, face lit by the
lamplight.

ROB
Cameron... Calgary is weeks and
weeks away from here. Even without
stopping to work. There are men out
there. Dangerous men.

CAMERON
I know that. That's... that's why
I'm asking.

ROB
Christ, kid... I don't know.

CAMERON
I wouldn't hold you back. I
promise. Rob... I don't know if
I... I don't know if I'd make it.
But I have to try. No one else can.
Not my granddad. Not Dave with his
one leg.

ROB
I don't know, Cameron. It's against
my better judgement. Why don't you
ask me again when we're done here
and it's looking more realistic?

CAMERON
(a bit dejected)
Okay.
(after a few moments)
But one way or another, I'm going
to do it. Like that first day when
I stayed in the first line.

ROB
(nodding)
I remember.

CAMERON
I'm not a coward.

ROB
No. You're a boy.

They regard one another in the lamplight, and Rob upends his
coffee cup.

FADE TO:

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

The shot opens to a tree limb, bare of leaves, in
mid-October just after Thanksgiving. The camera pans to the
men, coming off the road, for their midday break.

FOREMAN
Alright, alright, come to me, come
forward, gather around.

The men form up before the foreman.

FOREMAN
We've been pushing. You all know
that. But the inspectors have said
they don't believe we can meet the
deadline of November 15th. So the
company's not making the bonus. And
that means neither are you.

The men react angrily, some of them pushing forward.

The foreman holds up his hands, trying to quiet them to
continue. After a moment, they give him the chance.

FOREMAN
However... however! There's another
project, starting Monday. If they
can get enough to sign on for it,
this leg of the TransCanada
recovery will be put on hold till
the spring. They want to re-open
the Assiniboine bridge to relieve
the communities on the other side.
If they can use that, then they can
at least get one lane of commerce
along the safe trail on the south
side. I'm not going to blow smoke
up your asses. It's heavily mined
on both sides and they nearly blew
the thing up just removing the
booby traps. But for every man who
volunteers, there's fifty up front.
For every man makes it through,
another two hundred at the other
end. That's for about three weeks'
work.

The men begin to mutter with guarded optimism.

FOREMAN
Sign-ups are this evening at day's
end, and tomorrow and Friday, which
is the day we shut down. Think it
over. Now eat up and get back to
work.

The view focuses on Cameron's face, full of wonder at the
news.

CAMERON
(to himself)
I could get him home for Christmas.

He turns to Rob, but finds Rob eyeing him with trepidation.
Cameron keeps his thoughts to himself, and they wander back
to work.

FADE TO:

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Cameron and Rob and the other men, sweeping the road with
their mine detectors.

FADE TO:

EXT. FIELD NEAR A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

The sun is setting at the end of the day.

CUT TO:

EXT. BASE CAMP

Cameron turns in his detector and hurries up to one of the
foreman's assistants.

CAMERON
Which way is the line for the new
project?

OVERSEER
It's that one right over there.

CAMERON
Thanks.

Cameron hurries to join the line. Just as he does, he's
taken by the elbow.

ROB
Cameron, no.

Cameron glances at Rob and pulls his arm away.

CAMERON
I don't have any choice.

ROB
There are other ways, Cameron.
You're nearly there. You said so
yourself. Quit while you're ahead.

Cameron glares at Rob.

CAMERON
Don't make this hard for me.

Rob draws his hand back. Men behind them begin complaining
about the hold-up. Cameron steps up to the table. The man
behind it eyes him suspiciously, but finally pushes the
contract across the table at him. Cameron signs it, locks
gazes with Rob, and heads over to the comptroller's line for
his pay.

FADE TO:

EXT. PROVINCIAL ROAD 457

Cameron heads homeward through the twilight.

EXT. HILLSIDE WITH OLD TREE

Cameron approaches the old tree. He looks around, reaches
for the money box, and puts his daily contribution into it.
He then sets it back and heads home.

INT. THE KITCHEN

The family has gathered in the evening, eating quietly as
they listen to the radio. Granddad pauses to wind up its
dynamo again as it begins to fade.

Cameron is picking at his plate, and sighs.

MOM
You don't seem very hungry tonight.
Is anything wrong?

CAMERON
Just had a rough day.

GRANDDAD
Isn't it getting a little late for
the harvest?

CAMERON
Mostly over. We're putting the
place right for winter. Getting set
up for next year. You know.

GRANDDAD
Ah.

CAMERON
(picking at a boiled potato)
There's only a couple days left
now.

DAVID
They're looking for runners at
work. A lot easier than what you've
been doing. We could ride to City
Hall together. Good way to spend
the winter. Interested, Cammy?

CAMERON
I dunno.
(looks up into David's hopeful
face)
Why don't we wait and see next
week?

DAVID
Sure. I've got an in... I'm pretty
sure I can get them to take you on.

Cameron rises, reaching for his jacket.

CAMERON
Well, I better get back. I've been
learning a lot about the machinery,
and I guess I've only got a few
more days to learn.

MOM
Well, alright. Don't be out too
late, okay? The nights are really
starting to get cold.

CAMERON
I won't. I'll see you in a few
hours.

Cameron grabs a slice of bread and leaves the kitchen.

EXT. PROVINCIAL ROAD 457

Cameron walks back to the base camp.

EXT. BASE CAMP

Cameron is outside Rob's tent.

CAMERON
Rob? It's me, Cameron. I need to
see you.

There's a long pause.

ROB
Alright, Cameron.

Cameron enters.

INT. ROB'S TENT

Cameron comes in. He regards Rob, who is sitting with a
bottle of liquor and is already quite drunk. Cameron has to
look away not to show his pain and disappointment. He turns
back, anger in his eyes.

CAMERON
Why can't you be happy for me?

Rob says nothing, eyes wandering back and forth between the
bottle and the boy.

Cameron sits, confronting Rob.

CAMERON
I have to do it. Rob, I could get
my dad home. For real. In weeks
now, not months. And there'd be
money left over. Fifty bucks gets
you on the grid for six months,
non-stop. I'd be able to get power
for our house for more than a year.
I've been putting it aside... I've
been hiding most of it. Having to
lie and tell them I'm picking crops
for crap wages. Do you know what
it's going to mean when I bring
that money home? When I can show it
to them at last?

ROB
Cameron, do you know why they're
paying that kind of money?

CAMERON
Yes, of course. Because it's so
dangerous.

Rob sighs. He leans the bottle back and takes two deep
swallows, then leans forward.

ROB
This highway is a convenience.
Clearing it will make commerce a
lot faster. Get things started up
again for real. But trucks,
tanks... they really don't need
highways. They can cross the
prairie grass and make their own
roads. But they need bridges,
Cameron. Without them, well...
people on one side don't know the
people on the other anymore, and we
get a world like this. We know it,
and the Chinese knew it.

CAMERON
That's why they booby-trapped it. I
know.

ROB
No. You don't know. They mined this
road up and down, that's true. But
they saved the good mines, the best
mines, for the bridges. Mines made
of wood, boy. Clay. Plastic. Mines
that don't show up on a detector
hardly at all. Mines designed for
men more than machines. A mile to
either side. Do you get me?

CAMERON
You're trying to scare me.

ROB
You're goddamn right I am. And you
should be. But I'm telling you the
truth. You know, when I was a kid
in Red Deer, they used to clear the
bridges in town by driving cattle
back and forth across them till
they either ran out of mines or
they ran out of cattle. But meat
was getting scarce by then and when
that got too expensive, they
started using sheep. And when that
got too expensive, that's when they
started paying men to do it. My
brother is buried alongside the
49th Street bridge.

CAMERON
(sneering)
They why do you do it?

ROB
Because I broke my son's arm.
Because sending money home is all I
have left to offer them.

Rob raises the bottle again, but Cameron grabs his arm
before he can drink.

CAMERON
Well, all I have is this. To get my
father home.

Rob stares into Cameron's eyes.

ROB
Cameron... about every third man
they send out there is going to
die. That's a solid fact. They know
it, I know it, and I'm telling you.
And I'll tell you something else.
Your father would rather rot the
rest of his life in that camp than
have you blown all over that bridge
for a lousy couple hundred bucks.
If he's even half the man you say
he is.

Cameron pushes Rob, who falls off his cot, the bottle
tumbling to the floor. Cameron rises, standing in the mouth
of the tent and watching Rob scramble for his bottle. He
gazes down at Rob, cradling the bottle and looking up at
him, with disgust. After a moment, Cameron turns and leaves.

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

In the morning, Cameron gathers with the other men. He looks
around, but does not see Rob. He creeps away.

INT. ROB'S TENT

Cameron peers into Rob's tent and finds him snoring on his
cot, whiskey bottles on the floor, and hints of vomit.
Cameron looks disgusted and pained, and slowly leaves the
tent.

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Cameron is on line with his mine detector. The foreman
approaches him.

FOREMAN
Where's your friend?

CAMERON
I think he's sick.

FOREMAN
Yeah. Yeah, I'll bet. Show me.

CAMERON
I don't think you want to catch
what he's--

FOREMAN
I said show me.

EXT. BASE CAMP

Outside Rob's tent. Cameron opens the flap and he and the
foreman lean in. After a moment they emerge.

FOREMAN
At lunch time, if he's awake...
hell, if he's not, wake him up.
Tell him to get his shit together
and get gone. He's finished here.

CAMERON
It was just one night. He misses
his family. Everybody--

FOREMAN
If you can't follow orders, kid,
you can stay right here next week.
I don't need nobody who can't
follow orders getting on the truck
on Monday. Understand?

Cameron nods.

FOREMAN
Get in the line and get to work.

Cameron watches the foreman leave. He sighs, glancing back
at Rob's tent, then reluctantly follows the foreman.

FADE TO:

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Cameron, listening to the clicks in his earphones, as he
slowly sweeps the highway.

FADE TO:

An overhead shot of Cameron, from behind, sweeping, with the
shot rising and growing wider, to show the men at work. One
pauses to flag a mine.

FADE TO:

The men moving off the highway for the midday break. Cameron
sighs, closing his eyes as he takes the headphones off,
contemplating what he now has to do.

EXT. BASE CAMP

Outside Rob's tent.

CAMERON
Rob? Rob, are you up yet?

Cameron turns, and leans into the tent.

INT. ROB'S TENT

Cameron sees the tent has been emptied of all Rob's personal
effects. In shock, he steps in, looking around at the sudden
empty hollowness.

EXT. FIELD NEAR A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Cameron returns to the luncheon area, clearly looking
around, hoping to spot Rob. Instead, the foreman finds him.

FOREMAN
Did you tell him?

CAMERON
He's already gone.

FOREMAN
(faintly surprised, but
satisfied)
Well, at least he's got that much
sense. Go on, get something to eat.

CAMERON
(leaden)
Yes, sir...

CUT TO:

The camera slowly tightens on Cameron's face as he sits at
the table, ignoring his lunch, his face only hinting at the
devastation he clearly feels inside. Finally, he closes his
eyes and begins to eat.

FADE TO:

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Cameron is listening intently to his headphones as he
sweeps. Suddenly, without warning, the headphones are torn
from his head. He is grabbed by the collar and confronted by
the foreman.

FOREMAN
You little bastard, why didn't you
tell me you were sixteen?

Cameron looks bewildered. Suddenly he sees his mother behind
the men. She is frantic and making an emotional scene, and
being restrained by Granddad. The men are laughing.

The foreman manhandles Cameron over to his mother and
grandfather and shoves him at them.

FOREMAN
Get him out of here!
(pointing at Cameron)
Don't come back.

The foreman storms off.

Cameron is slapped by his mother, who is angered to tears.

MOM
Mine sweeping? After what happened
to Dave? After your father had to
go away?

She raises her hand to strike him again, but her arm is
caught by Granddad.

GRANDDAD
Easy, easy, Annie...

She turns and tucks her face into her father's coat.

CAMERON
(rubbing his cheek, wailing)
What happened?!

GRANDDAD
(restraining his own anger)
A man came by this morning. Drunk.
Said he knew you. Said you were
sweeping, getting ready to go away.
We didn't believe him at first but
he knew everything about us.

CAMERON
But I never told him where we
lived...

GRANDDAD
Well, he found us, and he set us
straight.
(Granddad looks at his
daughter, stroking her hair)
Boy, you've hurt your mother
something awful. How could you do
this? Have you got no sense? No
sense at all?

Mom turns, face red and pinched.

MOM
(yelling)
Get home! Get home, now!

CAMERON
But how did he find you? I never
brought him home! I never led...
(something dawns on him)
Oh, my God.

Cameron breaks into a run, moving past them as they call out
to him.

EXT. PROVINCIAL ROAD 457

Cameron runs down the empty road.

EXT. HILLSIDE WITH OLD TREE

Cameron runs up to the tree. Frantically, he reaches into
it, and pulls out the money box. When he opens it, there is
nearly no money in it.

CAMERON
Oh, fuck, no! No, no, no no no!!

His hands trembling, he counts the bills. Then counts them
again.

CAMERON
(on the verge of tears)
Fifty! Fifty!

He finally attends to a folded piece of paper place in the
box. Read over his shoulder, in large block letters, it
says: I HOPE YOU’LL UNDERSTAND SOMEDAY

Cameron sinks to his knees, bringing his hands to his face.
After a moment, he rages, balling the note and throwing it
at the tree. He pounds his fists in the dirt.

CAMERON
You bastard! You filthy, fucking
bastard!

The camera pulls back from him as he continues to rage,
alone in the vast empty landscape.

FADE TO:

EXT. A CRUMBLING HIGHWAY

Men at the base camp who are going on the project get into
the trucks.

FADE TO:

Same view. The men are on the trucks. The trucks begin to
pull away.

FADE TO:

Same view. The trucks are gone. The camp is gone. The view
is empty, except for the road.

CUT TO:

INT. TROLLEY BUS

Cameron and David, sitting on a trolley together, David
looking around, Cameron staring despondently at the floor.

FADE TO:

INT. ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, CENTRAL AREA

Someone working at a municipal desk. She pats a desk bell.
Cameron appears, taking a stack of papers from her desk and
carrying them away.

FADE TO:

INT. ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, OFFICE

David working at a desk, separating files from a folder into
two piles. Camera pans to show Cameron, working with broken
resignation as he places pages into a filing cabinet. He
glances up at a small window. Lit from inside, snow is seen
flying past it.

