Showdown at Border Town

by Caroline Woodward

  His heart still pounding, Paul sat cross-legged at the foot of the boat, steering it in a straight line away from the dock – the fastest route away from land. He looked back and watched the dog shaking itself off back on the shore.

  Paul had been in many motor boats like this one in Colchester, since most of the cottage owners were also boat owners. For that reason, he was very comfortable out on the water. He stretched his legs out, looking at fluffy clouds cutting out the sky. One looked like a frog with its tongue spiraling out. Turquoise waves gently nudged at the sides of the boat as it picked up speed. Farther out, harsher clouds brewed, looking as if they wanted to take centre stage. The frog-cloud drifted farther and farther away.

  As Paul steered he began to think about Billy’s story from last night. “Nanabush was trying to be something he wasn’t” Billy had said. Paul wondered if that’s what he was doing, hanging out on an Indian Reserve and pretending he could do something to help Tom and his family.

  Why did I even ask to come here? There’s nothing I can do to help.

  The boat dipped to the side and he sat up, realizing that he had reached the other side of the river. As Tom had told him, the other side of the river was Michigan. I’m in the United States already!

  Paul was exhilarated with this idea – of course he had never travelled to the U.S. on his own before. Paul also noticed that the dark clouds had rolled in closer. The water was becoming increasingly rough.

  Probably a good time to turn back. But it’s so nice being out here on the water.

  Paul slowed the boat in front of a two-storey home that overlooked the river. Green shutters framed spotless windows, and the house looked as if it had been recently coated in fresh white paint. A teal Chevy Bel Air was parked in the driveway that was bordered by a neatly-trimmed lawn. It was nothing like Tom’s house.

  Paul sat looking at the house, occasionally turning around to get a glimpse of the reserve. From this side of the river, he could also make out the Tecumseh monument standing tall on the other side of the river.

  The boat swooped unexpectedly, as dark waves crashed against it. Paul steadied himself, looking at the sky that had turned a menacing grey. The frog-cloud had been consumed.

  Time to get out of here.

  Paul pulled the manual starter cord and the engine came to life again. He turned the boat away from Michigan and urged it in the direction of Walpole Island. The boat rose and fell, scaling huge waves before plummeting back down into the river. Paul gasped as he tried to maintain control of the small motor. Icy water splashed over the sides of the boat and he let go of the tiller to find a bailer.

  Nothing.

  Heavy sheets of rain began emptying out of the thick clouds, pounding against the river and the boat. Paul curved a hand over his forehead, looking straight ahead. He couldn’t see the other side of the river. The rain and waves melded into what seemed to be an impassable wall of water. He navigated the boat over the waves, moving it in what he thought was the right direction. Thunder rolled out of the clouds, competing with the sound of crashing waves over the river.

  Paul began to count the seconds between lightning bolts. “One one thousand, two one thous–”

  A crack of lightning illuminated the sky.

  Okay, enough counting.

  Paul slid onto his knees to check on the engine, desperately hoping that the owner of the boat had recently filled up the gas tank. His shorts became even more soaked in water as he did so, which meant the bottom of the boat had filled with water.

  He began scooping up the water with cupped hands, flinging it over the edge of the boat. Most of it seeped through his fingers. He looked into the dark St. Clair River, wondering how much weight the small motorboat could support.

  Why hadn’t he turned back earlier?

  Paul threw one last handful of water overboard, before clasping the tiller with one hand. He knew that his best option was to try to steer the boat back to land as quickly as possible. His bailing wasn’t making a difference.

  Another bolt of lightning struck somewhere on the open water nearby. Paul’s body shook from the cold

  underneath sopping-wet clothing and his fingers stiffened with numbness. His teeth chattered, as he wrung out his cotton t-shirt.

  Then, through the rain, Paul noticed a bright light to the left of where he had pointed the boat. It was a headlight. A headlight of another boat that surely wouldn’t be able to see him. Paul searched for a flashlight – or anything – that he could wave, signaling his presence. He wondered how big the boat was and then he remembered that lake freighters travelled all the way up the St. Clair River.

