“Which means we've got one on Main Street and another two a block away at the Service Canada offices.”
“They say it's for our protection,” says Harper.
“From who?” Drumgold demands.
“Good question,” says Al.
When Harper arrives home in the Hill Farm subdivision at the end of Main Street farthest from the highway, he finds a police car parked outside his house.
He mutters, “Shit,” and contemplates running off until he sees his father beckoning him from the front window.
Mr. Meating greets him with, “How was school today?”
Sgt. Chase, from the Back River RCMP, is with him.
“Boring â as usual,” says Harper.
“Was the afternoon as boring as the morning?”
Harper thinks, He knows I skipped out at noon. He improvises. “There were no classes because the teachers had meetings.”
“Funny Mr. Matheson didn't mention that when he called.”
“Oh.”
“Where were you?”
“We...I...”
His father says, “We. Sgt. Chase already told me you weren't alone.”
“Just went for a walk on the beach.”
“Is that all you did?”
“Then we came back through the woods.”
Sgt. Chase, who has a big, square head, thinning grey hair, and a fighter's misshapen nose, asks, “Was that before or after taking a shortcut through Mr. Anderson's property and assaulting his security guards?”
“You can't prove we were on Mr. Anderson's property, and anyway, they asked for it.”
“One of the security guards identified you and your friend...er...” Sgt. Chase pulls a notebook from his pocket and consults it. “Monty Drumgold. He remembered seeing the two of you on the soccer team Mr. Anderson sponsored last year. He got your names from a team photo.”
Harper finds it strange hearing Drumgold referred to by his first name. He always tells Harper and Isora never to use it because he hates it.
“That'd be the soccer team whose uniforms and travel Mr. Anderson paid for,” Mr. Meating puts in.
Sgt. Chase glances at his notebook again and asks casually, “Who was the other person with you?”
Harper says, “There wasn't one.”
Sgt. Chase says, “Right.” He puts his notebook away and says mildly, “Nice way of saying âthank you' to Mr. Anderson, eh? Have him pay for your soccer, then run riot over his property â his beach and his garden. He does a lot for this town, you know. He sponsors the ball team your dad and me play on, as well as your soccer team, and he paid for the lights at the ball field.”
“And we wouldn't have a library in the town if it wasn't for him,” says Mr. Meating.
“That doesn't mean he owns the beach,” Harper mutters.
“Maybe not. But he does own access to the beach, and you have to learn to respect that,” says Sgt. Chase.
“It's not fair.”
“Life isn't fair,” Harper's father says. “Get used to it.” His tone softens. “I know you've been going there for years. So have I. All my life. But now it's off limits.”
“Who says?”
“Mr. Anderson says.”
“I don't care.”
“The police say it, too.”
Sgt. Chase nods. “Mr. Anderson's being very nice about it. He's persuaded his security guards not to lay any complaints of assault. He simply asks you to please respect his privacy and his property in the future, just as he respects yours. He says he's prepared to overlook the incident, provided nothing like it happens again.”
Harper grunts.
As soon as Sgt. Chase has left, Harper bursts out, “Why does everyone have to do what Mr. Anderson wants?”
“We don't have to do everything he wants,” says Mr. Meating. “But we have to remember he's an important manâ”
“So?”
“âwho is about to buy the pulp mill and get it fully operational again, which means I'll be back at work full time, along with about three hundred others, and your mother will get a few more hours at the grocery store, and the town won't be in quite such desperate straits as it is now. Isn't that worth allowing him a few privileges?”
“Butâ”
“But nothing. You have to let people like Mr. Anderson have their way. It's the price of prosperity.”
“I wouldn't let him have his own way.”
“You don't have the responsibility of keeping the town afloat. Neither do you have to worry about keeping up with house and car payments and supporting a family.”
“You never would have stuck up for someone like him a few months ago.”
“I had a steady job a few months ago.”
Harper slouches from the room. He's halfway up the stairs when his father calls after him, “So the beach is off limits...right?”
