Footprints Read online

  Sgt. Chase gets out and says, “Well now, Ed. What have we got here?” He takes the placard from Ed and reads aloud, “Nobody Owns a Beach!” He asks quietly, “Who wrote this for you, Ed?”

  Ed looks at the ground.

  Camera Woman climbs from the car. “Maybe he wrote it himself. Are you sure he’s as stupid as he makes out?”

  Sgt. Chase says, “This is nothing to do with him. He’s harmless. It’s not Ed’s work.”

  “Whose, then? And he must have agreed to carry it, which makes him an accomplice in a plan which has the intent to disturb the peace. We should take him in.”

  Isora whispers, “We’ve got to say something.”

  They’re about to move around the corner when Sgt. Chase’s radio suddenly blats into life.

  Sgt. Chase leans in and says, “Go ahead.”

  They overhear, “Eastern Oil...incendiary device...red alert...”

  At the same time someone calls, “Harper!” Mr. Meating has pulled up on the other side of the post office in his half ton. He calls, “I thought it was you I saw running across the street. Come with me, all of you. This is not a good time to be hanging around town.”

  Sgt. Chase is speaking into the radio. He breaks off to tell Ed, “Take off now. I want no more of your foolishness.”

  Ed reaches for Isora’s sign, but Sgt. Chase says, “We’ll keep this.”

  The friends hurry over to Mr. Meating.

  “What’s up?” Harper asks.

  “I was at the club and I heard rumours about some kind of demonstration down here, something to do with Mr. Anderson, and I don’t want you – any of you – mixed up with it. And that’s not all. There’s been another incident in Saint-Leonard and the police are on full alert. They’re saying zero tolerance for any kind of nonsense and anything suspicious.”

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” says Harper.

  “Just in case, I’d like you to stay home, because the police will be all over anyone doing anything out of order, including kids who think they’re just having a bit of fun.” He looks at the trio and adds, “Please, guys. Do me a favour.”

  They crowd into the truck. The news is on the radio. The announcer reports, “The discovery of another incendiary device at the offices of Eastern Oil, this one in a dumpster behind the building, has left police and security personnel on red alert throughout the province. Meanwhile the area around Eastern Oil in downtown Saint-Leonard has been evacuated and cordoned off while bomb disposal experts search the building. Police are asking people to be extra vigilant as they go about their weekend business and to be on the lookout for any unattended packages or bags, and for any kind of suspicious activity. At the same time police announced a zero tolerance policy towards any kind of anti-social behaviour. A police spokesman explained, ‘At a time when citizens are so concerned with law and order, any kind of anti-social behaviour is inappropriate and will be punished to the full extent of the law.’”

  “See what I mean?” says Mr. Meating.

  12

  “Read it, Harp,” says Drumgold.

  Harper reads, “The Back River Front demands immediate, full and untrammeled...” He breaks off. “I’m still not sure about ‘untrammeled.’”

  “Leave it,” says Isora. “It sounds impressive, even if we don’t know what it means.”

  Harper starts again. “The Back River Front demands immediate, full and untrammeled access to Back River beach for all the people of the community, with no restrictions or conditions, and without security guards bothering anyone. Mr. Anderson, you have one week to comply with this ultimatum. If you do not show the beach is free by starting to take down the fence by May 31st, we will be forced to take further action, any undesirable consequences of which will be your responsibility, and not ours. Signed and delivered at midnight on May 24th by the members of BARF.”

  It’s the day after the abortive march. The members of BARF are working at Isora’s kitchen table. They’re still under strict instructions to go nowhere near the town centre.

  “Now we need Mr. Anderson’s address,” says Harper.

  “We can’t mail it,” says Drumgold. “There’d be a postmark and the police would guess it was sent by someone from Back River.”

  “We could go to Saint-Leonard and mail it from there.”

  “Why don’t we just put it in one of those big red envelopes you get at the Dollar Store and tie it to the railings of the gates?” says Isora.

  “Brilliant,” says Drumgold.