FADE TO:

INT. ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, CENTRAL AREA

Central area of the municipal office. Cameron watches as
some of the older women work putting up some modest
Christmas decorations. David appears, offering him a
steaming mug of something. Cameron manages to smile as he
takes it, and brings it to his lips.

FADE TO:

EXT. FRONT STEPS OF THE BELANGER HOME

The snow has set in deep, and in the light of the street
lamps, Cameron and several other people who live in his
building are co-operating, cleaning off the front steps and
the sidewalks. David, balanced on his crutch, is carefully
helping to sweep the stairs. A woman comes out with a tray
of hot drinks for the workers. Cameron takes one, thanking
the woman, and cups it to his mouth.

The view shows a dark figure appearing from another street
onto theirs.

A couple of people look up warily at the approach of a
stranger out of the storm.

Cameron is busy with shovelling the walk.

A couple more people look up.

NEIGHBOUR #1
Ben?

People peer at one another.

NEIGHBOUR #1
Is that Ben?

Cameron pauses, lifting his head.

NEIGHBOUR #2
Dave, Cammy... isn't that your
father?

Cameron turns. David stares down from the steps. Cameron's
look of concentration becomes one of recognition. He drops
his shovel.

CAMERON
Oh, my God...

He steps forward.

CAMERON
Dad?
(breaking into a run)
Dad?!

The stranger, DAD, drops his pack and opens his arms,
running to meet Cameron.

CAMERON
Dad!

They meet in an embrace.

David hurries down the steps, neighbours reaching to help
him. Others rush up the stairs to summon the rest of the
Belangers.

DAVID
Dad! Dad!

DAD
Cameron! Oh, Cameron... Dave. Oh,
my God... I can't believe it's you.

Cameron leans back, taking in his father's haggard, wasted
appearance with a look of mingled joy and dismay. David
hurries up and joins the embrace.

DAD
Oh, my God, boys...

CAMERON
How did you get away? How did you
get home?

DAD
I don't know. It was like a
miracle. One day about a month ago,
the guards came up and told me my
parole was paid; I could go.
Someone just paid it. I don't know
who, and I don't know why. I
thought it might have been one of
you, but... there was no one...

Cameron blinks away tears.

CAMERON
(voice cracking)
You don't know who it was?

DAD
No, Cammy. All I know is the
message they gave me. To tell my
family Merry Christmas. Especially
my son.
(looks back and forth between
Cameron and David, but David's
gaze directs him)
Cameron?

Neighbours emerge, leading Mom, Granddad, and Tammy.

MOM
Ben? Ben! Ben!

GRANDDAD
Ben!

TAMMY
Daddy, Daddy!

They all rush up as neighbours gather around, cheering and
shouting. The view lifts up and away to take in the entire
joyous street scene.

FADE TO:

INT. THE KITCHEN

The kitchen is candle-lit. The family is gathered at the
table, and Christmas dinner appears to be finished. Dad is
cleaned up and looking a bit more hale and hearty; he holds
Tammy in his arms. Together, they all sing Silent Night.
Cameron smiles, looking into the faces of his family one by
one, but then his smile fades as he gazes out the window
into the cold darkness.

INT. ALCOVE OF THE BELANGER HOME

With the family still making merry in the candle light
behind him, Cameron puts on his winter coat, boots, and cap,
and heads out into the street.

EXT. SMITHFIELD ROAD

Cameron walks up the road in the darkness, silhouetted by
the timid but reassuring light of the City of Brandon.

EXT. HILLSIDE WITH OLD TREE

Cameron climbs the hill up to the tree, faintly lit by
moonlight and the light of the city. He pauses there, hands
in his pockets, just looking around, lost for a moment.

Cameron gazes off to the west, in the direction Rob went.

He eases to his knees, and begins to paw in the snow.
Nestled in the roots of the tree, he finds the balled-up
note from Rob. He unfolds it, smoothing it out on the trunk,
and holds it up. Stained and smeared, it still reads I HOPE
YOU’LL UNDERSTAND SOMEDAY

The view focuses on Cameron's face, his eyes beginning to
fill with tears, his lip trembling. Suddenly he gasps,
bringing his hands to his face.

CAMERON
I'm sorry... I'm sorry. I didn't
know. I'm sorry.

After a moment, he lifts his face. He clasps his hands.
Cheeks wet with tears, he stares up into the sky.

CAMERON
Please... please... look after my
friend.

The view shifts to a one-quarter view behind Cameron, knelt
beside the tree, and pulls back and upward slowly, leaving
him there on his knees in prayer.

CREDITS BEGIN; FADE TO BLACK.

How God spoils movies

2010-11-11T09:23:00.000-05:00

TITLE SHOT

THE THERMODYNE SYNDROME

CREDITS

RICHARD BASEHART

as Mike Ridgley, ace science-beat reporter and adventurer

PHYLLIS COATES

as Samantha "Sam" Carter, prize-winning photojournalist and Mike's "gal Friday"

BELA LUGOSI

as Dr. David Lindstrom, brilliant theoretical physicist

HUMPHREY BOGART

as General Hailes

EDWARD G. ROBINSON

as the President

JAMES CAGNEY

as Time Traveller, mysterious defender from the future

BORIS KARLOFF

as the Alien Commander

written and directed by

BILLY WILDER

CROSS-FADE TO:

ACT I, SC. I

EXT. EST. SHOT

Twilight. The driveway to a mysterious old mansion.

A car arrives. Mike and Sam emerge and approach the front door.

SAM

He could hardly have picked a spookier spot for his research, could he?

MIKE

Scared, Sam?

SAM

Who, me? Never. As a matter of fact, I'm thrilled.

MIKE

To meet Dr. David Lindstrom?

SAM

The inventor of the "Lindstrument"? Who wouldn't be?

MIKE

Well, not everyone, these days.

SAM

I know. He had such a bright future at MIT... until...

MIKE

Yes.

SAM

Never mind that now, Mike. Let's get in there and see what it is he wants to show us!

CROSS-FADE TO:

ACT I, SC. II

INT. EST. SHOT

A high-tech laboratory. Dr. Lindstrom leads Mike and Sam in.

LINDSTROM

I'm so grateful you've come. I'm on the brink of something momentous!

MIKE

We're honoured to be chosen to be the first to see, Doctor. Oh, where are my manners? Doctor, this is my partner, Samantha Carter. Sam, Dr. David Lindstrom.

SAM

(removing lens cap from her camera)

It's such an honour, sir.

LINDSTROM

You're too kind. You know, most reporters wouldn't touch this story with a ten-foot pole. But I knew you'd be different, Mike. You're just like your father.

MIKE

(unspooling mic to large tape recorder)

Thank you, Doctor. I try to live up to his legacy.

LINDSTROM

I wish he could have seen this day. Most of my colleagues scoff at my ideas—

GOD

That's 'cause they're crap, Dave.

Sam replaces lens cap as Mike begins looping mic back up.

SUPERIMPOSITION:

[production credits]

LINDSTROM

Well, back to the drawing board. Thank you for coming.

MIKE

The pleasure was all ours, Doctor.

SUPERIMPOSITION:

THE END

LINDSTROM

Well, good-b—

Pregnancies

2010-06-30T07:42:00.005-04:00

"I'm at home with a Jewish man this week," Phaedra remarked, hoping the casualness of the revelation would shock Madelene. In this, she was disappointed.

"How exotic," Madelene allowed, sighing. "And what does Bernard think of that?"

Phaedra brought the cigarette holder to her plum lips, drawing in the smoke. She considered for a moment, then released it heartily, like a steam locomotive confined in a marshalling yard and anxious to get underway. "Who knows what Bernard thinks? He's in Zurich." Belatedly, she asked, "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

Madelene shook her head slightly. After fifteen years of being asked two minutes too late, why should she begin to take offence now? "I notice you're not at home now, though." She lifted the Manhattan to her lips, peering over it.

"No, I needed to break away," Phaedra moaned. "Thank God you were available, otherwise I think I'd be haunting the newsstands or something."

The waiter, who had been standing stoically at their table for some time, wore the pinched, sour look of a man trapped in a cramped elevator with a flatulent moose: nothing he can say will do him the slightest bit of good, and can in fact only make things worse. He waited.

Finally the doors opened to enable his escape in the form of Phaedra deigning to address to him a single word. "Scampi," she said, flicking the menu up stiffly.

"Is that your order or your obit?" Madelene breezed. Neither of them noticed the faint upward turn of the corners of their waiter's mouth.

Phaedra hurried to take another draw on her cigarette and immediately cast the smoke into exile before condemning Madelene's joke at her expense as "Boring."

"Well, not nearly as exciting as spending the week in bed with a Jewish man," Madelene enthused. She slightly improved, but only slightly, on Phaedra's rudeness by telling the waiter, "The braised canard, please. And I hope it's better done than last time." The waiter nodded and wordlessly retreated.

There was a gloriously warm overcast to this late spring day as the people crowded past the patio and the traffic lazed its way along the street like sleepy logs carried on a river to some common destination. Madelene sunk a little deeper into the muck of her cocktail and said, "So tell me his name, this Hebrew Lothario of yours."

"Oh, you wouldn't know him," Phaedra waved her cigarette. "Hell, I barely know him. His name's Joel, though. Joel Fine."

"And is he?"

"Is he what?"

"Fine?"

"Oh. He'll do, I suppose. He's an actor. Or hopes to be, or something. I met him backstage at South Pacific last month. We've been keeping a little discreet time, here and there."

"And Bernard doesn't know?"

"Oh, Bernard knows, I'm sure. If not the who, exactly, then the what. He does a lot of 'what' himself, of course. Well, we all do from time to time, don't we."

Madelene made no reply other than a sip. She considerd the traffic and people passing by. "I was surprised when you and Bernard made it official. I always thought you were going to end up with Claude Dennison," Madelene said.

"Claude?" Phaedra sputtered, amused by the notion. "He's Catholic."

"Not so impossible these days," Madelene suggested.

"Oh, please, think about it. All that time playing with beads, getting up and down off your knees like some Latin American peon between revolutions, and you spend your whole life pregnant." She sucked the cigarette holder. "Good Lord, you'd think there'd never been a Reformation. No, Claude was a distraction... nothing more."

"If you say so." Then Madelene dared: "Seemed a prolonged one."

Phaedra blithely shruged one shoulder, untroubled to provide either an explanation or excuse.

"I wonder what Claude is doing these days," Madelene asked her Manhattan.

"Seven years for kiting cheques," Phaedra said.

"No."

"Yes! Trying to paper over a short loan to keep his Hudson dealership afloat. The paper didn't extend quite far enough, though, unfortunately. The cheques bounced before he could put sufficient cash under them to cover their fall."

"That's just tragic," Madelene said.

"Isn't it, though." Phaedra sighed a cloudy, smoky sigh. "What a world." She watched Madelene piloting her drink back and forth between the table and her mouth and frowned. "What is taking so long with that drink?"

"I'm sorry, dear, did you order one? I don't recall that you did."

"Didn't I? How remiss of me."

"I certainly thought so."

"Garçon!" Phaedra wailed, raising her hand and peering over her shoulder. No waiter was in sight. "Damn. Those people are never around when you want them. Always perched on your shoulder when you don't, they vanish into dark corners the minute that you—there you are," she said, as their waiter approached. "I'll have what the lady is drinking."

Again, the mute waiter indicated his comprehension and retreated into the restaurant.

"You know, I kind of envied you Claude," Madelene confessed.

"Go on, did you?" Phaedra actually was aware of this, but it was pleasing to hear it from Madelene herself. "Well, you could have had him."

"Maybe if I'd been Catholic."

"You? Catholic? My dear, you're hardly the type; you're no brood mare."

The corners of Madelene's mouth pulled slightly and she glanced away.

Phaedra cursed herself. "Dear, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I know how hard you tried and I admire you for it." Pity, actually, but admire is a much kinder verb. "Surely your heart was in it..."

Madelene nodded softly, still not looking at her.

"I know how much you wanted children," Phaedra beckoned, thinking guiltily of Richie, nicely out of the way in a boarding school.

"Not as much as Leonard," Madelene observed.

"Still..."

Madelene finally looked up to meet Phaedra's eyes. "It wasn't meant to be. Not for me, anyway..."

"Maddy, are you sure it was you and not Leonard? Men have their gremlins too..."

In response, Madelene returned to the well of her Manhattan, dipping her lips into it. Rising from it, she asked, "Do you remember Sandra Foster?"

"Marilyn's daughter? The debutant?" Okay, she's 26. My, how time flies...

"She's having his baby."

Phaedra blinked.

"He's asked me for a divorce."

Phaedra shut her eyes. "Bastard," she said softly.

"He was very kind about it. He explained how it came about. Told me how sorry he was. But... you know how much Leonard wanted to be a father."

Phaedra had had no real idea just how much, until now. A million things to say flashed through her mind; you're too good for him, better off without him, plenty of fish in the sea... none of them appropriate. Neither was, she realized now, her empty boasting of skewering a loveless marriage that meant nothing to her.

"Maddy, I'm sorry. I should have my teeth torn out for some of the things I've said today..."

"It's alright, you were just trying to be interesting," Madelene smiled wanly. "Oh Phaedra, what am I going to do?"

Phaedra set her jaw firmly, as though to squeeze back any semblance of tears. She said, with the force she might have used speaking to the mirror, "Start living again!" She held up a hand when Madelene began to protest, then reached across the table to take Madelene's in it. "Say your good-byes, take a breath, and start to live again." She knew how feebly inadequate it sounded. Nevertheless, it was true.

"But my life is over, Phaedra."

"No, it isn't, Maddy; it's changing." She wanted to tell her like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, but that hardly seemed the appropriate simile for this moment. And anyway, only the fullness of time could reveal whether it was that kind of transformation or not. But a transformation it definitely was, and so she left it at that.

The waiter arrived with Phaedra's Manhattan. She dug into her pocketbook and held out a bill far exceeding the value of the order so far. "Waiter," she said, catching his eye, "two more of these. Please." It was a moment where kindness, any kindness at all, was the foundation upon which the whole world tottered. Maybe, she reflected, maybe it always was.

"Yes, madam, at once," nodded the waiter, cordially failing to notice Madelene's melancholy, and he retreated once more into the restaurant, that great dark womb of comforting food and blissfully obliviating libations.

