The Republic of Nothing (48 page)

“What?” Casey asked.

“They've declared war on the island,” my father said.

An RCMP cruiser now appeared as it came around the turn past Burnet's house and pulled up on the bridge, coming to a stop by my father. The same young Mountie who had questioned me got out and walked over to my father. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name's Elgin Shaeffer. Sorry to hear about the little accident. My father was a great admirer of you.”

“He from the Shore?” my father asked.

“Born and raised here. Voted Tory all his life.”

“I'm sure he did,” my father said. “What can I do for you?” “Well, sir, you probably just saw the mining trucks that came by here.”

“I did,” my father said, “and I'd like to report two significant violations of provincial highway law.”

The Mountie shook his head. “Well, I don't know if I can do anything about that if I wasn't here to see it. You could file a complaint, I suppose, but that wasn't why I came out here.”

“I'll file a complaint,” my father said.

“What I came out to tell you,” the young man said, acting a little embarrassed, “is that I've got a court order stating that you not go near the mining site.”

My father's eyes flared but he kept his cool, levelled his voice. “Now why is that, son? Why is it that I'm not permitted on Crown land, land owned by the good people of this province for all to use in a proper manner?”

“Well, it has to do with that little incident last year. Some-body ruined the engine of a truck, painted something about a republic of something or other and the Attorney General has informed the RCMP that it was most likely you, sir, behind it.”

“Are you suggesting, that the former premier of the province of Nova Scotia drove out here from Province House to wreck the engine of somebody's goddamn truck?”

“That seems to be what the Attorney General is saying.”

“My father didn't do anything,” I said. And I was ready to blurt out the truth. I wouldn't have mentioned Tennessee Ernie, but I wasn't going to let my father's image be tarnished because of me. But before I could get the words out, my father was pulling me aside.

He spoke loud enough so the Mountie could hear in a cool calm voice, “Ian, would you mind going down to get a look at
the damage to the bridge caused by those mining people? I want to be able to file a complete report here with the Constable before he leaves.”

“Yeah, sure, Dad,” I said. And I climbed down the side of the bridge structure to get a closer look at the creosote beams that held up the bridge. Sure enough, the one just below us had been splintered in two and another had a serious bow in it, having buckled from the weight of the truck. It didn't look to me like it would take much more abuse. As I climbed back up I told them both what I saw. “If I was you, officer, I'd have this bridge closed immediately to all traffic before the whole thing collapses,” I added.

He looked at me befuddled. “I don't think I have the authority. We'll have to have an inspection team come out from Halifax for that,” he said.

My father was scratching his jaw and studying Elgin Shaeffer. “Elgin, I want you to know there's a lot at stake here. If they start tearing up this island, there's no telling what might happen. I'm sure that your own father would tell you that, next to loyalty to the party you were born into, there's nothing more important than the land. We start ruining the land and selling it off to the Yanks to make nuclear weapons, we might as well just roll over and die.”

“These would be my sentiments exactly, sir, if I had any say in the matter. Liberal scum never did do nothing good for this province.”

“Damn straight,” my father said, playing up to the Mountie's political prejudice.

“Well, serve me the papers then, Elgin, and you can go on about your work.”

“I wish I didn't have to do this.”

“It's okay.”

Elgin handed over a legal document that my father took and stuffed into his shirt pocket. “You don't have any idea who
was behind all this little vendetta to discredit me and put me to shame, do you? Off the record, of course.”

Elgin shrugged his shoulders and looked uncomfortable. “I don't really like to say,” he began and maybe he was ready to spill the beans, but it wouldn't be necessary. Approaching the bridge was the Mannheim/Atlanta pick-up truck. The guy driving it was the Atlanta half of the operation.

I tried to stop the truck before it got to us. I waved the driver to stop. He rolled down his window and said in the deepest southern drawl I'd ever heard, “You're all in very deep shit, now. Ain't nobody allowed to mess with a man's machinery like that.” I just smiled like he had just given me a compliment, looked past him to the man sitting opposite — Bud Tillish.

“Mr. Tillish,” I said. “A belated ongratulations on your victory. I haven't had a chance to come by personally to offer my sincere best wishes.”

Bud Tillish just looked the other way as if I didn't exist.

“I wouldn't drive on the bridge if I were you,” I said to both of them. “Some big flatbed with a bulldozer just drove over, cracked the beam right in half. Nothing holding the thing up but splinters and good will.”

“Horse shit,” Atlanta said, putting the truck in gear, spinning gravel and pulling up to the ass end of the RCMP cruiser where he lay on the horn.

Elgin looked really annoyed as he saw Bud Tillish sitting in the truck. He gave my father a knowing glance —
Liberal scumbags.
But he sucked in his breath and sat down in his car and drove across the bridge and onto the island where he stopped on the side of the road and studied us in his rear-view mirror.

Atlanta drove up and stopped alongside of my father. Bud Tillish leaned across him and flipped up his sunglasses. “You try to stop this operation, McQuade, and you're in big trouble. I know all about your lunatic schemes and your fantasy
republic. If I could only have let the public know what a maniac you were years ago, I'd have had you out of office and into the Loony Bin. Then you could have stopped pretending you were premier or president and been anything you want — Napoleon, Castro, you name it.”

“Good to see you too, Bud,” my father said. “You working for the Americans now?” he asked, pointing to the Mannheim/Atlanta emblem on the side of the truck. “Or is it the Germans?”

