lie, but it did instill the first vague uneasiness about Sam with the old man, whose tobacco-stained hands trembled as he went out the yard, seeking what he could not find.
Satisfied with this civil disobedience, he recounted it to two or three along the highway, who were most appreciative that the four-poster was gone.
“You never did it, Sam Patch did,” they said. “You never done a fuckin’ thing for us and never will. Why, your old uncle does ten times as much a service to us as yous do, and that is your trouble.”
So what he counted on never came, his highway’s acceptance of him and his reintroduction to them as a benefactor. What he did not count on came, that some (though, of course, not all) hearing of the old dictator losing his book, and knowing, tyrant though he was, how he’d helped them in lean times, took to estimating their debt and paying it off swifter.
Then, in the summer, came the first mention of Alex in the press. It did not start in earnest or even out of some lost desire, or the pungent scent of betrayal of one race over another and long ago negation of common decency, as the press indicated it had. It started only as a party on the shelled and drifted sand on the east side of his uncle’s island. It started out as a joke, some Micmac men to go over for a party, and in fact only lasted for a week or so. But Alex rowed over on a small scow, asked by his uncle to see what those “chaps are doing” and ended up joining them, telling them he knew much about their suffering and had come to address it, and that ownership of land was theft.
It was not an exaggeration to say that once he was present, some papers in the region became interested in the plight of the First Peoples, so in the end it might have been a good moment and thing to do. For Alex, however, it became his sudden realization that agitation drew the press like blowflies to a moose gone down.
Alex had his picture taken with the natives on the shore, near their flat-bottomed skiff with a row of twenty-five salmon taken from the north cape of the island. He had another taken with seventeen-year-old Peggy Paul, who had come over in traditional dress to join the men. This was the picture that found its way into the papers.
Although vague and distant now in memory, this takeover and sit-in caused more of a rift between uncle and boy, who could just make out each other’s heavy voices across the waves, the sound ebbing like the moment of the tide as the red sun danced and played on the black evening waves.
“Goddamnit, boy, you come back here!” the tyrant said, yelling though his throat was sore from yelling. “You get over here now, the press will pigeon you for a fool, if not today then tomorrow!”
“I will bring you a petition signed by everyone!” Alex shouted, though he had no petition, but he had a scribbler from the local paper writing everything down. He stared across to his uncle that late afternoon, and saw the old man fumble about on the shore, up to his knees in seaweed moving and undulating in the gray northern waves.
His uncle tried to stop them single-handedly two nights later and was driven back by stones. Alex could say he did not throw any. Yet like some defiant and forlorn Jewish settlement facing a roman division of AD 66, facing Vespasian in the sun.
Another day and Sam Patch was then sent over in a dory and spoke to the men, politic with an offer to pave the lower road on the reserve.
“It should have been paved a long time ago,” Sam was instructed to tell them. “And we will get it done!”
“They don’t want it,” Alex spoke on their behalf.
Sam returned to a gloomy man sitting out on a pitch of dry earth, on a stool bent back, waiting for his man to approach, his eyes narrow upon him, as if he were just another enemy, or as if bringing back bad news he became the messenger one must blame. The tyrant’s green tie was loosened and limp against his blue shirt, having come from a meeting in
Satisfied with this civil disobedience, he recounted it to two or three along the highway, who were most appreciative that the four-poster was gone.
“You never did it, Sam Patch did,” they said. “You never done a fuckin’ thing for us and never will. Why, your old uncle does ten times as much a service to us as yous do, and that is your trouble.”
So what he counted on never came, his highway’s acceptance of him and his reintroduction to them as a benefactor. What he did not count on came, that some (though, of course, not all) hearing of the old dictator losing his book, and knowing, tyrant though he was, how he’d helped them in lean times, took to estimating their debt and paying it off swifter.
Then, in the summer, came the first mention of Alex in the press. It did not start in earnest or even out of some lost desire, or the pungent scent of betrayal of one race over another and long ago negation of common decency, as the press indicated it had. It started only as a party on the shelled and drifted sand on the east side of his uncle’s island. It started out as a joke, some Micmac men to go over for a party, and in fact only lasted for a week or so. But Alex rowed over on a small scow, asked by his uncle to see what those “chaps are doing” and ended up joining them, telling them he knew much about their suffering and had come to address it, and that ownership of land was theft.
It was not an exaggeration to say that once he was present, some papers in the region became interested in the plight of the First Peoples, so in the end it might have been a good moment and thing to do. For Alex, however, it became his sudden realization that agitation drew the press like blowflies to a moose gone down.
Alex had his picture taken with the natives on the shore, near their flat-bottomed skiff with a row of twenty-five salmon taken from the north cape of the island. He had another taken with seventeen-year-old Peggy Paul, who had come over in traditional dress to join the men. This was the picture that found its way into the papers.
Although vague and distant now in memory, this takeover and sit-in caused more of a rift between uncle and boy, who could just make out each other’s heavy voices across the waves, the sound ebbing like the moment of the tide as the red sun danced and played on the black evening waves.
“Goddamnit, boy, you come back here!” the tyrant said, yelling though his throat was sore from yelling. “You get over here now, the press will pigeon you for a fool, if not today then tomorrow!”
“I will bring you a petition signed by everyone!” Alex shouted, though he had no petition, but he had a scribbler from the local paper writing everything down. He stared across to his uncle that late afternoon, and saw the old man fumble about on the shore, up to his knees in seaweed moving and undulating in the gray northern waves.
His uncle tried to stop them single-handedly two nights later and was driven back by stones. Alex could say he did not throw any. Yet like some defiant and forlorn Jewish settlement facing a roman division of AD 66, facing Vespasian in the sun.
Another day and Sam Patch was then sent over in a dory and spoke to the men, politic with an offer to pave the lower road on the reserve.
“It should have been paved a long time ago,” Sam was instructed to tell them. “And we will get it done!”
“They don’t want it,” Alex spoke on their behalf.
Sam returned to a gloomy man sitting out on a pitch of dry earth, on a stool bent back, waiting for his man to approach, his eyes narrow upon him, as if he were just another enemy, or as if bringing back bad news he became the messenger one must blame. The tyrant’s green tie was loosened and limp against his blue shirt, having come from a meeting in
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