Rural Route

2010-06-24T08:57:00.002-04:00

A raft of photos in black and white, showing views of the bridge, the river, the sunbaked road in dirt, unpaved, still narrow and uncomplicated, as are the skinny children who cavort in dark bathing suits, as natural and incidental as swallows; glistening skin, gap-toothed grins, an evident delight in being timeless and free before the camera, before each other, before the world, before...

A tangle of bikes and towels; frozen visions of dives, splashes, self-conscious displays and ingenuous postures of reclining bodies in the sun-dappled shadows of a willowy riverbank of long ago; offering up as much of their youth as they can to the sun god, a willing sacrifice; scenes of a bridge, a river, a road, a childhood, a freedom now all gone: arms around shoulders, fingers raised behind heads, feet, hair, freckles, bellies, backs, silhouettes under the bridge that offered glimpses of the future.

In God's Driveway

2010-06-24T08:03:00.000-04:00

my silver-haired God
encased in robes and
__striped pajama bottoms
__white shirt
__bedroom slippers
the Scottish burr, the twinkling eyes
__the smile for a grandson, his angel,
__at the far end of the driveway framed
____between concrete lions
____with carefully-set agate eyes
summer blaze
of suburban Montreal
__before the angel
__went to school
__and God
__went to Heaven

Border Blues in Green

2010-06-24T07:58:00.000-04:00

It's a café in Monaghan Town, the snow falling thickly in the street outside—I didn't know it snowed in the Isles, but there you are—and over by the dart board they're arguing. Just by my accent, I nominate myself to adjudicate their dispute; I'm from 'away', they can tell; I can safely be counted upon to be neutral to their passions, too ignorant of what's important to have a preformed opinion, too guileless to give offense—and yet, give offense I must, to at least one of them.

Then my companion returns bearing coffee and scones (one of those mixed blessings that crossed the little sea), a guardian angel who chases the serpents away from the naked innocent with his flaming Jackeen tongue.

"Where were you in Eden?" I joke.

"Eh?" he says. Then, "D'youse take it with sugar?"

I shake my head and look at the snow. Can't believe it snows here.

Into the Snow

2010-06-22T22:10:00.001-04:00

In the cold streets they walk with the care of diamond cutters, each footfall planned, each shift measured, every step a show of deliberate force and grace. It is not the carefree, wild gait of summer. Bundled up, they seem like strangers to their own planet, beings from another world thrust precariously out into a climate never meant for them; and their breaths fly away visibly under the harsh street lights, as though their very souls evaporate.

The snow falls thick and heavy; windless, it fairly smothers as it descends, straight, in love with gravity, untroubled to dance, save by the wake of their bodies, and the pocket monsoons of their own breath.

Alongside, the homes of the middle class; warm, well-lit, prepared, in their largely Presbyterian way, for the approach of Christmas. Opposite them, the park; its darkness deep and rich like Belgian chocolate, inviting and just a bit bitter beyond the iron fence. The sky is a grey wool blanket over all, and the world would be blind but for the hazy, luminous reflection of the city lights below, both gas and, lately, electric. In fact, the night is as bright as any ornamented by a full moon.

"Don't be too worried about what Maggie says," advises Richard. "She's easy to put in a snit, but she's just as easy to cheer up again."

"I sure hope so," Nelson mumbles. "I don't even know what I did."

Richard nudges him through his thick fur coat. "That's usually how it is," Richard laughs. "At least, when it's not serious."

Up the hill comes a Ford, its headlamps slicing through the snow like a hot knife through butter; the track filled in a moment later. They stop, admire the sleek black machine as it passes, grinding out complaints as it fights its way through the debilitating carpet, and turning down the next street.

"Someday," Nelson says.

"Ah, you and the stock market," Richard smiles.

"Any man can be rich," Nelson puffs. "It just takes a little know-how, a little inside knowledge, and a little faith in the market. And one day, that car will be mine, Rich. Mark my words."

"I believe you, Nels, honest."

"Think about it. Now don't you think a long drive on a lovely night like this in smart automobile like that would put me right back in Maggie's good books?"

"Sure it would," Richard nods. "But since you don't have that automobile yet, we're just going to have to find another way."

"It would be easier with the Ford," grumbles Nelson.

* * * * *

They have forgiven him for being Anglican—almost Catholic—because he is a young man of drive and verve, easily likable, and because Margaret favours him. His family is not wealthy, but neither is it poor. Not quite as well off as the Fergusons, the Grants have still managed to see their son through a good college and out into the world as an office clerk. Up and coming. Mr. Ferguson can respect this, surely, since he himself advanced along this route when the century was new. And so Nelson is welcomed, genuinely and sincerely, when he comes calling.

Richard and Nelson kick the snow off their boots as they emerge out of their hats, scarves, fur; hanging each on the myriad hooks along the wall of the atrium. "I'm home," Richard booms. From the bright glow of the study where the radio is playing, family spills forth in greeting. The first, of course, is Mrs. Ferguson, embracing the young man, reciting the incantation of his name, as though in so uttering, she makes him real.

Mr. Ferguson comes out, his pipe jutting from the broad grey mustache that hides his smile, his cheeks fat and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. He wears a plaid vest and has the evening paper tucked under his arm. He stands aside, master of all, content to survey the world he has made for himself; home, family, and esteemed friends. He shakes his son's hand and then Nelson's, for this is how men convey their feelings about one another. Meanwhile, the younger Fergusons mill about, chatting and yapping the things that momentarily fill their narrow worlds, while at the back of it all, Margaret, her green eyes piercing, frowns softly at Nelson.

"Hello, Maggie," Nelson smiles.

"Hello, Nelson," she murmurs. Nelson wants to say more to her but discussions among the Ferguson men, among whom he his now an ad hoc member, keep him from engaging her. He turns to look for her, but she has drifted off.

* * * * *

Supper has ever been a round-table for the issues of the day, if only because Mr. Ferguson is well-informed and values an audience capable of appreciating it. Once Mrs. Ferguson and her daughters have brought in the joint and the vegetables and grace has been said, the fare can be served, seasoned liberally with the sauce of politics.

Nelson tries several times to catch Maggie's eye, sometimes catches and even occasionally holds it, but never for long.

"Well, I'm hoping one day soon to graduate from Canada into the States," Richard explains as he expounds on his laid-out plans for a golden future.

Mr. Ferguson clears his throat, and all eyes fix upon him. He holds up his glass, inspecting the wine, as if the old Latin proverb were to be taken that literally. He says, "While I personally admire the United States in many ways, it's my feeling that any such country, having divorced itself from its roots and forgotten its history, must be forever adrift like an anchorless ship in a stormy sea. It can never truly be at peace with itself. Well, just look at their civil war. If they had stayed the course of empire with the rest of us, slavery would have been abolished in the 1830s and that would have been that." He pats his hand, firmly, on the table top; his judgment pronounced upon the entire race.

"They've achieved great things, Dad," Richard counters. "I'm willing to bet they'll outstrip the British before too long."

"That may be," Mr. Ferguson says. "But don't confuse gaudiness with greatness, Richard. Any nation that assassinates three of its presidents in the space of a lifetime is a troubled land indeed, and not truly civilized."

"What about Prime Minister Perceval?" Margaret says, a quiet smile on her lips.

Her father waves the point away. "One assassination," he declares, "is an aberration. Three is a definite trend."

"Or D'Arcy McGee?" the middle brother, Mason, adds.

"Well, Mr. McGee was never prime minister," Mr. Ferguson points out. "And besides, it's well known he was a Fenian supporter. Not that I'm justifying what happened to him—just that it's not surprising that that kind of politics has its inevitable comeuppance."

"Well, Ireland is free now," Richard says. "After a long struggle."

Mr. Ferguson jabs a potato into his mouth, chews quickly so that he can retort. "They'll rue the day," is all he can manage between swallows. "Mark that, they will."

"Prime Minister Perceval?" Nelson asks, hearkening back to Maggie's point.

Forced by manners to address his inquiry, she smiles sweetly. "Surely your instructors haven't left you in the dark as to the fate of poor Mr. Perceval," she says.

Mr. Ferguson's eyebrow is raised in question over an eye that considers his young friend. "I'm afraid they may have," Nelson says, then allows, "though I may not have been paying attention."

To Nelson's frustration, it is Margaret's father who fields the matter. "British prime minister; assassinated just prior to the initiation of our last bout of armed unpleasantries with the republic to the south," he says, eyes flicking to his intending-expatriate son. "Murdered outside the Commons by one John Bellingham, if I'm not mistaken, over a matter of dissatisfaction with the results of a petition for compensation."

"Ah, thank you," says Nelson, meaning anything but.

Richard gives him a quick wink and a soft kick under the table. "Nice try," he mouths silently. More politics, more food, but no more successful attempts at engaging Maggie follow, until at last, Richard is able to arrange what Nelson has been aching for: a polite retreat to strategize.

"Please don't think we're rude," Richard says, "but I'm just going take Nels aside for a few moments to talk some things over in the drawing room."

"Take your time," Mr. Ferguson blesses them. "You young men go have your chat. We'll be here when you're finished."

Mrs. Ferguson has resumed her knitting, and the youngsters their places around the radio. "Maggie, why don't you bring the boys some tea," she suggests in her smooth, clear, sweet voice; a voice that flows like honeyed chocolate, delighting the ear instead of the tongue. Perhaps not Margaret's ear. She shoots her mother the tiniest of barbed looks, and rises, slowly, casually, as if she could not possibly care less either way. It is Nelson's sudden urge to follow her, confront her in the kitchen, but Richard is true to his word and hauls him away to the drawing room.

"Rich, what are you doing?" Nelson protests, hissing. "This is my opportunity to talk to Maggie."

"Oh, let her stew," Richard advises him. "We'll act like we're having a grand time when she comes in. Make her think you don't miss her half as much as she misses you. That ought to soften her up some."

"Well…" Nelson says.

"Trust me. I've known her twenty-one years."

"…Alright. I'll follow your lead."

"Good man. Now. Laugh."

"Pardon?"

"Laugh, Nels!"

Nelson pulls a face; he says, "Ha ha?"

"No, fool, laugh! Right out loud, as though I'd said the wittiest thing you've heard in a week. As though you were a happy man and the world a merry place!"

Nelson laughs, loudly.

Richard sigh, nods, "Not bad; a little polish and she just might believe you're a yak strangling on its tongue; come on, like this:" and Richard provides a robust, rounded example of a manly laugh; a cordial, pretentious, world-dominating sort of rumble shared by gentlemen of secure and fruitful means. Nelson tries again, and joins the club.

Richard leans back, listening. "Maggie's coming. Watch this," he mutters to Nelson. Suddenly he stiffens, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets, his voice booming as though he and Nelson have been conversing so for quite some time; he says, "...When I woke up, she was gone, but she'd left her underwear!" He leans forward, beaming at Nelson, emphasizing his point. He gushes, "Isn't that quaint?"

Carrying a tea tray, Margaret enters, lips parted in the slightest betrayal of astonishment, her face questionably sour. Whether this is due to the fact that Richard might be in earnest, or is simply saying this to provoke her, or due to the fact that he would say such things out loud regardless of the reason, is not clear.

Even Nelson is a bit taken aback, and he wavers between a sickly grin and a wild look of dismay. "She, um," he begins, trying to invent the script, "this girl, she uh, was quite libertine, then?"

"To say the least," Richard trumpets.

Margaret clears her throat; it's like a thousand tiny windows smashing at once. She says nothing, but when Richard turns to acknowledge her she holds up the tray, questioningly. "Oh, thanks, Maggie," he says. "Just put it on the desk."

Margaret sets it down; she goes him one better and pours. Two cups.

Richard wears a sly look; infinitely subtle; he says, "Do you take one lump or two, Nels?"

"One, please," Nels says. He catches a look from Margaret that could cut glass and feels a sinking feeling as she drops a cube into his tea, and stirs it.

"Will that be all," she says, eyeing Richard, "or shall I drink it for you too? Wouldn't want you two worldly gents to have to break from chewing the rug for anything so plebian."

"Why don't you join us?" Richard says.

"I'd as soon not, thank you," she breezes, and recovering her hauteur, she turns to leave.

Richard strides after her, stopping her. "Oh, Maggie, really! That's quite enough. Regardless of the fact that you're behaving like a spoiled child who's had her doll taken away—"

"Am I, now."

"—Yes, you are. And what's more, you are being quite and deliberately rude to a guest of this family—and one who, I might add, thinks the world of you and wonders what he could possibly have done to have you treat him this way."

Nelson is horrified by Richard's bluntness, but oddly enough, it seems to break the ice. Margaret sighs, her shoulders dropping. "Yes, you're right, I've been cold and rude." She meets eyes with Nelson. "I've been upset."

Richard, in what is to Nelson a surprising display of maturity and decorum, backs out of the drawing room, quietly closing the doors shut behind him.

Nelson reaches for Maggie's hand; he's relieved that she does not pull it away. "Maggie, tell me, please. What have I done to upset you?"

They sit together on the couch, the tea still steaming, the mantle clock ticking away the urgent seconds. She draws a breath, as if nourishment for what she has to say. "Nels, things are changing. We've just come through a horrible war for the freedom of all people—"

"A monstrous tragedy we'll never let happen again, Maggie. We've seen to it—"

"Please, Nels. Listen to me. Things are changing," she insists, again. "The hopes, the sureties, the strictures of the last generation... they're not ours. And I don't think they should be."

"Maggie, I... I really don't understand."

She waits. The light of understanding kindles in his eyes.

"Wait," he says. "Does it have anything to do with the letter I sent your father?"

"Precisely," she says. "Precisely that."

"But I thought it would please you. And him. It's just a statement of my feelings, my promise to him, and through him to you, for the future..."

"It was a sweet gesture, in its way. I'm not so modern I can't see that. But what it was, and what it said, hurt me."

"Maggie?"

She pulls a face. "Nelson... it isn't just that you assume my father has anything to do with me, and us. It's what you said in the letter. That I would be forever provided for, and... what was it you said? 'Never a day's tarry,' or some such thing?"

"Well, toil, I think it was." And now he slips from the couch to kneel at her feet, holding her hand. "And it can be like that, Maggie. The future belongs to clever men who can play a symphony on the markets." He reaches up to stroke her face. "You'll never want for a thing."

"But there are already things I want you can't give me."

"Well, not at the moment, but soon, in time..."

