Showdown at Border Town

by Caroline Woodward

  “I just wouldn’t get on his bad side is all I’m saying,” said Paul. “Too bad you aren’t working for our other neighbour, Mr. Campbell – you’d really like him. But Dad said he isn’t hiring any more this year.”

  Paul heard a car engine and looked up at the road. A black and white Windsor Police car. He grabbed his hat off his knee and slipped it on his head, and nodded for Tom and Abby to look behind them. Everyone knew police cars were rare – and out of place – in a small cottage community like Colchester. Paul started running up the grassy slope, his arms pumping to propel him faster. He wanted to know where it was going. Reaching the ridge, he heard Tom and Abby’s footsteps catching up with him. They followed in the cloud of dust left by the police car, which wasn’t going very fast.

  Suddenly, the car came to a complete stop. The police officer had arrived at his destination. Paul’s shoulder was grabbed from behind and he was thrown into the ditch at the side of the road as the dust settled.

  “Thanks!” Paul gasped to Tom. “I didn’t think he’d stop that fast.” The three lay on their stomachs, their ragged breath tickling strands of grass. Paul carefully peered over the top of the ditch at the car. He caught sight of the officer’s jaw in the reflection of the rear-view mirror.

  The officer climbed out of his car and unlatched a metal gate. He was overweight and tall. A few minutes later, he returned. He was clutching something in his hand.

  “Where do you think he went?” asked Tom.

  “There’s only one place he could have gone from there,” said Paul.

  “Bud Brunner’s.”

  Chapter 6

  The Fishermen

  “Just a little higher.”

  Paul hoisted up a wide piece of old plywood to Abby, balancing it precariously on his shoulder.

  “Watch out for the nail!”

  He looked down, noticing a long rusty nail that jutted out from the wood, near his bare foot.

  “Okay,” he grunted, “One, two, three, go.” Paul lifted up the wood, as Abby grabbed the other side and guided it onto the branch of the tree.

  “Let’s hope it’s solid enough,” Paul said. They sat down underneath the tree and leaned back against a low branch. In fact, it wasn’t just any branch – it was the branch-that-had-started-the-whole-treehouse-idea-branch.

  “If it’s not solid the whole thing will fall down,” said Abby.

  “And that’s why I’m going to let you guys test it out first,” Paul laughed.

  Paul and Abby heard the noise of leaves and twigs being crunched underfoot by someone walking. They looked up to see Tom walking towards them. He had been dropping in to help them out with the tree house when he could, although his job took up most of his time. Ever since the police car incident, the three had been getting along well.

  “How come you guys are out here so early?” Tom asked.

  “We wanted to stake our claim to this spot,” Paul said. “Abby heard that Chuck Delacourt and his cousins were eyeballing this area for a fort the other day.”

  Abby nodded. “Want to help us?”

  “Can’t – have to go to work,” said Tom. “Hey, Paul, your mom wanted me to tell you there are some chores waiting back home for you.”

  “Oh, okay, I’ll just tell her that we were…hmm, what can I say we were doing?”

  “Just tell your mom about the fort,” Abby said. “She’s bound to ask what we’ve been up to.”

  “I want to. But I think my dad might not like us building down here, since it doesn’t belong to us.”

  “Well, good luck with the building,” Tom called. “I’ve got to get going.”

  He adjusted his rucksack, containing the lunch that Mrs. Martin had made for him, and set off in the direction of Bud Brunner’s place.

  ***

  Walking along the dirt road, Tom wondered whether Jerry Butler, the middle-aged man who seemed to be friends with his employer, would be working alongside of him. Jerry was Bud Brunner’s only other employee and seemed well-trusted.

  As he arrived at the property, Tom quickened his pace. He could see Bud and Jerry deep in conversation in front of the Tilbury-style fishing boat.

  “I know it won’t all fit.” Jerry gestured to the hold of the boat and then stopped abruptly when he noticed Tom approaching.

  “What won’t fit?” Tom asked.

  “Oh, we were just wondering if you’d have enough room for all of the fish. Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Bud said. “You need to get going.”

  Tom headed to the bungalow and opened the door. He placed his rucksack in the corner. He then pulled off his dusty shoes and set off towards the water, thinking of Bud Brunner and Jerry’s conversation.

  Why wouldn’t he have enough room for the fish? He had enough room every other time.

  “Hurry up, Tom,” Jerry called out. “Unless you want to go out alone.”

  Tom hurried down to the dock, picked up the tattered mesh net and then leaped onto the boat. He knew that Jerry wouldn’t actually send him out on his own, since the boat was nearly impossible to handle single-handedly. But there was no point in aggravating him. Jerry followed suit and made his way over to the below-deck steering wheel.

  “Ready?” he hollered.

  “Ready.”

  Tom untied the rope that secured them to land, while the engine out on deck sputtered to life. He leaned on the railing surrounding the open deck, as the boat began to propel itself out into Lake Erie. He watched while seaweed and algae blurred by underneath. The boat picked up speed, bouncing over choppy waves, until they reached the prime fishing grounds.

  “Net.”

