Drumgold repeats, “Jerk.”
They watch the oil truck disappear before hurrying to school.
Harper's last class before noon is social studies. The students are studying current affairs. They have to listen to a news broadcast and then discuss it. Harper daydreams his way through the national news, paying attention only when the announcer reports another terrorist act against Eastern Oil in which one of the company's trucks, left running while the
driver was getting coffee from a café, has been stolen and driven off a cliff, causing an oil slick that was moving out to sea. The police didn't know whether the driver had jumped clear at the last moment or had gone over the cliff with the truck. Harper drifts off again until the local news comes on, when he rouses himself, hoping to hear something about an unwanted delivery of fertilizer to the Anderson cottage, but there is nothing.
After class, Harper goes to the main gate, where Drumgold had said they'd meet before returning to the cottage. Isora joins him there, and they wait in the crush of students walking out of school. Some of the kids greet Isora as they pass, and the boys eye her openly. No-one acknowledges Harper. He knows the students regard him as a sad figure, think he's playing second fiddle to Drumgold, unable to attract a girlfriend of his own.
A grade twelve student, about whom Harper knows nothing except that he's called Greg and plays on the basketball team, brushes against Isora as he passes, and whispers something.
Isora says, “Get lost.”
Greg laughs.
Harper knows Greg wouldn't dare say anything to Isora if Drumgold was within earshot. The last time a kid made a lewd remark to her, it had taken Drumgold only about five seconds to deal with him, five seconds for which Mr. Matheson had suspended him for three days.
Greg sniggers, “What do you and Drumgold do with old Harper here when you want to get it on?”
Harper colours. He doesn't care what kids like Greg think of him, but the insult strikes at his fear that Drumgold and Isora might, indeed, sometimes resent his presence. Further, it plays on his ever present doubt: Why would Drumgold and Isora want him around at all?
Isora says, “Piss off, dickhead.”
Greg laughs again and walks on.
Isora says, “You can't let arseholes like that bother you, Harp.”
He doesn't answer and she goes on, “I can read you like a book, Harp. You're upset because you're afraid Drumgold and me really don't want you around sometimes, right?”
Harper shrugs. “No reason you should want me around
any
time.” He can't help saying it, although he knows he sounds sulky and self-pitying.
The stream of students has thinned.
Isora moves close to Harper and takes his arm. “We need you, Harp, Drumgold and me. And...
I
need you.”
He thrills at Isora's telling him she needs him, but he says, “Nah.”
She shakes his arm. “Listen, dummy. I need you because you're my friend, who's kind and trusty and mannerly like no-one else I know, and that includes Drumgold. And I need you to help me keep Drumgold in check, like you did at Anderson's office, and like when he wanted to get straight into third wave stuff. He listens to you, because he knows you stay cool and sensible while he's liable to go crazy. And not just that.” She grins. “You and me, we're his only friends. All the other kids are afraid of him.”
Harper thinks, And I don't have any friends except you and Drumgold. What a truly sad figure I'd be without you.
Drumgold arrives and says, “What are you two talking about?”
Isora, still holding Harper's arm, says, “You, of course.”
She takes Drumgold's arm, too, standing between the boys.
Drumgold says, “Let's go.”
They hurry back to their hiding place in the woods and peer across the Old Beach Road at the cottage. A truck and a
backhoe are parked outside the gates, while two men rake up a few strands of fertilizer and shovel them into the truck. Diamond Head is leaning against the gates, watching.
One of the rakers complains, “I don't see why we have to clean up your boss's road.”
Diamond Head says, “No-one asked you to dump a load of fertilizer out here.”
“Mr. Foran ordered it,” the raker insists.
“Never heard of him,” Diamond Head scoffs. “There's no-one of that name works for Mr. Anderson, and it's as well for you he's away and won't know anything about it, otherwise it'd be him talking to you, not me, and you wouldn't want that. You oughta know better than to deliver a load of shit without checking first.”
Still grumbling, the men throw their rakes and shovels after the last of the fertilizer and leave. Diamond Head watches them go, shaking his head and grinning, before going into the grounds and closing the gates.