"No, Nels. Not material things, like a home or a car or maid. Not a family. I'm talking about a sense of self-worth."

He shakes his head. "Being wife to me, and mother to our children; wouldn't that—"

"No," she says softly. "I'm starting community college in the spring, Nels. Nursing and some accounting. I intend to work as assistant to a doctor in a small prac—"

"Work? Work?" Nelson sputters. "You?"

"What's wrong with a woman working?" Margaret frowns. "Your mother worked till you were nine."

Nelson blinks, leaning back almost as if she had physically struck him. He recovers, and a heavy, malevolent cast molds his face. "Why don't you say it a bit louder," he growls. "I don't believe they heard you."

She closes her eyes, trying, reaching for a calm deep within herself. Is it to be forever this way? To Nelson, her mingled lashes have always evoked the image of a thousand sets of lovers intertwined, but now they look like a pair of black Venus flytraps, dangerous, stealing any hope from the unsuspecting. She tells him, "They know. In fact, my father finds it a point in your favour. Your parents prove what his did; that anyone with the will can pull himself up above the common and make something of himself." She opens her eyes. "To that I would add: or herself."

"And speaking of your father—does he know? Does he know you intend to clean things out of people's ears and wash bedpans and count tongue-depressors, day in and day out?"

"I've spoken to Mom. Dad will, of course, wish for better for me, but he will understand." Her eyes meet his, searchingly, asking: won't you?

"My mother sacrificed to raise a son who would be capable of seeing to it that no wife of his would ever have to do the same. I won't disgrace that."

"It's a noble sentiment, and I suppose in other ears it would chime like a bell. But... not in mine, Nels."

He still kneels, but his hand slips from hers.

"Try to understand. Before I can be a wife and mother, before I can be Margaret Grant... I need to learn who Margaret Ferguson is."

"And how long will that take?"

"I honestly can't tell you. I know there will come a time when I'm ready for those things. But right now, there are things I need to accomplish first." She takes his hand back. "I've been hoping that was something we could undertake together."

"You're asking me to turn my back on everything my mother worked for."

"I am not. She worked so that your wife would have the ability to choose, not be forced." She reaches for his cheek. "Honour that."

"I don't know, Margaret. I don't know."

"Nelson, there's nothing to stop us... you, from making your millions in the market, and me from helping people... except your preconceptions. I do care for you. If you care for me, then find a way."

He rises. "I need time to think."

She lowers her eyes and nods, softly. "Will you be back for the New Year's Eve soiree?"

"Of course."

"I want you to think too," he says. "Hard."

"Nelson, I already have. Now it's your turn."

He gives a single, curt nod. "I'll see you soon." He opens the drawing room doors and leaves.

Fumbled excuses to her parents, shocked acceptance by Richard. Ever the loyal friend, Richard too dons his winter gear for the return to town. The snowflakes still fall thick and heavy, threatening to pull dreams down to the ground with their very weight.

Dreamboat Annie

2010-06-22T21:33:00.006-04:00

It happened when I was sitting in the food court of the concourse below the office building where I work. I was seated at a table for two. I usually do, even though I eat alone, because it enables me to spread out and read my book. So it surprised me beyond words when someone hauled the chair out, plunked down, and said, "Hi! What are you reading?"

I looked up into the face of a dog of no easily-discernible breed. Female, judging from the voice and something about the face. She had grey eyes, which were fixed intensively on mine.

I didn't know what else to do. So I said, "Music for Chameleons, by Truman Capote..."

"Is it good?"

"Yes, it's very good, so far. Uh... can I help you with something?"

She smiled, her tail wagging behind her, as she leaned onto her paws, elbows on the table. "I was just wondering about your book is all."

Off behind her I could see one of the mall guards sauntering by the ATMs, watching her out of the corners of his eyes. I began to suspect she wasn't here with anyone. She had no collar; her feet were filthy. No, clearly, she was a stray. Terrific. I knew any sign she was unwelcome would be enough to get her removed. I'm not sure why I didn't; she certain was unwelcome at my table, interrupting my lunch, my reading. But there was just something too predatory about the guard's look. Keeping my eyes on him, I said, "Do you, uh... do you read?"

"A little," she said. "Mostly signs and labels and things. But I love magazines! So what's the book about?"

"Oh, a number of things," I said. "People wishing for magic, people having affairs, solving murders..."

"I like the magic part," she opined. "What do they wish for?"

"Well, a little boy wishes to be a girl," I said. The guard cruised out of sight. I relaxed a bit.

She read this instantly. "Is he gone?" she said, softly.

"Yeah. Yeah, he's gone," I said. "For now."

"I needed... a friend," she said, casting her eyes down. "Thank you."

"It's alright," I said. I noticed her downcast eyes had latched onto my half-eaten pita and could not break away. In spite of myself I said, "Are you hungry?"

I hoped her pride would back her away, but instead, without ever lifting her eyes, she nodded, very softly. She was wringing the thumb of one of her paws with the stubby fingers of the other so tightly that I thought she might break it. Trapped, I said, "Would like part of this?"

"Yes," she said, so softly I only saw her mouth move, her voice lost in the hubbub of the food court.

With a sigh I hoped she couldn't hear, I wiped my hands on a napkin and proceeded to carefully tear what was left of my lunch into two halves. I put one on a napkin and set it in front of her. I waited to see her wolf it down.

She smiled at it, wagging, as though it were alive; a puppy or a kitten or something. Then she looked up at me and said, "What about the magic?"

"Huh? What?"

"Does the little boy get his wish?"

"Who—Oh. No. No, he doesn't."

She was visibly crestfallen. "Oh."

"Go ahead," I said. "Please."

She brightened a little and picked up the morsel in both paws. She didn't gulp it down. She took a bite; chewing it, savouring it. She actually closed her eyes.

I watched her for a moment. Looked at my book. Looked at her again. My book. I noticed she was nearing the end of piece I'd given her. Resigned to it, I pushed the tray with the remaining half, not to mention the complimentary oatmeal cookie, across the table to her. She smiled, wagging so happily she seemed to wiggle.

"Well," I said, closing my book, "I'd better get back." It was a lie, of course; I was nowhere near late. But I decided to nip it in the bud. "Take care," I said.

"But, wait!" she said, half-rising. She caught sight of the guard and quickly seated herself again. "What's your name?" she called to me.

I waved and smiled over my shoulder.

"I'm Annie!" she called. "But I don't have to be..."

I tried not to walk too fast as I made my way to the elevator. Alone, I exhaled, shook my head. When I stepped onto the elevator, I was alone. At the last moment, a woman jammed her way between the closing doors and stepped in with me, reeking of so much perfume I felt I would have been justified in farting just so we could cancel each other out. She might have stepped off four floors later but the olfactory assault she'd laid down kept up the fight in her absence. I only wondered what it would have done to that dog down in the food court.

But the memory of her bothered me for the rest of the day. I'm Annie, but I don't have to be... What did that mean? I was angry with that dog for presuming, putting me in awkward positions, taking advantage of my nature. For making me feel bad. The memory of her robbed dinner that evening of some of its usual visceral joy. I went to bed and woke up afraid that I'd see her again.

As it turned out, I didn't. But I did notice, really notice for the first time, the handful of other dogs in the food court; maybe a half a dozen of them. The ones I noticed did have collars, brushed coats, clean feet. Typically they sat opposite someone or with a group of human workers, or they were sitting at small tables with trays of food in front of them, looking around expectantly, testing the air with their noses for something they felt they would scent before they would see. I watched a beagle light up as a business-suited woman sat down opposite him and the two of them began to lunch. The guards didn't seem to take much notice of these dogs. Not the way they had Annie.

I ate about half my lunch, deciding I wasn't that hungry. Read my book. Looked around. The place was thinning out. I read for a little longer than I should have—the tale was engrossing—then wrapped up the other half and headed for the elevator. Took one last look around the food court, and with a shrug, headed up. Just as well, I thought. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea to risk spending the next twenty years of my life or so meeting a homeless mutt for lunch anyway.

I went home to water my plants and straighten the bookshelves.

I got back to my routine. Including my book and my place at my usual table at lunch the next day.

Then she was beside me, above me. Wagging tail uncertainly. "Hi... remember me? Annie?"

I couldn't stop myself from turning slightly. I wanted to say something. She quickly stepped in front of me, holding up her paws in a halting gesture. "I don't want to take anything from you," she said. "I just wanted somebody to talk to for a while."

I waved my hand beside my book; I began, "I just—"

Her eyes shot from my face to something behind me. She cringed back, slightly. The guard from the other day appeared and prodded her with his nightstick. "You," he said. “I told you yesterday. Move along. Back up to the street."

I don't know why I did it. Pity? Anger at the officiousness, the arrogance, the inhumanity? In any case, before I knew it, I'd said it. "She's with me."

The guard turned and glared at me for a moment. I met his stare. After a couple of seconds, I straightened, my brow knitting just a hair. These subtle signals, of course, communicated the message, Is there some problem with that? Moreover, there was another layer to it, even deeper. There was a pissing contest going on here: territorial imperative vs. socio-economic dominance.

Annie stood stock still, only her eyes moving, darting back and forth between me and the guard.

He gave a curt nod, affected an air of indifference, and moved on. I saw Annie sag slightly. I indicated the chair opposite me with my eyes and she slipped down into it.

She glanced out of the sides of her eyes behind herself. “Thank you,” she said. She was shivering. “You’re really brave,” she told me.

“I don’t like people being pushed around,” I said.

She smiled, wagged her tail a bit. She thought of a topic of conversation. “Have any wishes in the book been granted?”

“Not really. Not so far.” I looked at my nearly finished lunch. “I’m not going to offer you this,” I said. “But I’ll get you something if you like.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head so firmly her ears flapped. “Honest, I didn’t come for that. I wanted to ask you about your book.”

But she couldn’t help looking at my sandwich.

“It’s okay,” I said. I almost smiled. “What would you like...?”

She fidgeted. She tried to be polite and true to her word. But hunger can be humbling. “Maybe one of those?” she said, softly, glancing at my sandwich.

“Coming up,” I said, rising. I pushed the book towards her. “See if you can find any wishes. Just don’t lose my place, okay?”

She beamed at me, nodding.

I stepped up to the counter at the sub shop and repeated my order. As I stood there, I gazed back at Annie. She was flipping through the pages, wagging softly at the book as if it were a living thing. I watched her peer into it, concentrating, then wagging in self-congratulations when she'd evidently understood a hard word. Every so often she'd poke her nose into the book and scent it.

The guy behind the counter finished making the sandwich. I bought a bag of chips and, without knowing if she’d like it or not, I gambled on a can of pop. I paid and carried the tray back to her. She raised her head from the book at my approach.

"A lot of people have had this book," she told me, easing it back to me.

"It's a library book," I told her.

"Ah!" she said. "I thought so. But it's not the library I sometimes go into."

"I live across town," I told her.

She nodded. I supposed her nose had told her that, too.

"What were you reading?" I asked, setting the tray before her and sitting down.

She ignored the food and grabbed the book again, flipping through the pages as quickly as she dared without risking dislodging my bookmark. Clearing her throat, she sat up straight, and running her stubby finger under the lines, slowly recited: “It just means more sil... silllleee... cone, more bills from Oree...ren...tr... tree... itch. I’d rather see the human wrinkles. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. We all, sometimes, leave each other out there under the skies, and we never understand why.”

She looked up at me, smiling, clearly very proud of herself. “That means something,” she told me. “Something important. But I’m not sure what, exactly. It just makes me feel sad. I like when reading makes me feel something.”

“That was really very good,” I said. “Where did you learn to read?”

“Started with a little girl in a school yard. Her name was Tammy. She used to give me her apple because she didn’t like apples. But only after I practiced reading. Every day at recess. Then summer came and they all went away...”

“Eat,” I prompted her.

She nodded, hefting the sandwich and taking a bite. “Thank you,” she said through a mouthful of food.

I let her eat for a bit, then I asked, “So Annie,” I said. “Annie what?”

She paused. I saw her make a conscious effort not to look sad. “Nothing,” she replied, “...just Annie.” It confirmed my worst suspicions.

“So that little girl, Tammy... you didn’t live with her?”

She shook her head. “Never lived with anyone. Except my mom. Then one day I came back from playing and she was just gone. I don’t know why.”

“Is she the one who called you Annie?”

She smiled, wistful. Momentarily no longer able to eat. She nodded softly, her eyes far away. “She heard a song one day, outside a store. When we were living in the alley. It was about a boat called Annie. Later on I heard it. I think it was the same song.” She leaned forward. “It was about me. It really was about me! How did they know?”

“Sometimes life’s like that. Go on, eat.”

She went back to eating, but without as much gusto. “I’m getting kinda full,” she said. Then, sheepishly, “Can I... take away the rest?”

“Of course,” I said. “Eat it this evening.”

“Oh, thank you. I’d never find anything like this!”

That stung. The idea that she would ordinarily be picking through.... whatever... troubled me. An idea crossed my mind, and I thought I’d test the waters. "Are you going to be back here tomorrow?"

"Yes... sure!" she said.

I reached for my wallet. I took out a bill and showed it to her. "Do you know how much money this is?"

She nodded. "Twenty dollars," she said. Her eyes were focused intently on it.

I set it on the table and gently pushed it across at her. "If you're going to be here tomorrow, I'd like you to order me the same thing as I had the other day. It's a pita, from that place there, and they call it the Fiesta Mexicali."

"Fiesta... Mexi... ca... got it," she said.

"That'll cost about eight dollars," I said. "You can spend the rest on whatever you'd like to eat. I need to go back up now," I told her. "So... I'll see you tomorrow?"

"You bet!" she enthused, and squeezed the bill in her paw up into a mangled ball.

I nodded, and headed off. "Bye!" she called. I waved over my shoulder, wondering if, steeling myself for the likelihood that, it was the last I'd see of her, or the money.

There are always buskers in the subway station in my neighbourhood at the end of the day. More often than not, it's a guy and his dog. Coming home that day was the first time I took real notice of them. He was a thin, middle-aged, scraggly kind of dude in long hair and sunglasses who might have been a biker except for his cheerful demeanor. She was a pretty German shepherd with bright yellow eyes and a red kerchief around her neck. She was tuning his guitar, one ear pricked, as he set up his amp and speakers. There was a tambourine at her feet. They sang together; I'd heard them before in passing. She had a gravelly voice but it was a nice complement to his, smooth and booming. In his guitar case I saw a dozen copies of their CD for sale. Posed together, they beamed out from the case; Kim and Sal, it said above them. I wondered which was which. The shepherd caught my eye with hers; she smiled at me, wagging her tail. I'm not sure why, but I winked at her.