  Tom stood and picked up a buoy and anchor which were attached to the fishing net. He then opened the stern door and threw the contraption overboard, making sure that it landed over a large metal wheel. The wheel promptly began separating the top and bottom lines,

  ensuring that the net found its proper position on the lake’s floor. Tom had been taught this technique, called gill netting – which was preferred by Lake Erie fishermen – on his first day of work. Although he had gone fishing with his grandfather on Lake St. Clair before, they had simply been using two rods. This was definitely a learning experience.

  “Done.”

  He had caught on quickly. Jerry cut the engine and then came out onto the deck, surveying Tom’s work.

  “Looks good. We’ll be getting fish by the bucketful.” He hesitated. “Bud doesn’t want us to bring in too much, though. I guess the buyers aren’t ordering a whole lot as it turns out.”

  Tom looked up at Jerry’s tanned face. “He said that yesterday, too. Is everything okay?”

  Jerry averted his gaze. “Well, you know, that isn’t really your business. Bud’ll take care of managing the orders.”

  Tom straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair. Ever since he had started working for Mr. Brunner, Tom had been amazed by how little he actually wanted him to fish. Sure, he went out most weekdays. Except the amount they were told to catch was usually fairly minimal.

  “Don’t worry about your job. He’s doing fine.”

  Tom nodded, though not entirely convinced, but decided to stay focused on the task at hand.

  “Some water came on deck while we were coming out. Should I get the bailer?”

  “Nah, we’ll just let the water flow out on the scuppers.” He pointed vaguely to a hole on deck, which was allowing water to run off, and then sat down on the side of the boat, his feet dangling.

  He looked up at Tom, “You know, Bud isn’t watching us out here.”

  Tom smiled and took it as an invitation to plop down beside Jerry. They sat, listening to the waves pulsing against the boat. Feeling it rock back and forth, just as if it were a toy boat in a bath tub. Watc
hing the water stretch on for miles and miles, until it blended with the horizon.

  “You want to be a fisherman?” Jerry turned toward Tom.

  “Umm, I haven’t really thought about it much.”

  Jerry sighed, “When I was your age, back home in London, I guess I wasn’t really thinking about those types of things either.”

  Tom looked up at this. Jerry had never mentioned his personal life to him before. He only knew that he was English, because Mr. Brunner had said so in passing.

  “It’s a good trade to be in and I would know. In England I had a whole bunch of jobs, but nothing ever really stuck. And then, of course, the war came along.” Tom had been too young during the Second World War to follow it much, but he knew it was between 1939 and 1945.

  “Did you fight?”

  “Of course.” He shifted. “I was one of the lucky ones.”

  “And then you immigrated to Canada?”

  “The year after the war was over, I packed my bags. I wanted a new life. A change of scenery.”

  Tom nodded, picturing Jerry, suitcase in hand, leaving everything he had known behind.

  “My sister had come here a few years before, so it was easy for me to be admitted into the country. She was my sponsor and was supposed to help me out financially while I settled in. I wrote to her and said that I was coming, but she didn’t ever meet me when I got to Pier 21 in Halifax.”

  “How come?” asked Tom.

  “Who knows. Sometimes you don’t know family the way you think you do. When I tracked her down, she flat-out refused to help me. So I moved to Windsor because of the jobs in the auto factories. I worked for a while doing that sort of thing and it was tough work. Then, I got this job with Bud and I’ve been doing it ever since.”

  Jerry looked out at the sky and noticed that the sun was starting to make its descent.

  “We should probably head back,” he said.

  Tom glanced at the net floating behind their boat and spied a glimmer of scales within its midst.

  “The nets aren’t really that full,” Tom said. “Guess that’s what Mr. Brunner wants from his fishermen.”

  “Let’s bring her in.” Jerry ignored the remark.

  They usually practiced ‘daylighting,’ where the nets were retrieved sometime the same day. Other fishermen – most of them – chose to leave them in the water for several days.

  Jerry disappeared below deck and the boat started moving slowly forward. Tom stood up as well and then lifted the buoy and anchor out of the water, attaching the net to the net puller. As a result, the gill nets were winched aboard the boat. Tom picked them up. He was careful to keep the fish safely stowed in the folds of the fabric, and brought them to the stern deck.

  Jerry’s feet thumped against the deck. “I’ll take port.” He pointed to the left side of the heap of nets.

  Together, Tom and Jerry began removing the fish – blue walleyes – from the gill nets. This was a task that involved a lot of skill and practice. Fishermen were usually recommended to other fishing lines based on their speed in this area.

  “Almost there,” Jerry grunted.

  Tom untangled one last walleye that was flopping with its remaining strength, trying to free itself from the net’s grasp. Then, Jerry and Tom began picking up the fish and stowing them in the storage area, which was a deep box in the middle of the deck.

  “Let’s head back,” Jerry said, disappearing once more below deck.

  Tom slid the lid over the fish box and then sat down on the side of the boat, his bare feet grazing the top of the water. The motor started up and the boat turned towards land, before taking off at full speed.

  ***

  “Ward here.” Inspector Douglas Ward held the black phone tightly to his ear.

  “It’s Chief O’Grady.”