Atlanta stuck his finger in my old man's face. “We're an international corporation, goddamn it. Americans and West Germans — only thanks to you bloody hicks, our investors in Germany are about ready to pull out.”

“Uranium sounds like a dangerous business,” my father said. “I'd get out if it, too, and into something more… what's the right word, more sensible.”

“Shee-it,” said Atlanta.

“Just remember who's in power now in this province. Just remember who has the real authority,” Tillish scolded my old man.

“Bud,” my father responded, “Don't forget that it doesn't matter how important you think you are, there are always higher levels of authority.”

But Bud didn't seem too impressed. Neither did Atlanta. The truck was stopped dead centre in the bridge.

My mother and Casey had walked to the rear of the truck on the other side. I couldn't figure out what they were up to until, arm in arm, they walked back around the truck to us. “You boys have had enough fun for one day. Time to go home for lunch,” Dorothy said to Dad and me.

Atlanta tipped his Braves cap at Mom and Bud settled back into his seat as we sauntered back to the island. We were on solid land when I heard the truck engine rev and saw the truck lurch forward a couple of feet before stalling on the bridge. It seemed to be having a hard time moving. I looked at Casey who held out a little metal spring device up into the sunlight. She pulled a bobby pin out of her hair to illustrate to me how she had removed the valve core from the tire tube. I looked at Mom and she just shrugged.

Atlanta was still not wise to his problem as he revved the engine and lurched forward again, this time just as the cracked support beam let out a loud status report. One whole side of the bridge gave out. The truck tilted and then slipped sideways off the bridge and down into the channel. The water wasn't deep, just cold, I guess, because I heard cursing as the two men fought to climb out the passenger door and splash their way toward the mainland.

“I'd check into the safety of that bridge just as soon as you can, officer Elgin,” my father said to the Mountie as we walked past him. “Somebody could get hurt on a thing like that.”

Elgin just shook his head and got on the radio asking for another cruiser to come pick him up at the bridge to Whale-bone Island.

Bud Tillish did prove that he had some muscle in the government because he had a highway crew there by late afternoon towing the pick-up out of the stream and beginning to correct what gravity had done to the old bridge. It was obvious that they were using thicker beams and preparing to make the crossing safe for heavier traffic. We all saw this as an insult to the island. The bridge had been had been out of repair for years. My father had always felt it would have been a sign of favouritism if he had called on the highway crew to repair it. Hants and I had replaced some of the boards on the surface ourselves just to keep it serviceable. But now that we had a burgeoning uranium pit, the highway department was summoned
immediately for repairs and we were all certain that everyone would neglect the real cause of the damage.

Bud Tillish and Atlanta had made the mistake of going over to Burnet Sr.'s house to dry off as they waited for the RCMP back-up cruiser to arrive. Burnet's dogs, when they saw a corporate American and a politician coming up the walkway, went completely crazy and pulled their chains loose from the posts in the back yard. Bud and Atlanta were on the front steps of Burnet's house asking for a towel and use of the phone when the dogs tore into them, providing Burnet Sr. with the most fun he'd seen in weeks.

My father, upon settling on the chesterfield back home, stared out the window, waiting for inspiration. “I could have stopped them if I was premier. I should have done something when I was in office. I just didn't want to throw my weight around. I was trying to be fair.”

“You were very fair, Daddy,” my sister said. “But now it's time to play dirty.”

My father looked startled. “What's gotten into you, girl?”

My little sister took a long red handkerchief out of her pocket, twirled it and tied it around her forehead. “I'm volunteering for the Liberation Army of the Republic of Nothing,” she said.

“Me too,” I added, thrusting my fist up into the air the way I'd seen the America radicals do it.

“Let's not get carried away,” my mother said. “Trouble has an easy enough time finding us as it is. We don't have to go looking for it.”

My father scratched his stubbled jaw of red and grey hairs. He had become a sporadic, haphazard shaver as in the old days. “Your mother's right. Before we start a revolution, I think you need to give me a chance to go over the head of Bud Tillish.”

“That's right,” I answered. “Like you said, ‘higher authority.'
Why don't you get on the phone to Pierre Trudeau? He's letting draft dodgers into the country. He's not so bad. And if you can get through to him, Tillish would have to listen. They're both in the same party.”

My father let out a sigh. “You're probably right, son. Trudeau is a pretty straight shooter. And he's not a big fan of the American nuclear build-up. Only problem is, I met Trudeau. We had lunch when he was in town. I could have liked the guy a lot but I found him awful snotty. A real arrogant man right down to his socks.”

“Still, he might listen. I'm sure he would take a phone call from you at least. You, were, after all, premier.”

“Yeah. But I made one fatal mistake in establishing a cordial relationship with our prime minister.”

“What was that dear?” my mother asked.

“I called him an asshole.”

My mother seemed shocked. “In front of others?”

“In front of everybody,” my old man asserted. “It was right after lunch and his advisors were there and my advisors were there and all through the meal I got the feeling that Trudeau couldn't wait to get out of Halifax, that he had more important things to do. Just before he left, he said that he found our meeting “fruitful” and me “charming.” He said that he was “very fond of men with limited educations who were elected into office by a rural population.”

“And that's when you called the prime minister an ass-hole?” I asked.

“I think it was a tactical, diplomatic error on my part, looking back on it.” My father yawned and I knew we should leave him alone for a while. Never a napper before in his life, he had found it necessary to sleep for an hour in the afternoon ever since recovering from the assassination attempt.