Harper sighs, “Right.”
He goes to his room and throws himself on his bed.
A few seconds later his father appears at the door. “I don't blame you for being upset about the beach being private. But there are better ways of protesting about it than getting in trouble with Mr. Anderson and the police.”
“We weren't protesting about anything. We were just out for a walk.”
“In the circumstances, that's a form of protest, whether you meant it or not.”
Harper reflects. He hadn't thought of their walk on the beach as an act of defiance, but now that his father has put
the thought in his head, he feels vaguely proud of it, and says, “So what if we were protesting?”
“So instead of trespassing, find some kind of legitimate and responsible way to protest.”
Harper says, “Like what?”
His father shrugs.
When Harper meets Drumgold and Isora later, Drumgold greets him with, “That bastard Anderson thinks he owns the world.”
“I guess you had a visit from Sgt. Chase, too,” says Harper.
“Did he ask you who was with us?”
Harper nods.
“I hope you didn't tell him.”
“What d'you think I am?”
Isora says, “How come Droopy didn't recognize me?”
Drumgold grins. “'Cos how you look now isn't exactly how
you looked last summer in your soccer kit.”
Harper remembers Isora in that photograph, in her baggy soccer shirt, with her hair pulled back, and her face muddy and sweaty. Glancing furtively at her, in her short red dress over black leggings, and with her hair tumbling over the old jean jacket she found in Frenchy's, he can understand why Droopy didn't recognize her. She looks like someone from
Teen Trend
magazine. He thinks Drumgold could be in the magazine, too, in the black wool jacket he found at the army and navy, and his black jeans and engineer's cap.
They're sitting on the steps of Al's. The stores and businesses on Main Street are closed, and the only other person on the street is the night guard in front of the post office, who stands under a light, watching them. The mist that has been hanging over the sea all day has moved inland and enveloped the town. A gust of wind funneling up from the river swirls dust in their eyes and whips Isora's fine hair across her face. Drumgold catches a few strands and smoothes them gently against her head.
“What shall we do?” she says.
“We'll go to the camp,” says Drumgold.
Harper says, “It's off limits, isn't it?”
“Who says?”
“Well...Mr. Anderson.”
“Who cares about Anderson?”
“He can make trouble for us,” says Harper.
“First he has to catch us,” says Drumgold.
He sets off along Main Street, hands in pockets, shoulders rolling with his long strides. Harper shambles beside him, being careful to leave space for Isora to take her place between them, where she trots with light, almost dancing steps. At the end of Main Street they swing on to the old logging road. Soon they
turn off it and plunge through a thick tangle of underbrush until they pick up the trail they've worn to the camp. They're always careful to leave the logging road at different points, so they leave no sign of the start of their trail. They walk in single file, Drumgold in the lead, until they reach a boggy area, where they come up against the wire-mesh fence that surrounds the Anderson grounds. Drumgold lifts a section of the fence and they scramble under. He carefully replaces it and makes sure they've left no trace of their entrance. On the other side of the bog, they pick up a deer trail which takes them to their camp.
They sit around a table they've made from driftwood, Drumgold and Isora on green plastic chairs they took from the trailer park on clean-up day last year, Harper on a battered wooden chest also salvaged from clean-up day. The chest contains a blanket, a tarp, candles, matches, and bathing suits. They can see the forbidden beach through the trees and hear the sea washing against the rocks of Seal Point.
Harper says, “Did you get shit for skipping school?”
Isora shakes her head, and Drumgold mutters, “Nah.”
“Didn't Mr. Matheson call your folks?”
Isora nods. “He spoke to Dad, and he asked me where I was, and when I said I was with you guys, Dad said that was okay.”
Harper looks at Drumgold, who says, “Ma told Matheson if I wasn't in school it was his problem, not hers.”
“How come I'm the only one who gets grief?” Harper complains.
“You need to train your folks better,” says Drumgold.