She winked back. I wondered what she knew.

At home, after supper, I dug out it: a cassette tape I’d had since junior high school. I cued up the song and listened to it for the first time in years...

Heading out this morning into the sun
Riding on the diamond waves, little darlin' one

Warm wind caress her
Her lover it seems
Oh, Annie
Dreamboat Annie my little ship of dreams

Going down the city sidewalk alone in the crowd
No one knows the lonely one whose head's in the clouds

Sad faces painted over with those magazine smiles
Heading out to somewhere won't be back for a while
Won't be back for a while
Won't be back for a while

The song was in my head as I drifted off.

The next morning seemed unusually long but finally lunchtime rolled around and I headed down to the food court. I headed for my usual table but didn’t see Annie. I waited, keeping company with my watch, until at last hunger and good sense conspired to make me smile and shake my head sadly. The song sure as hell was about her. Won’t be back for a while...

I ordered my own lunch, and ate it alone. Slowly. I was still alone when I crumpled the bag up and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin. “Well,” I said, to no one but myself, “I guess that’s that.” It was no big deal for me to do this; I talked to myself at home all the time.

It was a little after one-thirty when the phone at my desk rang. It was Tracy, our receptionist. “Jim, do you know a dog named Annie?”

“Yyesss,” I said, slowly. “Why?”

“Well, because she’s here and she says she has some money for you.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Tracy to simply tell Annie to keep the money and send her away, but I didn’t. I needed to know, at least, how the hell she’d found me. “Hang on, I’ll be right there.”

And there she was, sitting in reception, holding a styrofoam cup of water I supposed Tracy had given her. She jumped up when she saw me, the crumpled twenty-dollar bill in her paw. “Oh, it took me ages to find you!” She held the bill out to me.

“What happened? Why weren’t you there at lunch time?”

“I was! But that... that guard. He just grabbed me. He said terrible things, right in front of everyone... in front of other dogs... he wouldn’t listen...”

Behind her desk, Tracy was shaking her head in sympathy.

“Annie, how did you ever find me?”

“You smell like this place,” she said. “I managed to come back and sneak past the guard and get on the elevator.”

“You just checked every floor till you found....”

“The one with your work smell, yeah.”

Jesus. I worked on the 12th floor. “But I didn’t even... tell you... my name,” I said, feeling a sudden rush of shame.

Tracy piped up. “Didn’t make it easy. Her description could have been any of a dozen men up here. But then she said you smelled like flowers. Special flowers in Edenvale.” She laughed. “That’s how I knew it was you.”

She was right; that was my neighbourhood, and there was a church garden of rare beauty there that I passed to and from my way to the subway.

“She said your name was Jim,” Annie said. “Jim Butler.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m glad I found you.” She wagged her tail softly. She held out the twenty-dollar bill.

That was it. The battle was over.

“Annie, would you come with me?” I said.

She lowered her paw, still holding the bill. She nodded softly, head tilted uncertainly.

“Tracy, I’m not sure, but I might be a little while.”

“Sure,” said Tracy.

I nodded Annie out into the hall. I pressed the button for the elevator, and as we waited, she held the money out to me again. I ignored it.

“Where... where are we going?”

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe to straighten something out.”

The door opened. I extended my arm to usher her in, then stepped on with her.

I pressed the button for the concourse, and the doors closed.

“Annie,” I said, “would you like to come home with me?”

I heard her breath catch. “Oh, yes,” she said, softly.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. If you find you don’t care for it, you can make your way as best you know how again.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said. “What are you going to call me?”

“Annie. That’s your name.”

“But it doesn’t have to be...”

“Yes,” I said, catching her eye. “It does.”

I thought for a moment she was going to jump me or embrace me or something, but the doors opened, and I stepped out.

“Come on,” I said. “Incidentally, have you ever been on the subway?” I asked as I marched along the tile floor and she hurried to keep pace with me.

“Sure! Well, ...not officially,” she admitted, a new sort of Artful Dodger.

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it,” I said, “if you’re going to keep having lunch with me.”

She followed me to the security post at the edge of the food court. One of the guards was behind the desk; the chief, I supposed. He didn’t look up. I rapped my knuckles on the glass. He looked at me, faintly startled. “One of your guards,” I said. “Tall guy. Swarthy. Usually around at—Never mind, there he is.” I turned away, and strode up to the approaching guard.

The guard looked surprised to see Annie, and met my gaze with a puzzled look as I stepped up to him.

“Did you throw this dog out of here earlier?” I demanded.

“She’s a stray. She’s not supposed to be in here.”

I pointed. “This is my dog. Annie. Annie Butler,” I said, turning to her.

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“Because you’ve seen her with me.”

He leaned over me. He was easily four inches taller than me, and thirty pounds heavier. “Then get her a collar. Or next time, she’s going to animal control.” And that, he seemed to say, was that.

I heard a fearful whimper that enraged me. The answer came to me like lightning; the memory of a cat I’d had as a boy.

“Her last collar,” I growled, “gave her a rash. A severe rash she’s just gotten over. She came down here today to buy my lunch—” I turned to Annie, “—show him the bill, Annie...”

Annie gingerly raised the twenty-dollar bill.

I continued. “And after lunch, she was going to wait here for me to finish work, after which, we were going to pick up a new collar now that she finally can wear one again.”

The guard eased back from his position looming over me.

“When I came down here at lunch time, I couldn’t find my dog. I didn’t know what had happened to her. Luckily, she found me. She told me that you,” I said, jabbing a finger at him, “had thrown her out.”

“It was just a misunderstanding.”

I could have left it at that, but I didn’t. “The next time I come down here, from up there,” I said, making the point with my finger, “expecting to find my dog here, she had better be here.” I turned my head slightly, just to make sure the chief behind his ignorant glass was paying attention. “Or there’s going to be trouble down here.”

“It’s not a pet-sitting service,” the guard before us said.

“I’m not asking you to look after her. She can look after herself. I’m telling you to leave her alone.”

I didn’t wait for him to answer. I turned to the dog. My dog. I thought about what Capote had said in the passage she’d hesitantly read to me. And sometimes we shelter one another from the sky, I thought. Who knows why? I said, “Annie, you take that money and you get yourself something to eat. Then find yourself something interesting to read. Settle into a nice spot and I’ll be back in about three hours.”

She looked on the verge of tears. But she didn’t cry. She just wagged her tail softly and clutched the bill. “Okay...”

“You wait here for me, okay?” I said, shooting daggers at the guard from the corners of my eyes.

“Yes, Jim,” she said.

And she did.

Verily, it sucketh

2010-06-15T07:08:00.004-04:00

A couple of times a month on my way home I encounter this guy with a lost, defeated look who wordlessly hands out these small religious pamphlets. I always take them, open them, try to look interested. I never just throw them away; this means something to someone.

But the thing is, the quotes they contain are taken from some translation of the Bible into contemporary English. What's wrong with the good old King James Version? If you're going to be bothered, the tracts should at least have a little fire-and-brimstone resounding thunder about them. They shouldn't sound like God sitting on your couch trying to sell you a vacuum cleaner.

Paula

2010-04-28T07:18:00.001-04:00

She led me away to
___nakedness and freedom,
___pleasure and magic,
___warm, deep nights
______and endless rolling days

I've Made a Wish

2010-04-03T11:40:00.002-04:00

You don't have to worry
I've made a wish for both of us
I blew out the candles
And you were still there
That's how I knew
There's still magic

(August 28, 2006)

richardson's end

2009-12-10T07:05:00.004-05:00

no shoes, no pants, no wallets
just be free
free to feel the earth
__free to experience nature
__free to hum in your native key

Fokken-Stoopehd move upsets taxpayers

2009-04-22T07:52:00.001-04:00

New York — In spite of the severe global economic downturn, executives of the Fokken-Stoopehd Corporation of America have voted themselves and key high level employees a total of $150 million in bonuses and benefits. All this in the aftermath of a government bail-out funded by taxpayers’ money.

The Fokken-Stoopehd people can’t understand why the taxpayers are up in arms and demanding the money be returned.

“I honestly don’t see why people are upset. This is a typical Fokken-Stoopehd move. In fact, you’ll find it’s very common throughout the financial industry,” said a Fokken-Stoophed spokesman.

“We’ve had an extremely challenging and ultimately successful year,” said the Fokken-Stoopehd Chairman. “After all, this is a company worth saving, and we had to work long and hard to persuade Congress to grant us the funds we need to survive.”

How much money?

“$150 million,” said the Fokken-Stoopehd man, without batting an eye.

Great Moments in Starfleet History #471

2009-03-10T15:50:00.002-04:00

INT. SUBTERRANEAN CAVERN

KIRK, SPOCK, and DR. MCCOY, phasers drawn, move stealthily
and slowly through a dimly-lit cave, obviously wary of some
enemy.

The transporter sound effect is heard. In their midst, a
small flaming bag materializes on the ground. Kirk
immediately moves to stomp out the fire.

                              DR. MCCOY
                  Jim! No!

Kirk stomps on the bag. There is a loud pop. McCoy and Spock
are spattered with a thick, dark effluent.

                              KIRK
                       (looking shocked)
                  My God... it went up the inside of
                  my pants...

                            DR. MCCOY
                  I tried to tell you...

                            SPOCK
                  Fascinating.

CUT TO:

INT. THE TRANSPORTER ROOM

SCOTTY and the TRANSPORTER CHIEF are doubled over with
laughter. Scotty holds a bottle of liquor and pours the
Chief another glass. They both take a drink. Scotty staggers
over to the transporter platform with another bag, takes out
his phaser, and aims it at the bag. The scene freezes.

A text overlay appears, reading:

ON STARDATE 3209.1, STARFLEET COMMAND INSTITUTED THE
"FLAMING SHIT BAG" TRANSPORTER FILTER, REQUIRING ITS USE ON
ALL CONSTELLATION CLASS STARSHIPS; AS A RESULT OF WHICH,
EXPENDITURES IN DRY CLEANING AND BOOT POLISH DROPPED
MARKEDLY.

Turning Points: The Siege of Quebec

2009-02-16T10:14:00.006-05:00

What would have been the results of a British victory at Quebec in 1759?

by Morris Kyder Westbridge

August 24, 2001

On October 23, 1759, Gen. James Wolfe, faced with the rapid approach of a St. Lawrence winter, bundled up his troops and fleet and set sail for New England, lifting the siege of Quebec and losing the greatest opportunity the British ever had to wrest Canada from the French. Never again would British arms be furnished with such a chance to secure the American frontier, and alone determine the future of a continent.

Few Britons today, least of all those in British America, are not aware of the siege and the generalities of it. Much less widely-known is just how close a thing it actually was. When Wolfe began landing his troops in the darkness before dawn on Sept. 13, 1759, General Montcalm was not even at Quebec. Had Wolfe's troops been able to aspire to the heights, to gather on broad plain outside the city walls, they would have met a force inferior in numbers and without its commander. This, combined with the effects of the siege, arguably might have delivered Quebec and the whole of dependent Canada into British hands. Even if the French fleet had arrived first in the spring, they would have faced the British well-entrenched, with very little time to dislodge them before the arrival of the British fleet. Had Wolfe's landing been even partially successful, the world might be a very different place today.

But history tells us that Wolfe's initiative was a hasty gamble taken in the face of bad weather, and beset with troubles from the start. The autumn rains had come early, making the approaches to the city, up a narrow path from the river to the ridge above, a dubious climb, even if his troops had managed to secure them. But as fate would have it, they were met with a French sentry. Reports tell us that a quick-thinking Scottish soldier, who had served in Belgium and thus had acquired serviceable French, actually half-convinced the sentry by claiming to be a member of a regiment he knew to be away from the city at the time. Had the sentry accepted that proof, he could have been overpowered and the approach to Quebec would have been open. But, he did not. Fatefully, the sentry demanded the watchword, and the ruse was discovered. That wise sentry lost his life in raising the alarm, but raise it he did, and the British never ascended the heights to the city above. Their advance beaten back, they languished aboard their fleet for another month, before finally giving up and sailing home.

Some experts have argued that the build-up that followed in 1760 and the years after demonstrate the French determination to hold onto their American empire; that losing Quebec would only have meant they would have returned in force to recover it. Others suggest that the loss of Quebec, combined with the loss of Fortress Louisbourg in 1758, would have been the last straw for a French regime weary of the interminable contest for America, and they would have cut their losses and left everything east of the Mississippi in the hands of the British. We will never know. The deliverance of Quebec from such a near thing was seen by the French as a sign from God that they had a future on the American continent. It rejuvenated their waning interest in New France and fired their pride and determination to extend the French kingdom across the vast empty expanses as yet unexplored by Europeans. Inspired by an almost religious fervour, tens of thousands of Frenchmen swelled the numbers of New France over the next several years, and the St. Lawrence River became an extension of the English Channel, two nations ever watchful for any sign of weakness in the other as they extended themselves ever westward, checking one another at every point.

What would America have been like had Wolfe taken Quebec in September, 1759? Is it out of the question to suppose that all of New France might have been ceded to Britain, and that we might today enjoy hegemony upon this continent? What would that have meant for the Empire and the Union? Would there have been a Union?

Many, even most, analysts agree that the conquest of New France by the British would have been complete with the fall of Quebec, or at least within their grasp. France's position in America would have become untenable; a fight to recover what they had lost without a foothold from which to launch the campaign. What would a British Canada have been like? Some scholars have speculated that the government would have resettled the population elsewhere, or even deported it back to France. Such notions are not completely dismissible; the entire European population of New France at the time was probably not over one hundred thousand. To scatter such people throughout the Empire or remove them completely would have been a task indeed, but hardly out of the question in light of France's efforts to populate New France over the next two decades, which saw the colonies' aggregate population soar to well over a million by 1780. To be sure, it was an effort that caused strain in France both at home and overseas, and nearly bankrupted the King and the government; but that it secured the French fact in America is beyond dispute. A much lesser effort would have emptied a British Canada, and opened the land to English-speaking settlers. Had Wolfe succeeded in his gamble, the English language might today ring out from friendly ports on both sides of the Great Lakes, and along both shores of the St. Lawrence River. Even without deportations, we can imagine without much fear of contradiction that a British Canada, with so thin a French population, would eventually have succumbed to the forces of assimilation in terms of language, law, religion, and custom.