  Paul kept the boat moving straight ahead, expecting the headlight to get closer and reveal the nature of the vessel. Except it didn’t, it stayed in the exact same spot. Had the boat seen him and stopped? Not likely. Straining to see through the rain, Paul soon realized that it was a lantern, not the headlight of a freighter. The lantern was attached to a pole, which would then have to be attached to...

  Land!

  Paul turned the tiller, hoping that his reasoning was accurate, and followed the light. The change in direction meant that the boat was no longer facing the waves head on, but was instead being hit from the side. Paul knew that this was a dangerous position to be in.

  The boat tilted dramatically, letting in a rush of river water, and Paul hurried to the raised side, attempting to balance it out. As he did so, another wave connected with the side, setting the boat even more out of kilter. He sat on the edge of the boat, pushing down with all of his weight. Still, the side hovered over the water, as if it was about to take flight. Meanwhile, the other side dragged along the surface of the river – nearly submerged.

  Keeping his weight on the edge, Paul grabbed the tiller and tried to direct the boat towards the lantern. The wind and waves blowing off Walpole Island had pushed them off course. The waves were forcing the boat away from land, back into the open water.

  Paul turned the throttle into high gear. The motor rumbled more loudly. The boat, now travelling at full speed, swayed over incoming waves, sending more water overboard. Paul ignored it. He concentrated on guiding the boat forward, until he noticed that the glowing light had become more in focus. He could now make out the outline of a dock, bouncing over the moving river water and supporting the lantern.

  Paul steered the boat towards land and grabbed on firmly to the wooden post. The motorboat banged against the dock and then bounced back, as the waves relentlessly tried to push it away. Keeping his grip, Paul found the rope submerged in a pool of frigid water. He stepped out onto the dock. Thankfully, the dog was nowhere in sight.

  The waves continued in their attempt to snag the boat away from Walpole Island, but Paul tugged on the rope with all of his strength, forcing it to the dock. He then dropped down to his knees and tied the rope around the wooden pole, taking care to loop it multiple times.

  He leaned over the side of the dock and began bailing water out of the boat. He didn’t want to leave any damage for the owner to deal with. The rain persistently counteracted his work, but eventually Paul was able to make the boat simply look slick, rather than soaked.

  He stood up and squeezed water out of his clothing. He hoped that he had put the boat back in its original home, not wanting to arouse any suspicion.

  No one saw me.

  Then he looked up at the lantern. Inside the brass-coloured cage, a strong flame rebounded off the glass. Paul knew it was early afternoon – not exactly a time when a kerosene lantern would normally be lit. Who had come over to the docks, lit a match and turned on the lantern in the middle of the storm?

  Likely someone who saw me go out in the boat.

  He surveyed the dock area, expecting someone to confront him about his actions, but no one appeared. Everything was completely still.
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  Someone really helped me out.

  He jogged down the dock as the rain stung his face. As he turned onto Tom’s street and then into his driveway, a different kind of sting hit Paul. He thought of the home he lived in back in Ottawa and in the summer at Colchester. He thought of the green shuttered home he had seen on his boat ride, with its clean windows and new car parked outside.

  The sting he felt looking at Tom’s home wasn’t something he had felt before. He wondered if it was something that would ever go away.

  Chapter 11

  Danger Under the Moon

  “Night Mom,” Paul said, climbing up the stairs to his room and plopping down on his twin bed. His rucksack, the zipper pulled open halfway, lay in front of a row of small, square windows. Billy had dropped the boys off at the cottage in his pickup a bit earlier that evening

  and Tom had immediately decided to go over to Bud Brunner’s property. He thought that maybe by the end of the day Bud might have changed his mind about needing help. Paul thought this was strange until he

  realized that the money Tom earned went to help out his entire family.