The members of BARF look at one another.
“What a waste of time,” says Isora.
“My stupid idea. Sorry,” says Harper.
“Anderson won't even know about it,” says Drumgold bitterly.
“He'll know something,” says Isora.
She produces a can of red spray paint from her backpack, darts across the road, and spray-paints BARF in jagged red letters on the wall beside the gate.
In June, when school is out, Back River celebrates Back River Daze. Harper has served at the Seniors' Tea, volunteered there by his mother, who was making sandwiches. Drumgold has photographed the Rubber Ducky River Race and the Family Canoe Run for the town web site, at the request of Mayor Green, while Isora has helped her father at the Hobbies and Crafts Exposition put on by the Men's Support Network to which Mr. Lee belongs. On Friday night, after watching the Welcome Spring Parade, the friends went to the rides, where
they ate cotton candy and rode on the tilt-a-whirl until Harper had to run behind the Darts Shoot to throw up.
On Saturday afternoon, Mr. Anderson throws a street party. Main Street is closed to traffic. The Back River Dixies perform on a low stage in front of the post office and a few of the older people dance listlessly in the street. The stores have sidewalk sales, with trestle tables set up along the road, the Baptist Youth Group offers face painting for the little kids, and old Mr. Dempsey brings his horses into town to give hay wagon rides down Main Street and back beside the river on Main Street Parallel. At three o'clock, while the Back River Dixies take a break, Mayor Green leads Mr. Anderson to the microphone and announces, as he sweeps his hand to indicate the length of Main Street, “None of this would have been possible without the generous support of our very own resident benefactor, Mr. Andrew Anderson, whom I have asked to say a few words.” Mr. Anderson declines with a shake of his head. Mayor Green addresses the crowd gathering in front of the stage, “Would you like to hear from Mr. Anderson himself?” The crowd applauds. Mayor Green gestures at Mr. Anderson, who approaches the microphone with a show of reluctance. The applause swells.
Sgt. Chase is parked beside the stage and leans against his car, watching Mr. Anderson, while two auxiliary police stand in the crowd. Camera Woman is on the post office steps, taking pictures.
Mr. Anderson says he's happy to see so many people enjoying themselves at this wonderful celebration of family and community. He thanks the residents of Back River for welcoming him to the stage today and for accepting him and his family into the community when he built the cottage a couple of years ago. He hopes he can contribute to the well being and
prosperity of Back River not only by being a good citizen, but also by buying the mill and restoring it to its full operational capacity, as well as continuing to support community beautification projects like planting trees on Main Street and restoring the Memorial Gardens.
The crowd applauds enthusiastically.
He says he doesn't want to keep people from enjoying the afternoon's festivities but hopes they have time to listen to one story of his early days in the pulp and paper business, a story from which he's afraid he doesn't emerge in his best light â that's if he has a best light at all â but in which he thinks there's a lesson for all, himself included.
The crowd applauds again and there are cries of, “Let's hear it.”
Harper, standing at the back of the crowd, thinks Anderson sounds like a kindly uncle and is looking forward to hearing the story when he feels a sharp tug on the back of his shirt. He turns. Drumgold and Isora are behind him.
Drumgold murmurs, “It's time.”
They drift towards Portage Lane, a narrow, winding road linking Main Street and Main Street Parallel. Drumgold produces a knife. Isora takes a can of red spray paint from her shoulder bag. Harper pulls a jar of sand from his pocket. They linger at the junction. The crowd is laughing as Mr. Anderson recounts his story. Sgt. Chase and his colleagues have been drawn into watching him, too. Camera Woman is still intent on taking pictures of the crowd.
Drumgold says, “Ready?”
They slip into Portage. AA1 is parked a few metres from the junction, blocking the way through.
Isora says, “Wait,” and points.
Anderson's driver is in the car. He's reading a newspaper,
which he holds so that it blocks his view up the lane towards Main Street. They duck into a short passageway leading to the rear doors of the building on the corner.
Harper mutters, “Game's off, guys. We can't do it. Not with the driver there.”