What would the conquest of New France have meant to the British Empire? Here, answers are less certain. Some analysts suggest that it would have demoralized France and offered Britain a freer hand around the world. Others suggest it would only have doubled France's determination to check Britain's advance elsewhere, particularly in India and Africa. The resources thrown by France into securing New France during and after the Eleven Years' War would tend to support the latter view. France was by no means down and out in 1759 or afterward, and in the face of the loss of America, almost certainly would have concentrated her efforts elsewhere. Arguably, applying such effort to maintain her presence in America may have limited France's effectiveness in her struggles with Britain and Spain elsewhere in the world.

Perhaps the most enigmatic question of all is how the conquest of New France would have impacted the Union of British States. The founding of the Union followed Wolfe's adventure by six years. It is a matter of historical fact that the imperial government in London allowed its American colonies to form a confederal union in order for them, at least temporarily, to assume some of the responsibility for their own defence. Obviously, this impetus would not have existed in 1765 if the French threat had been eliminated by 1760. Some commentators have suggested that the threat from Indian nations, whose economic and political status would have been in flux in the vacuum caused by the withdrawal of the French from America, would have provided the cause instead, but this seems doubtful, since the various Indian nations, while fearsome, typically posed local threats, and were driven by considerations of commerce and holding onto their lands, rather than actually conquering British North America. Only France and Spain posed such a threat, and with the elimination of France as one of them, the heart of the argument that created the Union would have been cut out. The confederation of Britain's American colonies would have come much later in history, or perhaps not at all. It is not beyond the realm of imagination to suppose that they might have evolved into completely separate, if related, countries. Perhaps most crucial of all, the machinery of government that assumed the stewardship of the Empire at the end of the monarchy and the establishment of the Republic would not have been in place at that critical moment in history, and the British Empire itself might have dissolved, or been snatched up piecemeal by other empires.

These are the evidence produced. But finally the question "What would have been the results of a British victory at Quebec in 1759?" having been asked, must be answered. Based upon trends of the time, one may project the following course of history.

Assuming that Wolfe's forces had ascended to the Plains of Abraham and subsequently defeated the French force in Quebec, they would have secured the town and waited for relief and reinforcements to arrive in the spring. Very likely, the populace would have settled into the occupation, making the best of it with a wait-and-see attitude with regard to whose forces would arrive first in the spring. The French arriving first, there might have been a similar battle to recover Quebec. The British arriving first would have meant almost certain annexation of the colony, or at least its occupation for several years until it might possibly have been returned to France as part of the peace.

Assuming that the British fleet had arrived first, or that any French fleet were rebuffed, it is unlikely that the British would have returned New France to the dominion of the French, except under the direst of circumstances. For American Britons, who had participated in the capture of Louisbourg 1745 only to see it returned to France in 1748 — requiring its recapture in 1758 — and for whom the continued existence of New France and her Indian allies represented the greatest threat to peace and security, such a move would have been the signal for revolt and civil war. The British, having taken New France, would have kept it.

The results would have been immediate. British customs at the time would have meant that the use of the French language and practice of the Catholic religion in New France would have been severely curtailed in any capacity beyond daily living. The language of law and government would have been English. No Catholic — or at least, very few —would have expected to ever hold office in the administration of the newly-British colonies that had been New France.

Undoubtedly, British colonists from New York and New England would have moved in large numbers into the largely-empty lands of New France and played a large part in shaping those lands thereafter, bringing with them the English language, the Protestant religion, and British presumptions about government and jurisprudence. It is unlikely that the French culture, such as it existed before the Eleven Year's War, would have persisted long or vigorously. It is safe to assume that it would have effectively been eclipsed by the turn of the century, or not long afterward. The costly battles of the 1770s to secure a defensible border between New England and New France would not have been necessary, and the St. Lawrence River today might be a state boundary instead of an international one.

The founding of the Union on Franklin's plan in 1765 would probably have not come about. It is important to state that the Union was seen at the time as a response to the growing threat of a revitalized New France, and a temporary one at that (limited to six years, initially, and later extended by legislation). Even at that, the American colonies were hardly unanimous in their enthusiasm for the idea of a confederation; despite the huge threat that New France posed, it was most of a decade before the majority of the colonies acceded to the Union. To say that the colonies prized their independence and looked upon one another with jealousy is almost an understatement. Removing the danger of New France would have rendered those forces insurmountable for generations more, possibly forever.

Thus, the British Isles would have faced the French occupation of the 1790s with only scattered, factious colonies of little help on the other side of the Atlantic. It is doubtful that such a disorganized array of governments could have mounted the effort that the Union of British States, then nearly thirty years old, mustered in relief of the Mother Country. But this presupposes that the French invasion was inevitable. France assumed that New France would serve to pin down American Britons enough to keep them at home and out of the European aspect of the war, and was very nearly correct in that regard; as it was, three years went by before the UBS could render England and Wales any serious aid. Without New France on side, however, it is arguable that France would never have attempted an invasion of Britain, and would have concentrated it efforts purely on the Continent. Here the ramifications become colossal. Without the French invasion, it is highly unlikely that King Frederick would taken the bold moves he did to cripple Parliament and rule absolutely, in the style of King Louis. Consequently, the British monarchy might have avoided abolition and survived much longer than it did, possibly even to the present day, as witnessed by the continued existence of the French monarchy and peerage. The Union of British States would not have become the government of the whole Empire. Instead of being a republic ruled by a Congress in Franklin, the British Union might today still be a monarchy, ruled by a Parliament in London —or at least until such time as the American part of the Empire had outstripped the British Isles in terms of commerce and population.

It has been remarked that had it succeeded, Wolfe's conquest of Quebec would have resulted in the largest transfer of territory in world history. It's clear that there would have been many other consequences for America and the rest of the world as well. Had James Wolfe succeeded, we would not be living in the world in which we live today. Whether the world would have been a better or a worse place as a result is not for us to say with any certainty; only that it would have been very different.

On these shores

2009-02-13T06:15:00.007-05:00

We built our homes
from the bones of our victims
We laid our foundations
where they fell
Our gardens bloom
on the blood-drenched soil
_____How wonderful they smell

production

2009-02-02T08:37:00.004-05:00

i was born in spring
of the passions of summer,
winter's comforts-formed

On arbor

2008-11-27T08:56:00.003-05:00

denuded of leaves,
you overhang the sidewalk —
dread winter draws near

Folly Lake

2008-11-06T20:10:00.005-05:00

The little animal emerges from his den well before the sun has crested the misty hills sheltering his home. He yawns. Flaxen-maned and blue-eyed, the cub steps out into the late spring morning. The night has been foggy; the grass is dewy beneath his feet. Behind him tower the broad, forested Appalachians, half a billion years old. The weathered bones of an ancient mountain chain that once dwarfed the Rockies and rivalled the Himalayas, their loftiest peaks aspired to Olympian heights that would have denied breath. But that was long ago. These softened nubs were already long humbled and worn by the time this small mammal’s kind arose on the plains of East Africa a few million years ago. Since then, his species has ranged far, until, at last, this one stands beneath them. Small, short-lived, he has drawn breath a mere five years, and yet, forms the very center of Creation—for is he not fashioned in the image of God? Every creature of his kind has a name, and this one’s name is Andy. He rubs his eyes, and glancing back at the trailer where his parents lie sleeping, he quietly picks his way between folding chairs and lawn darts that sprout from the turf, to the dead fireside where the bounty awaits.

Green and red cans of Labatt’s 50, blue cans of Schooner, Moosehead, Ten Penny Ale... set in the grass beside chairs, left on glass-topped drink stands, waiting atop picnic tables. Abandoned. One after another, each can is examined for the remainders of the liquid denied him. Even when a can heavy with promise is found, it must be carefully listened to for the dull pat of a cigarette butt or a drowned hornet... or worse, the angry whine of a live one. Lessons learned from bitter experience. Delighted, he finds one can that passes all the tests, and in a human tradition as old as Adam and Eve, he upends it, indulging in forbidden things. He guzzles, stealing from the gods, like Prometheus taking fire to mankind, though with hardly such lofty goals. Andy is motivated by greed, defiance, and precocity, not altruism. His liver might one day be ravaged by alcohol, perhaps, but not by a giant eagle. In any case, the paltry offerings of the cans this morning will ravage no one’s liver, not even one so small. This particular adventure completed, he heads off.

Andy’s kind, being relatively sparse of fur and driven by modesty, are in the habit of draping their bodies in fabric. By his age, Andy has adopted the custom and heads out into the morning in jeans, a t-shirt emblazoned with Snoopy and Woodstock on the front, and a fringed buckskin jacket that makes him feel like an Indian, despite a countenance that is more typical of Sweden than native America. The cuffs of his jeans have been rolled up below his knees by his mother and safety-pinned into place, to be let down again in the fall, assuming they still fit him.

The other boy, Martin, is waiting for him in the glade where his own trailer is parked. Andy admires everything about Martin, loves him and dotes on him. Martin is the near future. He is six-and-a-half, going on six-and-three-quarters, and so considerably older and wiser than Andy, who only turned five last month in April. Andy has not yet been to school, but Martin has almost two years of it behind him. He knows much. Martin’s father is a doctor, and their trailer is a huge Airstream, a sleek, rounded beauty in brushed aluminum. When Andy asked his own father why they don’t get one like it, his father had told him simply that they couldn’t afford it. That Martin’s family had more money than theirs. Already Andy understands that people have different social statuses, and that their relative importance is reflected in how much money they have, and the quality and quantity of things it allows them to possess. Though the mane that rings his head is brown, Martin’s colouration is otherwise similar to Andy’s; likewise, Martin is dressed similarly to Andy—light spring jacket, white turtleneck pullover, and jeans—but his jeans are actual clam diggers that end below the knee. There is no need for his clothing to pull double duty when the weather turns cold. Martin can have whatever toy, whatever treat he wants, whenever he wants. And finally, while Andy is an only child, Martin has an older brother, an oft-quoted source of wisdom, yet another advantage. To Andy, Martin is almost like a different level of being.

“Hi, Martin,” Andy yaps, but the older boy shushes him, glancing back at the trailer. He, too, measures the width, breadth, and depth of his liberty by the ignorance of sleeping parents. Martin places an arm behind Andy’s back and leads him away from the Airstream.

“You want a bar?” Martin asks. Andy nods. Martin reaches into his pockets and pulls out a half a dozen miniature Mars bars, the best food on Earth, and hands over two of them to Andy. Andy strips off a wrapper and takes a bite. For him, these are two-bite treasures. But in still one more indication of superiority, Martin can devour them in a single bite. Andy has attempted this but finds it awkward. Martin does it with aplomb. Andy’s breakfast of flat beer and chocolate bars is the envy of any college freshman. An impressive distinction for someone whose first molars have yet to erupt.

“You wanna play Spider-man?” Andy suggests.

“Let’s go to the waterfalls,” Martin decides. He and Andy cut through a screen of trees back into the large clearing that houses Andy’s trailer, along with perhaps a dozen others. Andy gazes towards home. Still no sign of activity. The sun remains unborn, still in the womb of the Cobequid Mountains, the same highlands down which the waterfalls tumble. The boys trot across the manicured grass, skirting the edge of the clearing, and then disappear into the canopied trail that leads into the wilds.

“I don’t like the campgrounds sometimes,” Andy admits. “You can’t see cartoons here on Saturday morning.”

“It’s reruns now anyway,” Martin says.

“Huh?”

“You seen ‘em all before. In the wintertime. They’re just showing the same ones again.”

Andy frowns, perplexed. “For how long?”

The sound of thundering water grows steadily louder as they traipse along. Martin raises his voice. “Till school starts. Then the new ones start.”

“How long’s that?”

“Long time yet.” Martin holds up two fingers on each hand. “This many months.” Andy gapes. Four months is a long time. A very long time.

Martin knows everything. If he weren’t so small, he’d be a grown-up, Andy thinks.

The pool at the base of the waterfall is cold, even where it circles slowly before rushing off along the valley floor to its rendezvous with Folly Lake… too numbing to wade in for very long. They stand in the water and throw in rocks for as long as they can manage, as if this is some duty they owe the river, and then climb back out. Andy shakes his feet like a cat as they step back up onto the humus path. Martin has to cup his hands to be heard; he orders, “Let’s climb to the next one!” and without waiting for Andy’s reply, he begins to head up the path.

Andy follows Martin without objection. The morning is still new, and they are free… for the moment, at least. Andy has no particular plans for the time; if Martin does, that suits Andy fine. The sound of the falls below them fades quickly, muffled by the fat evergreens and mossy rock faces. They pass patches of lady’s slippers, delicate nodding blossoms of white and pink. Andy has always loved them. He would pluck a few but has been lectured against it. If everyone did that, he has been advised, soon there would be none left for anyone to see. And so he merely admires them as they pass.

The second set of falls soon makes its presence heard, and felt as well. The falls mists the air, dampening hair and skin as though by magic. Soon the youngsters can see it. It is different from the set below in shape, and slightly smaller. There is less of a pool at its base, since the water drops away again almost immediately. Andy barely has time to appreciate the view before Martin says, “Let’s climb to the top.”

Andy knows from previous experience that there are four more sets of falls, and it takes a long time to see them all. “I’m hungry,” he objects.

Martin smiles, and his hands dip into his pockets again. Mini Mars bars appear. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got a bunch.” Sugary milk chocolate and caramel buy the younger cub’s compliance. They climb.

Each set of falls is slightly smaller, somewhat more modest than the successor below it. The highest falls is just water spilling down rocks. The two explorers make a point of pawing their way up the wet rocks on all fours, rather than taking the path alongside. Finally, they crest the mountain. They turn their gaze to the blinding sun in the east.

Andy shields his eyes, looking down along the treetops. He turns, and below him he can see Wentworth Valley, and the hills on the other side. “I wonder if there’s kids up there right now looking at us.”

“I don’t know,” Martin says.

Andy scowls. “I wasn’t asking,” he explains. “I was just saying I wonder.” It will be years yet before either of them learns the word ‘rhetorical’.

“Sorry,” Martin mutters, and glances over the hilltop. The CNR line runs across the cleared ridge. He steps towards it.