  Paul fell back onto his pillow looking up at the peak of the gable roof. He was exhausted. Taking the boat out hadn’t turned out to be his best idea. Thankfully, though, Tom’s family had accepted his explanation that he had gone walking along the river and had gotten soaked by the rain. But not Billy.

  He remembered how Billy had pulled up in front of the house. How he had said goodbye to Tom but asked Paul to remain behind for a minute. He kept playing it over and over in his mind like a scene from a book.

  “I hope you didn’t catch a cold in that storm, Paul.”

  “I don’t think so.” Paul held the truck’s door in his hand. He could feel it vibrating as the engine idled.

  “You know, one time a white man asked me, ‘Why can’t you just adapt to our way of life?’”

  Paul was silent.

  “I didn’t answer him. But yesterday, when you were lost out on the lake at the reserve, I realized the answer. You see, sometimes the right path isn’t easy to see when you’re in a strange situation. Sometimes you just need a hand to see the light.”

  Paul had swallowed and mumbled a thanks as he closed the truck’s door.

  The click of dress shoes on hardwood floor ripped Paul back into the present. Quiet voices murmured in the dining room, before his dad, clad in a dark suit, came up the stairs. He pulled off his formal Homburg hat.

  “Hello son,” he said, putting his leather briefcase down beside the banister. “You still awake?”

  “Dad,” Paul said, sitting up. “How was the funeral?”

  Mr. Martin sat down on the bed, stretching his legs and looking intently at his son. “Mackenzie King was well honoured. It was a magnificent state funeral.”

  Paul’s eyebrows creased.

  “Prime ministers, governors general…people who are important to the entire country get state funerals.”

  Mr. Martin recounted how the open casket was at Parliament and how, all day long, thousands of people waited in line to pay their respects. They waited through what he thought was the hottest day of the summer. He then told how the honour guard – a ceremonial military unit – escorted the casket to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, a parish which Mr. King had attended for almost fifty years. Six members of the RCMP carried the casket, while Louis Saint-Laurent, the new prime minister, followed behind. Mr. Martin talked of the streets being lined with people all the way from Parliament to the church.

  “It was impressive,” Mr. Martin continued. “And what came after was a simple, but beautiful funeral. It reminded me of the man himself. The scriptures, the hymns, they fit well.”

  “Where will he be buried?” Paul dragged a socked foot along a line on the floorboard.

  “He wanted to be beside his parents in Mount Pleasant Cemetery in Toronto. The casket was taken to Union Station after the funeral.”

  Mr. Martin loosened his tie. “And how was Walpole Island? How’s Tom’s sister doing?”

  “She looked pretty sick and...the doctor told them that she has polio.”

  “Oh no.” Mr. Martin sighed, leaning a round cheek against his hand.

  “Dad, they can’t afford to get her medicine. Only Aspirin and cough syrup. When I had polio, I went to the hospital, right? Shouldn’t Tom’s sister Joyce get the same help?”

  “Of course, Paul. But it’s a question of money. When you went to the hospital, we had to pay for it.”

  “You don’t think this is right, do you?” Paul asked. “Because I don’t.”

  Mr. Martin wasn’t simply a member of parliament, but had an important role as the minister of national health and welfare. This meant that he was in charge of public health at the federal level.

  “I don’t either, son. The government plays a huge role in helping – or not helping – people like Joyce.”

  “How?” Paul asked.

  “Well, a lot of advances have been made in health care over the years. And they’ve primarily been brought about by the provincial and federal health departments. You can’t forget that in the early 1900s, hospitals barely existed and the sick were usually looked after at home. During that time, symptoms were being treated, rather than being prevented.”

  “I guess…”

  “And then starting in the 1920s and 30s, the nature of health care has really been questioned. Some thought that doctors should be private.”

  “You mean pay for it in order to get it…”

  “Right. Others argued that the government should have a role, thinking that health care was a basic right. A lot’s changed and it will continue to change.” Mr. Martin stood up, the bed creaking as he did so.

