Foreigners (34 page)

All those walking along Forsythe had stopped to watch the bus as it pulled up to the curb in front of the Municipal Building, in front of Bull. Even cars had pulled to the side of the street, their drivers craning to see what was happening.

Bull waited as the singing subsided. He could feel the sweat beginning to rise on his brow and moistening the cotton fabric of his golf shirt where it pinched tightly under his arms. The engine choked and sputtered, and finally died. Then the doors folded back and Bull could have sworn that, as they did so, he'd seen a small cloud of smoke billow forth.

As the bus emptied its load, Bull did not register faces; rather he saw nose rings, lip rings, eyebrow rings; shaggy hair, shorn hair, rainbow hair; combat fatigues, torn jeans, gypsy dresses. He saw backpacks, rucksacks and duffle bags; guitars, flutes and bongo drums.

And then, he saw Morrow. Standing there on the sidewalk in front of him. His hair bushier than ever; his beard scruffier; his eyes brighter, more mischievous, and lit with a defiance that was anything but childish.

“What's this?” Bull managed, feeling a little apprehensive at the sight of Morrow's fiery little grin.

“I told you I would take care of it, Mr Mayor,” Morrow smiled. “And I will.”

“Take care of what?”

“Why the cordon, of course.” Morrow shook his head as if the answer was quite obvious.

Bull looked around him, at the strange bodies that had spilled onto the sidewalk, some already lounging on the steps of the Municipal Building, others mingling with his now-confused-looking constituents. Still others had wandered into the street, oblivious to any traffic, and stood gazing about themselves as if lost.

“I wish you'd told me,” Bull said.

“Oh, Mr Mayor,” Morrow said, clapping a bony hand on Bull's shoulder. “I'm sure you've got more pressing concerns, running the town and all.”

“Not really,” Bull said, trying his best to sound firm.

“Look.” Morrow turned and made a wide sweeping gesture, taking in his flock. “We're just going to pick up a few supplies and then we'll be heading on out to get things set up.”

“I don't know if this is such a good idea,” Bull said, lowering his head. Then he caught wind of something and sniffed at the air. “Is that dope I smell?”

Morrow laughed his snorting, squeaking piglet laugh.

“Not to worry,” he said. “Not to worry.” Then he turned and began to gather his charges.

Bull watched as the strange crowd gathered around Morrow, swarming toward him as if he were a guru. He couldn't make out what was said, but heads nodded in unison as if an understanding had been reached. With another wave of his arms, Morrow had the rabble moving en masse along Forsythe Street toward the stores.

Halfway down the block, Morrow stopped and turned back to face Bull, who still hadn't moved from where he stood.
Morrow cupped his thin hands around his mouth and hollered in his piping pubescent voice:

“I forgot to tell you. I called the media.”

Media? What media? Bull thought, but said nothing, already uncomfortable under the stares of his fellow citizens.

Bull is breathing heavily. The burning that has become commonplace in his belly has moved into his chest. His first thought is heart attack, and with it comes a brief but horrifying wave of terror. But his fright passes quickly as he recognizes the pain, recollects it as he would the face of a long-absent friend. It is the pain of exertion, the pleasant discomfort of athleticism. It has been years since he's felt it; many more years than he cares to admit. It belongs to a time of wind sprints and tackling dummies, of running stairs and hefting weights, of shouting crowds and sweetly curved cheerleaders. In his head the surging blood beats in time with the chant
toro, toro
. He wants to tell Darryl, but he's too far ahead, moving through the nighttime forest with an ease of which Bull is jealous.

They have left the truck about a mile up the road, pulled far off onto the shoulder, very nearly in the ditch. It was Darryl who suggested it, saying it would look less suspicious that way. Bull had wanted to ask his son why it was that they needed to avoid suspicion, wanted to know exactly what it was that they were planning to do, but he held his tongue. Before they'd left the house, after Bull had changed into his clothes and promised Marlene that he was just going out for a late-night, sleep-inducing stroll, Darryl had placed his hand on Bull's shoulder and said, “Trust me, Pop.”

And Bull wanted to. His son had never asked this of him before, and he'd been touched. To have said anything after they pulled the truck over would have compromised that trust. So he remained silent and followed.

“So explain it to me again,” Marlene said, the serving spoon loaded with mashed potatoes hovering above her plate. “Tell me why there's a busload of hippies tramping through town?”

Bull swallowed carefully, easing the not-quite-chewed carrots down his throat. But Marlene slapped her potatoes down beside her roast beef and pointed the spoon at him before he could speak.

“Don't bother,” she said. “The less I understand the better. That way when people come up to me on the street or, God forbid, when I'm at the A&P doing the shopping, I can just look at them and shrug. I can say, ‘I don't know. I really don't. I think that maybe Bull has gone over the edge. If you ask me, I'd think twice when it comes around to the next election.' And I'll say that Bull. Don't think I won't.”

