Billy and the Bearman. David A. Poulsen

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Bearman picked up a tree branch that lay on the ground, and for a minute Billy thought he was going to use it on him. It was as if something had snapped, and he was like an angry animal, unable to contain his terrible anger. But Bearman turned away from Billy and, like a baseball batter, swung instead at a nearby tree. The staccato crack of wood on wood echoed through the still forest and a second wave of fear rushed through Billy’s insides. Bearman struck the tree a second time, then a third and the branch broke in his hands. He threw down what was left of it and turned to face Billy, his eyes still wide and blazing in their anger.

      “I didn’t say your coat smelled,” Billy said again. “I just meant that it looked old . . . and . . . maybe you wanted a newer one.”

      Bearman started to say something but didn’t finish it, whatever it was. Instead, he turned and crashed off into the bush in the direction of the truck.

      Billy sat silent and alone, as alone as he’d ever been. What should he do? What could he do? Did Bearman mean to drive off and leave him? Or had he already left the camp on foot? Would he come back? And if he did, what would he be like?

      Billy realized he was shaking. He had seen proof of Bearman’s anger and the ease of his descent into violence in town the night before. But then it had been quiet and coolly calculating. This had been scarier. It had happened without warning and for almost no reason. And it had been directed at him. The decision to stay in the camp with Bearman no longer seemed as wise as it had before.

      Billy forced himself to move. To be doing something was better than just thinking. He stood up and slowly began gathering the garbage from breakfast. He put the empty ravioli can and tea bag in a paper sack that Bearman had propped between two rocks. Then he folded it up, not neatly — his hands were shaking too much for that — but at least he didn’t intend to leave an open invitation to any bears in the area. Especially now that he was alone in the camp.

      He washed the forks he and Bearman had used and had just put them in the backpack when he heard a noise behind him. He turned around to see Bearman emerge from the brush and re-enter the camp. Silently, the older boy walked to the smouldering remains of the fire and stood looking at Billy for a long time before speaking.

      “You shouldn’t have said what you did about my coat.”

      “But I didn’t . . .” Billy began to explain again, then stopped. “I’m sorry.”

      Several more minutes passed before Bearman spoke again.

      “When my father hit me, with that chain or the leg off a chair or whatever he could get his hands on, I couldn’t fight back. He was too big and too strong.”

      Bearman sat down on a stump before continuing. “When it was over and I could get up, I’d go outside and I’d want to hit something because I couldn’t hit him, so I’d take an axe or a baseball bat or . . . anything I could find and I’d hit a tree or a log or the ground . . .”

      As he spoke now, he no longer looked at Billy but stared at the last fading embers of the campfire.

      “All the time I was hitting . . . whatever . . . it was really him I was hitting and wishing I could kill him . . . and last night when I smashed those guys’ car I was wishing that I was killing them at the same time.”

      Bearman didn’t move but continued to stare unseeing into the firepit.

      “Were you . . . wishing it was me you were hitting just now?” Billy asked.

      Bearman didn’t answer right away but leaned forward, elbows on knees and looked across the clearing.

      “No.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. I was mad but I . . . it wasn’t you I was mad at. I think I was still hitting . . . and hating my old man then, and maybe myself some too, for getting mad, you know?”

      Billy nodded.

      Bearman shrugged then and stood up. “Anyway we better get a move on if we’re going to town. I see you got things pretty well cleaned up.”

      “Yeah.” Billy stood up too and picked up the bag of garbage. Hearing Bearman talk about his anger had helped a little, but he was still fearful that at some point, another outburst could be directed at him. After all, hadn’t Bearman said the only reason he didn’t strike out at his father was that the man was bigger and stronger. Certainly that wouldn’t be a problem if he chose to take out whatever was bugging him on Billy.

      And one thing Billy knew for certain was that he hadn’t run away from what was happening to him at home so that he could be beaten up by someone else.

      CHAPTER

      4

      Billy changed his mind at least three times on the drive into Palliser. First, he decided he’d stay. After all, Bearman hadn’t actually hit him. Then he made up his mind to go. He would strike out on his own when they got to the town. Although he hadn’t been hit, he could have been and that was enough. But finally he reached the decision to stay with Bearman. There were several reasons for coming to that conclusion but the two most important were, first of all, that he liked Bearman, bad temper and all, and secondly, he really didn’t have a lot of other options. On his own, he’d either be found by the police or his parents or get into some scrape he couldn’t get himself out of. Staying was the better choice, at least for now. Even so, Billy told himself he would only stay so long as Bearman never hit him.

      Once he’d arrived at his decision, Billy had an idea he wanted to try on Bearman. “What do you think about a treehouse?” he said as they took a corner a little too fast and he was forced to hang on to the door handle.

      “What?”

      “I was wondering about a treehouse.” Billy turned in the seat to face Bearman. “I bet we could build one. I read a book once where they built one. And then we’d be off the ground and everything.”

      “A treehouse,” Bearman repeated slowly.

      “And nobody will even be able to see us up there. They could walk right underneath us and never know we were up there.”

      “A treehouse,” Bearman said again.

      Billy nodded. “Swiss Family Robinson. That’s the book I read it in. A whole family lived in there. Of course, ours wouldn’t have to be as fancy, but I bet we could do it.”

      This time Bearman didn’t say anything.

      “So, what do you think?” Billy asked again. “You said we needed a more permanent place to live.”

      “A treehouse.”

      “Yes, a treehouse, a treehouse!” Billy was becoming impatient. “Geez, a . . . treehouse. What do you think?”

      “I think . . . it’s not a bad idea.” Bearman kept his eyes on the road ahead. It was a gravel road, a back road where they weren’t as likely to be seen. “Not bad at all. Of course, we’ll need lumber, but I’ve got an idea where we could get all we need and tools won’t be a problem either.” He reached across and punched Billy lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah, might not be a bad idea at all.”

      They rode in silence then, until they reached the edge of town. It was just after noon. Bearman slowed the truck.

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