  “Also, Dad, what about the schools on reserves? Tom said that he can only go to Grade 6 with no chance to go anywhere else. That doesn’t seem right.”

  Mr. Martin shook his head in understanding. “You’re right – but we’ll have to have that talk some other day. In the meantime, you should get to sleep.” He picked up his briefcase and turned to leave.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Paul?”

  “I want to help Joyce get the medicine she needs.”

  Mr. Martin looked at his son. “That’s very kind of you, Paul. Let me tell you something. I went into politics because I wanted to make a difference in people’s lives. There’s no way I would ever stand by and let Tom’s sister go without the medicine she needs.”

  Paul smiled.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I think that seeing the reserve has been good for you. Let’s talk tomorrow, son.”

  ***

  Tom walked along the road, the moonlight guiding him over tree roots and crevices in the dirt. After being driven to the Martins’ place by Billy, he had dropped off his rucksack of clothing and then headed for the Brunner property. Tom had been given a holiday against his will – although it had worked out well for him to see his sister. But he hoped to be able to get in a few hours of work that evening. He knew that Jerry packed and prepared the fish late into the evening, getting it ready for delivery, so helping him out seemed like a good idea.

  Tom opened the latch on the metal gate and stepped into long, wet grass. The massive storm on Walpole Island had obviously hit Colchester as well. The red Cadillac was sitting in front of Mr. Brunner’s bungalow, but the old delivery truck that was usually parked off near the forest wasn’t in sight. There also wasn’t any special packing equipment in view. Although, Tom didn’t exactly know what he was looking for. He had never been involved in anything beyond the actual fishing.

  He approached the bungalow and peered in through the side window, wondering whether Mr. Brunner was home. It was dark. Tom turned the corner and knocked on the fr
ont door, still hoping that his boss would appear with a task for him to do. No one answered.

  Tom walked down to the lake, wondering whether Jerry would be hard at work. Instead, he found the Tilbury-style boat floating in the water. He climbed up onto the dock, making out the pale-blue sides of the fishing boat bobbing in the waves. Tom neared the boat and, looking inside, realized that the fish box was full of fresh fish. They were still glistening with water from the lake, as if they had only recently been caught. Tom knew that the fish would be spoiled soon enough, if they were left out in the air.

  He quickly scanned the property in the darkness, his gaze landing on a large box leaning against the side of the bungalow.

  An ice box.

  Tom hurried over to it and pulled open the lid, finding four deep walls encasing stale air. Knowing that he would need some ice to preserve the fish, he walked to the far right side of the bungalow where Mr. Brunner had added a shed. He opened the door, finding himself in a cluttered room. In one corner, wooden crates were stacked practically to the ceiling. When Tom looked closer, he noticed that cardboard boxes were alternately wedged in between the crates.

  Hmm. Cardboard boxes wouldn’t be good for transporting fish.

  It struck Tom that they were organized in a very

  deliberate way. Wooden crate. Cardboard box. Wooden crate. Cardboard box.

  Tom lifted the lid of an electrically-powered freezer and grabbed a couple of bags of ice. At home, they simply had an ice box which had to be replenished with a block of ice on a regular basis. Tom was impressed. He also picked up a grey bucket and a box of salt, both which were laid out beside the freezer.

  Holding all of his supplies, Tom closed the shed door and made his way back to the ice box. He tore open the bags, shaking clumps of ice into the box. Then he took a pickaxe and struck it a few times until the ice spread out and filled to the halfway mark. Tom then picked up the pail and went back to the boat, where he scooped up one load of fish. Most of them were large, healthy walleye, not exactly fish that you would leave around to rot. He dropped them onto the bed of ice, smoothing them into one layer with his hand. Tom continued to transport the fish to their frozen haven, straining his eyes to avoid tripping over anything. The task was painstaking, but Tom looked forward to sending his family a sum of money for his efforts. Now it was even more urgent because he wanted to make sure he had enough to help his sister, too.