“I’m not allowed to go near the tracks without a grown-up,” Andy informs him. “I got in trouble after they found out.”

Martin pauses just long enough to look back and offer a shrug before continuing toward the tracks. Andy frets, peering down the hillside as though to check if his parents are watching somehow, and after a moment, scampers to catch up with Martin.

Martin walks along the rail, the cold, shiny silver line unbending as his feet spread and mould to their rounded surface. His body totters as he carefully balances. Andy walks alongside, studying the demonstration. “In gym,” Martin explains, “they make you walk along a beam like this.”

“Why?”

Martin glances at Andy, loses his balance, and steps off the rail. “In case you have to balance on railroad tracks,” he says. Andy smiles, uncertain if this is meant as a joke or not. “Wanna try?” Martin suggests.

Andy steps up onto the cold steel. It’s interesting how it feels so cool now, when in the afternoons it has always been so warm to the touch. He takes a few uncertain steps and slips off. He steps back up. Each boy takes a rail, and with varying degrees of success, they make their way along the line, aimless but for the direction it imposes upon them.

There is a song Andy knows from the radio, and he sings it now. “Love is a railroad through my mind,” he recites, his reedy voice shaping melody out of thin air. Martin knows the tune, and joins in. Unlike most of their closest relatives, their kind has an inexplicable urge to make music, as though they were flightless, featherless songbirds rather than primates.

Andy sees Martin stop, stepping off the rail, and glancing back. “What?”

“Maybe I heard a train.”

Andy looks back. Steps off the rail. The gravel is sharp and it hurts to stand on it. He steps onto a tie. The two of them stand poised, gazing back along the line. “Hey, I know what,” says Andy, and he kneels, placing his ear to the rail.

Martin crouches. “What do you hear?”

Andy makes a face. “I don’t know. Not sure.”

“So what’s it supposed to sound like? A train coming...”

Andy realizes that while he’s seen the trick prescribed on television, he has no idea what he would be listening for. The image of a train suddenly arriving out of nowhere and knocking his head away like a football flashes across his mind, and he jerks bolt upright.

Martin stumbles back. “Train?”

Andy rises. “I’m not sure. I don’t wanna get hit.”

“Let’s walk on the side, then,” Martin says. They continue onward, first on the grass, but then walking on the ties outside the rails. As the sun rises, the mists disperse in the valley, and the air warms around them. Martin removes his jacket, ties it around his belly by the sleeves. Andy has never seen this before. He takes off his jacket and tries to do the same. He fusses, frustrated, until finally Martin knots his sleeves for him.

“I wanted to do it,” Andy sulks.

“I know, but I just thought I’d help you.”

“Okay, but next time I want to do it myself.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I don’t want to go back yet.”

“But I’m hungry!” It’s a long way back, and Andy does not want to go alone. He looks behind them. He is not even sure where they joined the tracks.

Martin turns. There’s a clear whistle, but it comes from in front of them. “Get off the tracks,” he says, hopping down the grassy rise.

“Into the woods!”

“No, no,” Martin says, quickly grasping the younger cub’s paw in his own, to reassure him and keep him from running. “We’re okay. We just can’t be on the tracks.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t be scared. It’s gonna be cool.”

Andy watches the train push its head out from behind the hillside. He gasps, wide-eyed. Around the corner it comes, the red face and black head of a CN locomotive, snaking like a Chinese dragon, the air above its single nostril shimmering with the fire of its breath. He crouches, Martin gripping his hand all the tighter, dropping with him. His mind tells him there is no danger. They are many yards removed from the train, and it is a machine of his own kind's making, with a purpose bent to their will; it is not a monster full of its own appetites and intentions, about to jump the track and pounce upon them. But the little creature that he is deep inside still trembles in awe of the leviathan passing above them. The controlled fear exhilarates and excites him, something intoxicating like the sharp bite of alcohol seizing his senses and twisting them around. The sun itself is lost behind the train, flashing helplessly in the spaces between the cars as they shriek and moan like slaves tormented by the engine; the damned in chains, hauled by a demon on an endless march through a paradise they can only glimpse but never enjoy. Andy shakes his shoulders; he presses one thigh tightly against the other, fighting the urge to urinate, wincing at the pain of it. Suddenly chaffing at the tight grip of the other boy, he jerks his paw free, and jumping up, he waves. That there is no one on the empty freight cars to reciprocate does not matter. The moon is mute; wolves howl all the same. The wave is a gesture to Martin, or God, or perhaps just the frightening little thing inside himself that he has conquered, standing here erect upon two feet, bold, joyous, proud.

Martin gazes up at Andy in surprise, then smiles and gets to his feet, brushing himself off and joining him in waving at the passing cars. The two cubs turn to one another and chuckle in recognition of the fool’s errand it is. Without ever once acknowledging them or their greeting, the great procession brushes past them on its way south to Truro, Halifax, Yarmouth. It rolls along, finally returning the sun to them as it pulls away.

“That was great,” Martin raves as he scrambles back up between the rails in the train’s wake, watching the fiery caboose disappear behind the trees. Andy is beside him, all smiles. He is nagged by the knowledge that he is not allowed to be here, but puzzled by it as well. Why should he be forbidden this? A train has come and gone, and all they had to do to avoid danger was keep clear of the tracks. For that small gesture, they have been rewarded with this exciting and impressive display. Is there more to fear? If so, he can’t guess what. Shouldn’t rules make some sort of sense? This one doesn’t. The little blue eyes see more, suddenly, than just the retreating train...

Martin turns, hopping from tie to tie. “C’mon, Andy.”

The other youngster stays rooted. “I’m hungry! No. I wanna go home. We’re gonna get in trouble.” The sun lights the valley now, and the air is warm around them, as are the ties and rails under their paws. Surely, down below, adults are rising. Liberty is on the wane.

“Do you know that Mr. Macdougal pays you a dime for an insulator?”

Andy tilts his head. “What’s that?”

“It’s those glass things. Like big pinecones. You’ve seen them. They’re around railroad tracks.”

Intriguing, but not overwhelmingly. “I’m hungry. Come on, let’s go!”

Martin undoes his jacket from around his waist to access his pockets. More mini Mars bars appear.

Andy shakes his head, his blond locks splashing across his Nova Scotian brow like surf on the rocks. His features pinched, he barks, “I don’t want more chocolate bars, I want some breakfast. Like Co-Co Puffs.”

“Then go, sooky-baby.”

“I don’t know how...”

“Tough.”

The tears come; the stinging beads of salty water that spill from the eyes, skating down the tiny hairs of the cheeks; it’s a hallmark of the species. Straited on all sides by hunger, potentially angry parents, and an uncooperative friend, Andy is out of good options.

Martin surrenders, sort of. He brushes past the smaller cub and grabs one of the dangling sleeves at Andy’s waist, pulling him along. Andy yelps and stumbles after Martin like a pull-toy of flesh and blood. “C’mon, cry-baby.”

Andy slaps Martin’s hand away and the two of them head back in silence, their spat seemingly transporting them back to their speechless ancestry. Hot, angry minutes pass with only the bugs and birds conversing.

“Slow down!”

“Keep up.”

Martin says nothing when he steps off the tracks and into the woods. Andy sees the stream that tumbles down the hillside in the form of the waterfalls they passed climbing up, and is suddenly humiliated by the realization that if he had only thought of that, he could have turned around whenever he wanted, instead of having to beg Martin. He knows now, too, that Martin can go as fast as he pleases, and it doesn’t matter. Andy can find his way home from here with the water to guide him.

Martin bounds down the pine needled soil, always just at the edge of Andy’s vision. Andy sees him waiting by the pool at the base of the last set of falls; when Martin sees Andy and is satisfied the younger boy can get home, he discharges himself of further responsibility for Andy and stalks off.

Andy dashes after him, calling, “I hate you! Jerk!” He stands at the edge of the clearing, watching Martin leave, ignoring him. “Jerk!” Andy cries.

Martin ducks into the screen of trees by his trailer.

Andy goes home.

His parents seem unconcerned when he enters; the smells of breakfast are already in the air. It’s a given that the youngster will rise early and entertain himself; there is little trouble he can get into, supposedly. “Where were you?” the female asks, all the same. Maternal instincts require this of her.

Andy is immediately on guard. He selects his words with great caution. “I was at the pool,” he says. This is true. It is not the entire truth, but it is not a falsehood, either.

“You didn’t go in, did you?” she asks. Going in the water without an adult is also against the rules.

Andy shakes his head. Then, judiciously, he reconsiders. “Just a little. Just my feet.”

His mother’s face shows reproach, but her mate counsels, “It’s not very deep. Kids like water. Better the pool than the pond.” The pond is considerably deeper. In the middle of the campgrounds, it’s where the campers go to swim. If Andy had waded in there, he would be in trouble now.

Andy’s mother is still concerned. “Were you alone?”

“No. Martin was there.”

His mother nods. A second presence is someone to run for help, at least. “What else did you do?”

The cub is immediately sensitive to the peril he is in. Wordplay is a very delicate game; one that most other animals never have to learn. The rules are tricky, even with half a decade of day-in and day-out study. But even at his age, he is armed with the awareness of certain subtleties. He knows, for instance, that a lie is a bare, blunt instrument to be used only as a last resort. There’s an element of black magic involved in lying; it’s like casting a spell that sometimes works, and sometimes doesn’t. He has observed that older members of his species are adept at seeing through them, so by and large, their use is contra-indicated. The consequences for being caught in a lie are dire indeed. He has, however, gleaned the fine difference between misrepresentation—lying—and misdirection; that withholding the truth is not the same as fabricating the truth, and that the results are usually less severe. He has learned that the techniques here are changing the subject, knocking something over, causing a fuss... anything required to distract, so that one is not forced to resort to actually lying. And so, Andy deflects the direct inquiry with a non-sequitur: “Martin’s a jerk!”

“Why? What happened?”

Andy is not out of trouble yet. The honest answer to this question—that Martin is angry with Andy for forcing him to lead him home from the railroad tracks—is not one that Andy is prepared to give. But where other beasts are blessed with sharp ears, fast feet, telescopic eyes or a profound sense of smell, Andy’s kind possesses the facility to blazingly process abstractions, their optimal presentation, and the reactions they are likely to evoke. Even the young ones become quickly proficient at this, as evidenced by the fact that within a second or two, Andy responds, “He didn’t want to do what I wanted.” Now this is true, if ambiguous. Andy can only be checkmated in this match if the exactly circumstances of the disagreement are demanded.

Fortunately, Andy’s father remarks, “I think the toast’s starting to burn.”

“I like it burnt,” Andy reminds them.

“I know, that’s yours I’m making,” his mother smiles. Burnt toast and peanut butter sail Andy safely out of the verbal shoals.

There are other juveniles in the cub’s acquaintance, but it has already been a morning of some exertion, and his argument with Martin has put him in a more solitary mood. The balance of the morning is devoted to the pursuit of other abstractions favoured by these creatures; visual ones. Andy works in crayon to draw and colour on paper the images in his mind. That the depictions are largely concerned with trains is not seen by Andy as a tacit admission of the morning’s events, nor, luckily for him, is it taken as such by either of his parents. Lunch follows; chicken soup with noodles shaped like tiny stars and a grilled cheese sandwich, after which the youngster sets out on his own. A picnic table near the pond has for some time now served Andy and several of his playmates as a space capsule. He clambers around it, over it, and under it, where lying on his back, he presses imaginary buttons on the underside of the benches. The grass is soft and cool, and the would-be astronaut ends up napping most of the afternoon, drooling onto the sleeve of his jacket. Eventually the spaceman rises and emerges, banging his head. He does not cry but instead utters a word he is not supposed to know, much less use, for many years to come, and rubbing his scalp, heads homeward.

The evening meal is hamburgers. For the parents, at any rate. Despite being a member of an omnivorous breed, Andy does not like hamburgers. Threats, pleadings, and appeals to reason cannot compel him otherwise. There is no philosophical consistency in Andy’s stand, however, since Andy likes hot dogs. Therefore, a pair of them are placed before him, garnished with ketchup (but not mustard or relish, which, again, he does not like), and accompanied by a mass of potato chips that cover the rest of the plate.

When supper is over and the dishes are cleaned, the mother’s fastidiousness turns to her son. She looks over the grass-stained clothes, the dirt-streaked face and limbs. “You’re filthy,” she tells him. “Take off that stuff. It’s time for your bath, okay?”

Andy nods, hauling himself along the seat and padding to the tiny bathroom at the back of the trailer. His father says, “I’m gonna start the fire.”

“Okay,” she says, and gathers the items she will need to bathe her offspring.

Andy shucks off the coverings from his pelt, leaving them on the floor, and climbs up onto the acrylic toilet so that he can peer out the tiny, screened window. Already he can see bonfires licking the darkening air of the campgrounds. His family will join with others, the adults laughing, drinking, telling the stories they assume, only half-correctly, that Andy and his age mates do not comprehend, and Andy will be among them, in his pyjamas, roasting marshmallows, setting them ablaze no matter how many times he’s asked not to. Marshmallows, like toast, are simply better carbonized.

His mother comes in. She sees his clothes in a tangled ball on the floor and remarks, “You know, it’s enough to take them off. You don’t actually have to tie them in knots.” Andy recognizes this as a vague criticism, but exactly why the state of discarded clothes needs to be addressed at all eludes him. Still, he offers the expression of contrition the moment seems to require of him, and his mother smiles tightly and nods. As she straightens the clothes she looks the boy over. His face and lower limbs are already slightly tanned, but the rest of his body is still winter white. As if to emphasize the contrast, the dirt, too, corresponds to the exposure of his skin. She runs the bath and checks the temperature. “Okay, kiddo,” she says, and picking him up under the arms, she sets him in the water and begins to wash him.

“Martin’s probably going to be around... are you going to make it up with him?” she asks, occupying the chore with small talk.

In response, one shoulder rises in a shrug.

“I thought you’d have made up with him this afternoon.”

“I didn’t see him,” Andy says.

She scrubs his face, holding his chin so that he can’t turn away, as he is wont to. “He probably found someone else to play with. Well, that’s what happens,” she warns him.

He jerks his blunt muzzle away long enough to gasp, “Who?”

“I don’t know, but he must have been doing something. Come on, hold still.”

“My face is clean. You’re hurting my eyes,” he complains.