  “Oh sure,” says Harper. “Why don’t we knock at the door while we’re about it and ask Droopy and Diamond Head to please give the ultimatum to Mr. Anderson, and by the way, of course it’s nothing to do with us?”

  Isora reaches across the table and pats Harper’s hand. “Relax, Harp. No-one’s going to see us.”

  “Let’s see what Dexter thinks,” says Harper.

  “I don’t think he’s back yet,” says Isora. She opens the door to look across at Lully’s trailer and says over her shoulder, “He’s not. And I can hear George whining. I’m going over to let him out.”

  She takes the key from under the ceramic dog and opens Lully’s door. George flies out and disappears in the woods behind the trailer. When he returns, Isora takes him inside to feed him. The boys hover by the door.

  “You can come in,” Isora calls. “Dex doesn’t mind.”

  “Where’s he gone this time?” Drumgold asks.

  Isora points to a note on the kitchen table: It’s late Friday night and I’ve decided to take a quick trip to see Mom for the weekend. Should be back Sunday night. I hope George behaves himself! Thanks, Isora, as always. Dex.

  “He’s strange, isn’t he?” says Harper.

  “How d’you mean – strange?” says Isora.

  “You know – working at the daycare, visiting his mom on weekends. He doesn’t act like someone who knows about political action and protests.”

  “And he didn’t speak at the meeting about the LNG plant, although he’s against it,” Drumgold adds.

  “But he does know about that stuff,” Isora insists. “Look in here.” She opens the door of Dexter’s study, warning, “Don’t touch anything.”

  They peer around, standing just inside the door. Shelves, crammed with books, line one wall. More books are stacked in piles against another wall. A desk is strewn with papers covered with untidy handwriting.

  “It looks like a library,” says Harper.

  Drumgold says, “Is he writing a book?” He crosses the room, peers at the papers, and says, “His handwriting’s worse than mine.”

  “We shouldn’t read it,” says Isora. “It might be private.”

  There are books lying open on the desk. Drumgold reads out the titles: The Politics of Disobedience. Passive and Active Protest. The Direct Action Manual.

  Harper is looking at a poster on the wall. “Here’s where Dexter gets that stuff about the stages of political protest.”

  The poster states, in vibrant red lettering on a black background, in Spanish with the English translation underneath, DIALOGO...PROTESTA...ACCIÓN. DIALECTIC... PROTEST...ACTION. Then, in smaller lettering, it says, Adapted from the political writings of Raul Battista de la Cruz.

  “Here’s the man himself,” says Isora. She’s standing before a poster headlined Raul Battista de la Cruz. He wears a beret, which perches on a mass of black curly hair. He has a short stubbly beard and rimless glasses, behind which his eyes glitter. Drumgold and Harper join her as she reads – stumblingly first in Spanish, then in translation – the message superimposed over the portrait: “‘Las semillas de la acción revolucionaria residen no solo en los conocimientos de los agravios causados o de las injusticias cometidas, ni siguiera en su realidad, pero en la respuesta de los poderosos lamentos... The seeds of revolutionary action lie not in the perception of wrongs inflicted or injustices committed, nor even in their reality, but in the response of the powerful to those grievances.’”

  They’ve been b
ack in Isora’s kitchen for less than half an hour when there’s a sharp rap at the door and Lully walks in with, “Who’s here?”

  Isora says, “Just us.”

  “Were you in my study?”

  She knows she shut the door when they left, and they hadn’t moved, or even touched, anything. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t mean you. I know when you’ve been in.” Lully turns to Drumgold and Harper. “You guys. Were you in my study with Is?”

  They start mumbling apologies and Lully mutters, “Okay. Sorry. I don’t mind you going in. I just need to know. That’s all. But...no-one else, right?”

  The boys shake their heads, and Isora says, “’Course not.”

  Drumgold asks, “How did you know we’d been in?”

  Lully shrugs. “I can tell.”

  13

  Two weeks later, just before midnight, Drumgold, Isora and Harper are lying in the undergrowth beside the Old Beach Road, where they’d dived a few seconds earlier when they’d heard a vehicle approaching fast. Almost at the same time as they heard it, the vehicle appeared, its headlights illuminating the dirt road where a moment before they’d been swaggering three abreast, confident in the moonless darkness.