He produces his camera and says, “Let's make some pictures, Is. We'll go on the beach. There's not enough light here.”
“We can't go on the beach,” Harper protests. “Not after this afternoon. They'll be watching for us.”
“We'll stay near the trees,” says Drumgold. “They can't see the top of the beach from the cottage.”
“But if Droopy or Diamond Head comes downâ”
“We'll see them before they see us.”
Drumgold leads the way to the beach, where he points to a tree, barkless and grey, half embedded in the sand, its roots protruding like a fan. “Sit against that, Is.” He guides Isora through different poses: “Look out to sea...Look wistful... Look at the camera...Be serious...Now think of Harper in his underwear.” Isora bursts out laughing and Drumgold takes three frames in quick succession. Harper is torn between keeping an eye on the cottage and watching Isora. He thinks she's like a model or an actress, the way she flits from one attitude and expression to another.
Drumgold says, “Now you, Harp.”
“Yeah, right,” says Harper. “Me the model.”
“Really,” Drumgold insists. “Lean against the roots. Quick, we're losing the light.”
Harper removes his old leather hat, but Drumgold says, “Keep it on.”
Harper leans against the tree.
“With your shoulder to it, not your back. Now cross your feet.”
“I feel stupid.”
“You look cool,” says Isora.
“Look down,” says Drumgold.
“You want a picture of me looking at my feet.” says Harper. “That'll be really nice. My mom'll love it.”
“It's not for your mom.”
Harper sighs and looks at his feet. “I feel even more stupid now.”
“Scowl,” says Drumgold.
“Scowl?”
“Think dark thoughts.”
“Why? You can't see my face.”
“Just do it.”
Harper obeys.
“Now look up.”
“You just told me to look down.”
“Look up, but slowly.”
Harper obeys again. Drumgold presses the shutter, looks at the monitor, and nods.
Harper says, “Let's see.”
He and Isora stand close to Drumgold, peering at the monitor.
Isora murmurs, “Wow. Cool.”
Harper grins. His eyes glare malevolently from under the brim of his hat. He's not sure the image looks like him, but he's not sure what he looks like anyway. Even when he looks in a mirror he's not convinced that what he sees is a true likeness. He's back to front, for a start, and he's sure he doesn't look that...bland. But the figure in the photograph is anything but bland.
“You look like an axe murderer,” says Drumgold.
Harper takes it as a compliment.
Isora says, “I want to listen to the sea,” and makes for the rocks of Seal Point, keeping close to the top of the beach. The boys follow. Isora starts to climb out on the rocks, closer to the sea.
With a glance towards the cottage, Harper says, “They'll see us.”
“Not against the rocks,” says Drumgold. “Anyway, it'll be dark in a few minutes.”
They sit in silence, Isora with her eyes closed. The lights of
the cottage come on. Suddenly a beam of light plays across the beach from the top of the rocky bluff by which they'd made their escape earlier.
“Suppose Diamond Head and Droopy come down to the beach,” says Harper.
“Suppose they do,” Drumgold scoffs. “We'll be long gone before they get anywhere near.”
The light comes on again, farther along the bluff this time.
Drumgold growls, “One day soon there'll be security guards all along the beach. You'll see.”
“Frigging scumbag Anderson thinks he owns the world,” Isora mutters.
“We should have torched his barn when we had the chance,” says Drumgold. “It'd serve him right for thinking he owns our beach.”
“It wouldn't have done any good,” says Harper. “It'd just get us in serious trouble.”
“So what are we supposed to do? Just roll over and play dead?”
“Dad said we should protest about the beach in some kind of legitimate and responsible way.”
Drumgold looks at Harper, shaking his head. “And just how the fuck are we supposed to do that? We know as much about legitimate and responsible protesting as we do about advanced calculus.”
Harper shrugs.
Isora says suddenly, “Dex. He'll know.”
“I thought you said Dexter was away,” says Drumgold.
“He's back,” says Isora.