Isora tells Drumgold, “Give me your tee-shirt. Quick.”
She pulls it over her head, so that it becomes a mini-skirt. She slips off her jeans and hands them to Drumgold. She sees Harper trying to look away, and failing, and smiles at him. “Sorry, Harp.” She peers from the passageway at the car. “Which side is the gas tank?”
“Passenger side,” says Drumgold.
She gives Drumgold the can of spray paint and says, “Keep out of sight, but be ready.”
She crosses the lane and saunters towards the car, heading for the driver's side. The driver lowers his newspaper to watch her approach.
Harper, peering cautiously around the corner of the passageway with Drumgold, says, “Where did she learn to walk like that?”
As Isora passes the car she seems to stumble and fall. The boys watch as the car door opens and the chauffeur says, “Are you all right, miss?”
They hear Isora say, “I think so,” and see her try to rise, but fall back, Drumgold's tee-shirt riding higher on her legs.
The chauffeur bends over her and says, “Where does it hurt?”
Drumgold whispers, “Let's go.”
With a glance towards Main Street they run to the car, keeping low. From the other side of the vehicle, they hear Isora say, “My ankle, I think.”
The chauffeur asks, “There?” Isora lets out a gasp and the driver says, “Sorry.”
Drumgold pries open the cover of the gas tank with his knife and unscrews the cap. Harper tips in the jar of sand. Drumgold replaces the cap and closes the cover.
Loud laughter and applause sound from Main Street, followed by Mayor Green's voice: “Let's hear it for Mr. Anderson.”
As the applause and cheers swell, Drumgold spray-paints BARF on the side of the car. The boys rise so that they can see through the car windows to the other side, where the chauffeur is still bent over Isora. They run down Portage and throw themselves around the corner into the Parallel, out of sight of the car. They peer back around the corner. The applause is fading. Isora is limping away from the car, while the chauffeur looks between her and the crowd that is starting to appear on Main Street. Isora reaches the Parallel and looks behind her. The chauffeur is still watching. He waves. As he glances back toward Main Street, she slips into the Parallel, on the opposite corner to the boys. Drumgold, peering up the lane, motions for her to stay there.
Anderson is at the end of Portage, a crowd of people around him, wanting to shake his hand. He backs away, waving. The chauffeur hurries into the car. Anderson turns and heads for the passenger side door. The car's engine is coughing and spluttering. Anderson stops and stares at the side of AA1. He puts his hands on his hips. He walks slowly towards the car. The chauffeur gets out and runs around to join him. The crowd has followed Anderson and falls silent as Sgt. Chase bustles to his side.
His words reach the members of the Front: “I'll get to the bottom of this, Mr. Anderson. I'll take care of it. I won't rest until I find the culprits.”
Drumgold whispers to Harper, “We gotta get back to Main Street â fast.”
“It might be a good idea to put your shirt on first,” says Harper.
“That's why we're going where we're going,” says Drumgold.
He crosses the Parallel and plunges into the alders that cover the marshy wasteland between the dirt road and the Back River. Harper follows. Their feet sinking into the mud, they make their way past the end of Portage in the shelter of the alders. Isora meets them as they emerge out of sight of anyone looking down the lane. With a quick glance up and down the deserted Parallel, Isora pulls Drumgold's shirt over her head and exchanges it for her jeans. Harper looks carefully away again.
Isora mutters, “Sorry, Harp. I can't help it.”
Drumgold, his shirt on, says, “Get up to Main Street on the other side of the post office. Then split up and make yourselves visible doing something â anything â and make like you've been there for a while.”
“But no-one saw us doing the car,” says Harper. “No-one will suspect us.” He looks from Drumgold to Isora. “Will they?”
“Let's cover ourselves anyway,” says Drumgold. “Twenty minutes from now, meet in front of Al's.”
As they jog down the Parallel, Harper says, “But that's close to Portage...and Mr. Anderson's car. There'll still be a crowd there.”
“Right,” says Drumgold. “So where's the last place the ones that did the job are likely to be?”
Harper mutters, “Oh. Right.”