  It’s a week before the end of May and they are on their way to the Anderson cottage. They wear black clothes and black woolen hats and feel like commandos.

  Drumgold has found a rock, and is thinking, If the driver sees us, and stops, and gets out, I’ll throw this, and that’ll slow him down long enough for Isora to get clear.

  Harper is wondering whether being on this part of the Old Beach Road counts as trespassing and whether the driver, if he sees them, will tell Mr. Anderson they are there and whether Mr. Anderson will call the police and what Sgt. Chase will say to Mr. Meating and what he will say – and do – to Harper.

  Isora is thinking, If Dexter could see me now, would he be proud of me or would he laugh? She thinks of how he smiled when they showed him the ultimatum, at the same time as he said, “That’s terrific.” It was in her kitchen, the night they’d looked in his study.

  They duck their heads, then raise them quickly as a car sweeps past. They hear it slow, and then the cottage gates open and slam shut.

  Drumgold stands. “Did you see the licence plate? AA1. At least we know he’s home.”

  Harper says, “Is the envelope all right?”

  Isora holds up the red envelope, on which she has written: For the Urgent Attention of Mr. Anderson. It contains the BARF ultimatum. She’s punched a hole in a corner of the envelope and has threaded a red ribbon through it, by which to tie it to the gate.

  They set off again, side by side in the middle of the dirt road, but silent and wary now, knowing they’re close to the cottage gates.

  Isora is still thinking of Lully, remembering his response that night in her kitchen when they told him about the march: “You gave it your best shot. You did something more than just complain. That’s what counts.”

  When Drumgold pressed him to tell them more about direct action, he’d said, “It’s anything that inconveniences or annoys or intimidates the person or organization whose actions you are protesting.”

  Isora thought he spoke reluctantly.

  “Like...sabotage?” Drumgold wondered.

  “It doesn’t have to go that far,” Lully said quickly. “Petty vandalism would do for a start, just playing tricks, that sort of thing.”

  “What’s that going to get you, except into trouble?” Harper asked.

  “Probably nothing.”

  “So why do it?”

  “It’s what you do when there’s nothing left to do. But it’s not something you guys should get into. Why don’t you try arranging another–”

  Drumgold interrupted, “What have you got against the third wave?”

  “It puts you on the path to nihilism.”

  “Wassat?” Harper asked.

  “It’s the complete rejection of any kind of morality, which in theory frees you to take any action necessary to fulfil your goals, but in practice takes you nowhere and brings you no satisfaction. The third wave is where you go when you’ve given up trying to achieve your political goal and are seeking some kind of revenge for your failure. You might claim – the people who resort to it claim, that is – that the aim of direct action is to frighten the people in power so much they’ll give way to your demands, but in your heart you know it won’t achieve that. It never does, because the people with the power don’t give in to this stuff. History shows that.”

  They’d stayed silent for a few seconds before Isora asked, “So why do it?”

  Lully said quietly, “What do you do when your enemy has you pinned to the ground with a knife at your throat? Do you give in and let him finish you off? Or do you spit in his eye, although you know it won’t do any good?”

  “You spit in his eye,” said Drumgold cooly.

  “Goddamn right you do. It’s your final, desperate act. It’s that – or capitulate, which is not an option, not if you’ve got any belief in the rightness of your fight. It won’t do any good, but it’s better than just giving in.” He’d looked around at them as he warned again, “It’s not somewhere you want to go.”

  Isora had heard such strange bleakness in his voice she wanted to hug him, to comfort him, except that his speech seemed to make him, at that moment, unreachable.

  Drumgold’s hand on her arm, slowing her, pulls her back to the present. They’ve rounded a bend in the road and the cottage gates are in front of them. The plan is for Drumgold and Harper to hold the envelope while Isora ties it to the gate. The night before, when they’d made the plan, Harper had objected that it would be awkward, the three of them together fixing the ultimatum to the gate, but Drumgold had insisted they should all be involved because it symbolized the unity of the Front.