  “Hey Chief.” The Inspector stacked up the documents that he had been reading and sighed.

  “I’m getting the feeling there have been no advances yet.”

  Inspector Ward stood and shut his door tightly. “No, only what the commission found. I need more time, Chief.”

  “Listen, I’m pretty sure I sent the right man for the job, Doug. But I also know Windsor’s not the easiest place for you to be.”

  “Chief, I…”

  “Listen, I need to see some results. Otherwise, I may have to send someone else down to manage this. Got it?”

  The inspector gripped the phone more tightly.

  “Loud and clear.”

  Chapter 7

  An Unexpected Visitor

  He pulled the algae-covered net – which now resembled a type of yet-to-be-discovered sea creature – over a large reel. Tom then flattened it out, allowing the sun’s rays to reach every section of the net. This ancient technique was used by most fishermen in order to force the algae and slime to flake off.

  “That’s good for the day,” Bud Brunner called out. He was helping Jerry secure the boat.

  “See you tomorrow,” Tom said. He turned in the

  direction of the bungalow.

  “Actually, you can take the day off tomorrow.”

  Tom stopped. He wanted to ask why but he remembered what Jerry had said earlier. That isn’t really your business.

  “Not enough orders, right Bud?” Jerry added.

  “Yeah, you know how it is.”

  Tom mumbled an okay and then made his way to Bud Brunner’s bungalow. He opened the kitchen door and found his sneakers and rucksack. On the small kitchen table, he noticed an open leather-bound notebook with a pencil lying beside it. The chair jutted out awkwardly, a good foot away from the table. Obviously, Mr. Brunner had just recently been working there.

  Tom pulled open the door, resisting the urge to peek into the notebook and reminding himself that he really needed to keep his job. That was what was so frustrating about Bud Brunner’s decision to give him the day off. He needed to keep a steady income. Tom passed the gleaming Cadillac and began walking along the road, kicking pebbles as he went. He watched as they collided angrily with each other.

  ***

  Jerry looped a stiff rope around the docking post. “Bud?”

  “Ya,” Mr. Brunner called, his attention focused on sorting fish.

  “Why did you have to go and hire Tom? It’ll only make a mess.”

  Mr. Brunner dropped a walleye into his bucket. “You know that we can’t handle everything by ourselves anymore.” He picked up his bucket and started walking up the incline to the ice box. Jerry followed him, pressing for more justification.

  “Tom’s the right employee for us,” Bud continued. “He’s just some kid from the reserve who won’t get

  involved where he doesn’t belong.”

  Jerry held the lid of the icebox open as Brunner layered the fish inside. “I don’t know – he’s starting to ask questions, Bud.”

  “Stop worrying like an old granny. The kid’ll do no harm. Plus it’s always good to have a powerful man like Mr. Martin indebted to you.” Bud tapped his forehead to signify his genius.

  “I guess.” Jerry closed the ice box and leaned against its surface.

  “Lighten up – what’s wrong with you anyway?”

  “You know, Bud, my life’s not so great. This whole Land of Promise hasn’t turned out to be much of a paradise for a recent immigrant like me.”

  “Yeah, well it hasn’t been too friendly to the people that have been here for fifty years, either. Now grab a bucket.”

  ***

  “Hey, Tom!” Paul ran up, with Abby close behind. “How was work?”

  “Good – how’s the tree house looking?”

  “Great – we worked on it all day.” Paul studied Tom’s concerned face. “What’s going on?”r />
  “I’m not sure, really. It was good fishing weather and Jerry seemed friendlier today. He told me about his life in England.”

  “Sounds good then,” said Abby. “Right?”

  Tom sighed. “But Mr. Brunner doesn’t want me to work tomorrow.”

  “You mean you get a holiday? You can come with us to the fort and we can go swimming and then maybe...” Paul stopped, noticing the way that Tom’s lips had stretched into a rigid line.

  “I won’t be paid,” Tom said. “I don’t want a stupid holiday.”

  “Well, don’t be down about it. It’s just one day.”

  Tom ran his fingers through his black hair. “Mr. Brunner’s always telling us we don’t need to catch too much fish. Today, me and Jerry only did a small catch, even though we could’ve gotten a bunch more. Jerry told me he doesn’t have enough buyers. I’m just worried, because now Mr. Brunner doesn’t want me to work. What if he goes bankrupt?”

  “Hmm. My dad seems to think he’s doing pretty well. I can talk to him about it if you want to make sure.”

  The boys reached the cottage and paused underneath its small porch. Paul pulled open the screen door and wandered into the kitchen, expecting a remark from his mother about arriving-two-minutes-before-dinner-antics. Instead, the room was empty. Paul went to his parents’ bedroom and found his mother sitting on her bed, holding her small, wooden cross.

  The Martin family was Catholic and attended Mass every Sunday, finding churches in neighbouring towns during the summer holidays in Colchester. Paul knew that his mother prayed regularly, but it was surprising at this hour of the day.

  “Hey, Mom,” Paul said, sitting down on the hand-made comforter that covered her bed. It was slightly damp from the humidity.

  “Where’s Dad?”