He couldn't eat any more. Two bites into his dinner and he couldn't stomach the thought of even one more forkful. His belly was on fire. He looked toward the kitchen counter, to the bottle of Maalox, and wondered if this wasn't how a drunk felt, an addict: willing to pass on the opportunity of sustenance for the cool comfort of vice.

He'd tried his best to explain the arrival of the bus, of Morrow and his merry band. He told Marlene about the fish, the Jericho trout. He'd recounted, as best he could, the story Morrow had read to him from the aging text in his office.
About Sir Holyfield Lewis and his unfortunate demise. About the effect unbridled progress had on delicate ecosystems. About Billy Finnegan and the planned cordon. But all he'd received in return were blank stares. From Marlene, Darlene and Darryl. And it ruined his appetite and left him with an unquenchable thirst for his antacid.

“Are they real hippies?” Darlene asked, pushing her meat to the side of her plate. “I mean, like real honest-to-God hippies?”

“I don't know,” Bull said, trying to smile.

“Because,” she went on, “they told us that there aren't any hippies any more.”

“Who told you that?” Marlene said through narrowed eyes.

“Mr Robertson, at school. My history teacher. He told us that there is no such thing as hippies any more. And that when there was hippies they were only in the United States and not in Canada.”

“That's ridiculous,” Darryl said through a mouthful of boiled cabbage.

“Well,” Darlene shot back, “that's what he said.”

“Since when have teachers known anything?” Darryl replied, refilling his mouth.

“So,” Darlene said, looking at Bull. “Are they real hippies or not?”

“I don't know, honey,” Bull said, feeling somewhat better that at least his family was having a conversation at the dinner table, even if it was somewhat fraught. “I don't think so.”

Marlene huffed and let her fork clatter against her plate. She drew herself straight up in her chair and set her hands in her lap.

“Phyllis Richmond told me,” she said, her voice clear and confident, “that they had bongo drums and guitars. If that doesn't make them real hippies, I don't know what does. And if you ask me, I think they should be rounded up and sent packing. And believe you me, I'm not the only one.”

Through the trees he sees the familiar shape of the Streamliner, its burnished aluminum shell catching the faint moonlight and illuminating the small clearing in which it sits. Bull sits down on a stump to catch his breath. He's somewhat embarrassed. Not by his now-apparent unhealthiness, though it has come as something of a surprise to him. He always considered himself to be in fair condition. Sure, some of his youthful muscle had gone to fat, but that was to be expected with age. Still, most of his bulk remained firm, and his arms were thick in the biceps, not flabby but hard. The work he did in the garden kept them that way. He understands now, though, his hands clutching his knees, his shaking forearms supporting the heft of his upper body, that his weight is simply that: weight.

This, however, is not what has brought about the humiliation he can now feel colouring his cheeks. It's the sight of Billy Finnegan's trailer. From the moment they stepped into the inky woods at the roadside—the whole while he followed Darryl, tried to keep pace with him, with his head pounding and his sweat pouring, with his mind turning back on itself to a time when it and his body were both fresh and innocent, prepared to face a future of promise together— Bull had no idea where he was. And now, sitting on his
stump, sucking in the cool night air like a greedy child, he feels foolish. He once knew the forest as intimately as he did the fine veins of Marlene's breasts. He no longer knows either.

“Pop. Hey, Pop?”

He hears Darryl's call, but cannot yet respond. A few more deep breaths.

“You okay there, Pop?” Darryl asks, coming up beside him and laying a gentle hand on the top of Bull's head.

“Sure, son,” Bull pants. “Just a little winded, is all.”

Not even breathing hard, he thinks. I can hardly move and he's not even breathing hard. Bull decides that he may have underestimated his son, and finds the thought pleasing.

“Well, come on then,” Darryl says and takes Bull by the arm and helps him to his feet.

They move together across the brief clearing, Bull propped against Darryl, a wounded soldier in need of his comrade's assistance.

At the door of the trailer Darryl lets go of his father's arm, steadies him and offers him a look of condolence. An apology, it seems to Bull, for the strain he's put him through, but also for the strain that is to come. There is kindness in the boy's face and Bull wonders where exactly that comes from. Then Darryl turns to the door and knocks three times on the shiny metal. Three echoing reports that suggest a completely hollow interior.

The door opens without the least sound of movement from inside, as if Billy Finnegan was standing behind it, expecting visitors. Billy is wearing cut-off jean shorts and a slightly soiled dark green John Deere T-shirt. His short hair is mussed,
but Bull can't tell whether from sleep or lack of combing. He suspects the latter.

“Hey there, Darryl,” Finnegan says, as if a knock at his door in the middle of the night is normal.

“Billy.”

“Howya doin', Bull?”

“Fine, Billy,” Bull manages, his wind finally returning.

“Good to hear,” Billy smiles. “What can I do for you boys?”

Even with his breath back, Bull feels a desperate need to sit down again, but there is something about the situation that keeps him from saying as much. He holds no rank in the circumstance, is very much the third party, standing on the fringe, waiting for an invitation to participate.