  “Ready?” says Drumgold.

  “Shouldn’t we make sure no-one’s around?” says Harper, but Drumgold and Isora are already moving forward and he has to scramble to catch up.

  They march toward the gates and the road suddenly floods with light. They dive into the undergrowth beside the wall that abuts the entrance.

  “Who put the lights on?” Harper whispers.

  “They’re motion-sensored,” says Drumgold confidently. “We should have guessed. They’ll go out in a few minutes.”

  “And then come on again as soon as we get near the gates,” says Harper. “Maybe we better come up with another plan.”

  “If we stay close to the wall the sensors might not detect movement,” says Drumgold.

  “Might not,” Harper mutters.

  “And then if we keep low when we get to the gates, we still might not set them off.”

  “Someone’ll come out to check why the lights are on,” says Harper.

  “They might,” says Drumgold. “But I bet they come on all the time. Like every time a deer walks down the road.”

  The lights snap off. The darkness seems thicker than before. With Drumgold in front, they make their way to the entrance, crawling and staying close to the wall. The lights stay off. Isora eyes the ironwork of the gates. There are only three horizontal rungs, one low to the ground, one halfway up, and one at the top.

  “We’ll have to tie the envelope to the middle rung,” Isora whispers. “We can’t reach the top one, and the bottom one’s no good because the envelope will be on the ground so either no-one’s going to see it or it’ll get ripped as soon as the gates open. We’ll have to at least kneel, maybe even stand, to reach the middle one.”

  “We may as well stand then,” says Drumgold. “Either way the lights are going to come on.”

  Still pressed close to the wall, they ease themselves slowly up until they’re standing. Still, the lights stay off. Drumgold and Harper grasp the envelope. Isora holds the ribbon.

  Drumgold mouths, “Ready?”

  Isora and Harper nod.

  “Now!”

  They run from the shelter of the wall. The lights snap on,
floodlighting the road in front of the gates and the yard inside. Isora threads the ribbon through the middle rung. She leans against the gates to steady herself as she ties it. An alarm blats from the cottage. Isora says, “Fuck,” reeling backwards as if an electric charge is running through the gates. They fling themselves back into the shadow beside the gates and run alongside the wall until they’re beyond the pool of light. Then they move into the road, still running.

  14

  The members of BARF are crouched in the woods opposite the cottage gates. It’s June the second. They’d agreed to give Anderson a day past the deadline to make a start on dismantling the fence around the beach. They see no sign of their ultimatum being obeyed.

  “Bastard,” mutters Isora.

  “He deserves everything he’s going to get,” says Drumgold.

  “He could at least have answered us instead of ignoring us.”

  “He might not have got the letter,” Harper points out. “It could have blown off the gates and got lost, or Droopy or Diamond Head could have found it and just thrown it away. And anyway, we didn’t give him our names or anything. He wouldn’t know who to talk to even if he wanted to.”

  “He had the chance to talk to us when we went to his goddamn office,” Drumgold growls.

  “But he doesn’t know what that was about, because we didn’t say anything about the beach. And for all we know, that Marcia didn’t even give him our names. She probably didn’t even tell him we were there.”

  “He could do something,” Drumgold mutters. “He could put a sign on the gate: Let’s talk, BARF! But he ignores us.”

  Isora puts her hand on his arm and a finger to her lips as she points across the road. Droopy is at the gates, peering through the railings. He stands back as the gates swing open. AA1 noses through on to the Old Beach Road, Anderson at the wheel. The car surges forward, spurting gravel. The gates swing shut and Droopy wanders out of sight.

  Drumgold looks after AA1 for a few seconds, then says, “Let’s firebomb his car.”

  “We don’t have a firebomb,” says Harper. “We don’t even know what a firebomb is.” He looks at Drumgold and Isora. “We don’t...do we?” He goes on quickly, “Anyway, I don’t think we should get too...serious. Not right away. We could start with something small, like Dex said. We could just play a trick on Anderson. We could telephone and leave a message saying we’re the sex line he’s been calling and his account is overdue, or...or...”