“Fine, fine. Sit down, so I can wash your feet,” she says. Andy squats, sits back carefully so he doesn’t slip and bump his head. He can’t resist playfully kicking the water, giving a couple of giggles.

“Come on, kiddo, don’t get me wet.” She grabs at his ankle and raises his foot. She pauses, frowns a bit, and then her eyes dart to his.

Instantly Andy senses the older creature is displeased with him. “I stopped,” he objects.

“You were up at those railroad tracks, weren’t you?”

Andy is flabbergasted and his mouth drops open. How does she know this?

“Answer me, Andrew.” She uses the formal version of his name, an understated but clear indication that he is in serious trouble. For his part, the boy is so stunned by her sudden display of clairvoyance that all he can do is nod softly.

A pink-clawed finger wags accusingly before him. “You’ve been told to stay away from those tracks. Haven’t you? Haven’t you been told?”

Andy holds his quivering lip between his teeth, and he nods. When he blinks, fat tears are squeezed from his eyes.

“You’re going straight to bed,” she condemns him. “Right after your bath is finished. That’s it.”

The cub’s voice is raised in protest and remorse, but the sentence stands. His mother scrubs his feet, furiously, wordlessly. Inside himself, Andy is sorrowful because he has upset the one who shelters and feeds him, who most loves him and is most beloved in turn. But deeper than that, even more fundamentally, he is angry because he is being punished for breaking a rule he has already judged by experience to be arbitrary. He has been to the tracks, sensed the approach of danger, carefully avoided it, and by the use of his senses and reason, converted a threat into an impressive, memorable moment. Yet somehow, she has sensed this and stolen the triumph from him. He is completely at the mercy of her whims, in no way her equal. He has no shield from them.

Alone, in his sleeping bag, with the sounds of revelry just yards away, the man cub cries himself to sleep.

He rises all the earlier. His mother is not awake to view his bitter face as he sticks his tongue out at her. He dresses quietly and frees himself from the trailer, stepping out into the morning. He initiates an extremely diligent search for leftover beer, and as though God were on his side, is amply rewarded. One can verges on full. It’s too much to drink all at once, and so Andy dashes off with it. He pauses in the screen of trees by Martin’s trailer and guzzles what he can manage. The sharpness of the alcohol and carbonation revolt him, beer invading his nose, and he smacks his hand on the back of his head, coughing.

“Where were you last night?” Martin asks. Andy yips, startled, and nearly drops the can. “Hey, wow, is that beer? Here, can I have some?”

Andy snarls, “Fuck off!”

Martin’s eyes narrow. “I’m telling,” he says. He begins to stride purposefully towards Andy’s trailer.

Daggers of terror stab at the younger boy’s heart; if he’s caught swearing and drinking alcohol on top of yesterday’s misbehaviour, who knows what his punishment will be? He chases after Martin, grabbing him by the sleeve. “Martin! I’m sorry! Here, come on... let’s share,” he offers. He holds out the can.

Martin regards Andy for a moment, then smiles, and they dart into the cover of trees. The can is passed back and forth, presently empty. A mutually amusing exhibition of belching ensues and they share the little chocolate bars that Martin always seems to have in abundance. Martin crushes the can under his heel, and tucks it into the roots of a tree. “Is there any more?” he asks.

“I don’t know. There might be.”

“Come on, let’s see.” They cross the clearing, chuckling as they tiptoe the last few yards to the fireside near Andy’s trailer. Five cans are discovered to hold various amounts of beer, but two of them are spoiled by cigarette butts. They pour the contents of two of the good cans into the third, nearly filling it, and duck into the woods behind the trailer. Martin carries the can, and keeps moving.

“Come on, let’s drink it,” Andy urges.

“Not yet, let’s wait till we’re at the pool,” Martin says. They pick their way between trees, emerging briefly by the path that leads into the forest, and vanish again. At the pool, Martin raises the can to his lips and gulps.

“Hey, me, hey, c’mon!” Andy yaps. Martin passes the can, rubbing his mouth on his sleeve, and now Andy tries to match the greedy display.

“C’mon, c’mon, my turn,” Martin snaps. Andy hands the can back with a burp. Martin gulps a share, and the can is passed back one more time. Andy drains it, letting the foam ooze out onto his flexing pink tongue, patting the can, without which he might be a boy innocently catching raindrops or snowflakes.

“Scrunch it,” Martin advises, and this time Andy crushes the can, wincing as it folds uncomfortably under his foot. Martin pushes it down in the pool so it drinks water and stays down. “That was great,” he enthuses, and taps Andy’s arm. “Come on,” he says, and begins to scramble uphill to the next set of falls. Andy follows him, all four paws propelling him up the slope. At the top, he straightens. His head feels as though it’s growing fur inside and he smiles, then staggers. He catches himself for a moment, but there is a sudden jolt as he falls on his backside. Ordinarily this experience would fill him with anger and frustration, but this time, it strikes him as amusing. Leaning on the heel of his hand, he is laughing too hard to rise.

Martin, too, is laughing. “What a dork,” he keeps repeating, holding his sides, dropping to his knees.

“I gotta pee,” Andy says, and howls at how funny that sounds.

“So do I,” Martin says. He turns away from Andy, still kneeling, and opens his jeans. Andy can see the dark patch spreading in the soil between Martin’s knees, and he falls on his back, laughing. After a few moments he recovers enough to kneel up and relieve himself as well.

Martin drops his chin in his hand. “Beer makes everything funny,” he observes. Andy nods. Clearly, this is why the older ones favour it so. It’s selfish of them to keep something so happy to themselves. He and Martin are only taking what should be theirs in the first place.

Martin gets to his feet and begins to climb upwards. Andy, still panting with laughter, asks, “Where yah goin’?”

“Let’s get some insulators,” Martin calls back. “Sell them to Mr. Macdougal.”

“I got in trouble for going to the tracks,” Andy protests. “I told you that would happen. I got sent straight to bed.”

Martin stops, half way up the rise. “Oh.”

Andy stares back at him in earnest for a moment. Then, his face splits in a smile and he falls back laughing. “You look so funny,” he says, pointing weakly.

“So do you. Come on, we’ll be careful.”

“I can’t, they’ll find out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. They always know.”

“Not always.”

Andy considers this. It’s true. They don’t always know. But his mother did last night, somehow. “Last time,” he counters.

Martin sits on the slope. “You musta told them.”

“I didn’t!”

“You had to. I didn’t.”

“She guessed.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Andy sits up, throws his arms wide. “I don’t know!” This is, finally, the point. He has no way of assessing the risk, so it’s better not to take it.

“When did she guess?”

“I was taking my bath. She just knew.”

Martin frowns, and scratches his head. “Well,” he reasons, “if they just know, then they’re gonna know about the beer, aren’t they?”

Andy is suddenly frightened. In his rush to defy them, he hasn’t thought of that.

“So we’re already in trouble, right?” Martin pursues his argument. Andy nods, his brow knitting.

“So it doesn’t matter if we go to the tracks, if we’re already in trouble, does it?” Martin rests his case.

Andy sighs, nodding. The fuzzy feeling in his head calms him. What Martin says makes sense. The woman who looks after Andy during the day while his parents are at work has a saying. “Into a penny in a pound,” he mutters, mangling it slightly, but applying it in context.

“Huh?” says Martin.

Andy gets to his feet, stumbling a bit, and climbs towards Martin. Martin turns, and together they ascend. In half an hour, they have crested the rise, and so has the sun. This time, Martin leads Andy in the other direction. Andy is glumly resigned to getting into trouble, and tries to enjoy himself while he’s still free. They plod along the tracks, glancing around for the glass beauties prized by Mr. Macdougal, unaware that the place has been long since picked clean of them by enterprising teens. Finally, bored and footsore, they sit side by side on one of the rails. “Ready to go back?” Martin asks.

Andy sighs. “I guess so.”

Martin picks up one of the stones that bed the railroad line. He tosses it away as it dirties his palms. He makes a face, rubbing them together, but the stain persists. He spits into this hands, then leans to wipe them in the grass. Even this is only partially successful. He looks in his palms, and then at Andy. “Hey, look,” he says.

Andy looks at his friend’s paws. “What’s that?”

“Creesatote,” Martin says, getting to his feet, beckoning Andy likewise.

Andy stands. “What is it?”

“It’s this stuff they put on wood to make it last longer. It’s real sticky,” he says. “Turn around, lemme see your foot.”

Andy turns, and balancing, raises his foot. He looks over his shoulder to see what Martin sees.

“There,” says Martin, pointing at Andy’s sole. He spins, and raises his own foot, showing the identical molasses-like discolouration. He smiles. “That’s how your mom knew. She saw the creesatote.”

Andy gasps and wails. “That’s great!” he yells. “It’s on me now!” He turns and pushes Martin.

“It’s okay,” Martin says, raising his hands. “You can wash it off.”

Andy pauses. Wash it off... “How?”

“When we go back down, wait by the pool. I’ll go back to my place and sneak a bar of soap.”

Andy rubs his nose. “You think that’ll work...?”

“Sure, why not?”

They set off, avoiding the tracks, walking in the grass, Andy scraping his feet every so often as they hurry along. Springing back down the hillside is a lot faster than climbing, and in a short while, they stand at the poolside.

“Why don’t you wait up at the second pool, just in case someone comes along?” Martin suggests.

Andy gazes up. “How long are you going to be?”

“Not too long. I’ll just go in the bathroom, put the soap in my pocket, and come back.”

“Suppose you can’t come back?”

Martin fingers his ear; he says, “Well, if you think I’m taking too long, just wash your feet as good as you can here. Come find me. We’ll get it done.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I know, me too. We probably missed breakfast. You ever get in trouble for that?”

Andy shakes his head. “Only supper.”

“Okay, well—go wait for me up there.”

Andy begins to climb the path. “Hurry.”

“Yeah, I will.” Martin trots down the path.

Andy sits cross-legged at the edge of the little pool, watching the waterfall. He wonders what it would be like to be here forever. He does not understand yet that there was a time, not too long ago, when this was all the life his kind could hope for. But he can see the complications ahead for him… school, growing up; they bewilder him. If Martin does not come back, perhaps he will just run off into the woods forever.

But Martin does come back. The brown-maned cub’s paw darts into his pocket and retrieves a well-worn bar of green soap. “Here you go,” he smiles.

Andy scoots forward to place his feet in the cold water. He knows he can’t keep them in there for long, so he simply wets them, scrubs his soles, claws at them with his nails, and then dips them. He and Martin judge the results. “Starting to come off,” Martin tells him. “Do it again.” After the fourth round of scrubbing, Martin concludes that the evidence of the misdoings is eradicated.

Andy hands over the soap. “Thanks, Martin. You going to?”

Martin shrugs. “Nobody told me not to walk on the tracks. I can if I want to.”

“Lucky,” Andy grumps.

“Let’s go home.” Together the youngsters walk the path, then part company as they reach the clearing. “Good luck,” Martin says.

Andy takes a deep breath before entering the trailer. His father is reading a novel while the news plays quietly on the radio. His mother browses a catalogue. She looks up. “Do you want some breakfast, kiddo?”

“Yeah. Co-Co Puffs.”

She nods and rises. Andy sits in her place and begins to look over the catalogue as though assuming some chore for her. “What you been up to?” she asks him.

“Playing with Martin,” he says.

She places a bowl of cereal before him and pours milk over it. “You weren’t up at those tracks, were you?”

Andy realizes that the moment calls for boldness. “Nope,” he says, grasping a spoon.

“Better not be,” warns his father, without looking up from his book.

Andy is just about to lean back and raise his feet to show them, but at the very last moment, something warns him not to let them see that he understands how his mother guessed the truth. Under the table, his feet press firmly against the finished wood of the bench seat. He feels suddenly clever. He likes this game.

Andy’s mother takes a seat beside him and picks at his hair affectionately. “I’m sorry about last night, Andy. It’s for your own good. Trains are dangerous. We only make rules for you because we love you. You understand, don’t you?”

Chewing cereal, a droplet of milk running from the corner of his mouth, Andy meets her eyes and nods.

“And if you love us, you’ll follow the rules, right?”

Andy nods again. Lying is so much easier when you have arranged the world so it’s almost not a lie at all.

She smiles and strokes his back. “Because we don’t want you to get hurt. You’re a good boy. Mostly,” she smirks.

Andy meets with Martin and a few other youngsters; they form a pack and roam the grounds, practicing moon landings, tossing a football, and sinking rough boats made of boards with leftover chunks of scrap wood nailed to them. It is a good day. And when it is over, Andy returns to his parents. After supper, there is television, and then bath time. Andy is anxious, but knows he must face it. This is the true test. This is where he learns if the world that Martin has opened up for him will really make sense. In the course of it, his mother washes his feet. She does not see the telltale stains that last night made her son look like he’d been skating on tobacco juice; only the dried mud and grass stains that denote acceptable play and roughhousing. When she smiles softly at him, Andy knows. It has worked.

What a world it is now for Andy. Suddenly a place of superstition and all-knowing adults is replaced by a glimmer of logic and the promise of some measure of control. He has broken so many rules today, but because swears evaporate and beer cans disappear and feet can be washed clean of creosote, it is as though he has done nothing wrong. In spite of all that, he is put in clean pyjamas, accompanies his parents to the fireside, and stuffs himself with charred marshmallows while he and Martin exchange knowing glances.

Deduction is a new instrument among the survival tools of this young beast. He has immediately seized upon its advantages. Previously, disobedience has been a matter of willfully breaking the rules, and then hoping adults would somehow fail to guess. Now he can see that being a ‘good boy’ is less a matter of obeying the rules than it is of arranging things such that others believe he does. Andy has discovered some very important truths. His parents might have more experience than he does, but their means of perceiving what is and what isn’t are the same as his. They judge on the evidence of their senses, just the same as he does. They do not have godlike powers to see into his guilty mind. And, more importantly still, they can be deceived. Andy realizes now that he can flout their rule against playing along the railroad tracks so long as he remembers not to walk on the ties, or to wash if he does. And that this caveat may apply to other rules, too. He understands now that a lie is more than simple verbal denial. It’s changing the world so that the lie seems to be the truth. A degree of power is now in his hands. Andy has become far more their equal, and he knows it.

Best of all, they don’t.

He closes his eyes and sleeps, leaning against his mother. She gazes down upon her cub, adoring him, and remarking how much like a little angel he looks. And why not? For is he not made in the image of God?