Billy and the Bearman. David A. Poulsen
he looked closely at things . . . or people. He was looking at the fire that way now and as he did, he absently ran a hand through his hair, hair that was long and black and didn’t look like it got combed much. Bearman wasn’t small but he wasn’t big either, although Billy noticed that his hands were large, almost too large for the rest of his body.
They sat for a long time in the moon quiet of the forest, the only sounds the crackling of wood in the fire and an occasional hoot from a distant owl.
Bearman threw away the cigarette and began rolling another. “So, what was the problem at home?” The words, spoken softly, seemed to echo through the trees.
Billy still wasn’t sure he wanted to answer the question. “I don’t usually talk about it,” he said. “Actually, I never have. Not to anybody.”
Bearman didn’t say anything. He lit the cigarette and moved a couple of sticks around in the fire. And suddenly the words were on Billy’s lips, ready to be spoken, wanting to be said.
“My stepdad . . . he . . . he beats us . . .” His voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Us?”
“My sister and me. She’s two years younger. He . . . just gets mad all of a sudden . . . sometimes . . . a lot . . . and then he beats us, with a belt or a stick and once he hit me with a metal pail. He hurts us pretty bad sometimes.”
Bearman looked over at him. “What does your mother do when he’s knocking you around?”
“Not much,” Billy replied, shaking his head. “Maybe she’s afraid to or maybe . . . she . . . she . . .”
Bearman stood up and added three more logs to the fire. “I’ll finish building this up and then we can hit the sack. We should be toasty warm for most of the night.”
Billy watched as the fire burned yellow at first, then orange, and finally when it was hottest, a bright, dark red that reminded him of pictures he’d seen on T.V. of molten lava from volcanoes.
“Are you sorry you asked me to come now?” He looked at Bearman.
“Why should I be?” Bearman poked at the fire with a stick. “We all got our problems, Kid.”
Billy waited for Bearman to say more but he never did. Billy decided to change the subject. There was something else he wanted to bring up. Something important.
“Uh . . . what do we do about a bathroom around here?”
“Well . . .” A flicker of a smile appeared at the corners of Bearman’s mouth. “For washing, there’s a creek not far away.” Billy noticed he pronounced it ‘crick’. “We’ll go down there in the morning and clean up. As for the other use of a bathroom, we have several thousand acres we can use. Just step behind the tree of your choice.”
Billy started in the direction of a stand of poplars and spruce growing together not far from the fire. The poplars had lost all but a few of their leaves but together with the spruce might provide some cover. He took small, uncertain steps. When he reached the trees, he looked back, then stepped carefully behind them.
“By the way, you didn’t have gravy tonight, did you,” he heard Bearman call, “on those french fries I saw you eating?”
“Yeah, why?” Billy called back.
“Oh, nothin’.” He could hear Bearman’s voice and the fire’s crackle behind it. “It’s just that bears love gravy, it’s probably their favourite food in the whole world, and if you happened to spill any on your clothes or . . . oh well, forget about it, it’s probably nothing to worry about.”
Billy hurried out from behind the trees, still doing up the zipper to his jeans. He could see Bearman watching him as he trotted awkwardly back to the fire. The older boy was laughing softly, and the sound rolled around the trees that surrounded the little camp.
“Very funny,” Billy said. He picked up the brown sleeping bag and began laying it out under the lean-to. He would have to try to get used to Bearman’s sense of humour. And there was a lot more out here in the forest to get used to as well. A lot more.
CHAPTER
3
Billy had been sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep in the unfamiliar and frightening surroundings. So he was surprised that it was fully daylight when he opened his eyes. Bearman was out of his sleeping bag and crouched down near the fire. Billy unzipped his own sleeping bag and pulled back the cover. The chill of the September morning hit him and he shivered.
“Brr . . .” He stood up quickly and stepped close to the fire.
“Well, well, Sleeping Beauty, you missed most of the day.”
“Sorry, I guess I was tired.” Billy shivered again.
Bearman looked up at him. “I meant to ask you last night if you had a jacket. You’ll be needing one out here.”
“I left it in the café,” Billy replied. “You know, the one where I had the french fries and gravy.”
Bearman smiled at that. “Oh, that café.”
“I didn’t think we could go back for it.”
“Well, you were right about that.”
“What are you doing?” Billy pointed at the tin can Bearman was holding over the fire with a pair of pliers.
“I’m cooking ravioli. Over there’s tea. There’s cups in the backpack. Why don’t you pour us some.”
“We’re having canned ravioli for breakfast?” Billy made a face.
“Sorry, the waffle iron’s not working this morning.”
“That’s okay. I like ravioli. I’m just not used to having it in the morning.” Billy poured tea into two tin cups and handed one to Bearman. “What are we going to do today?”
“Well . . .” Bearman stuck a fork in the open tin can, pulled out a steaming piece of ravioli and carefully bit off a piece. “Whoa, hot!” he exclaimed. “I’d say they’re ready. Grab yourself a fork.”
Billy did as Bearman had suggested and pulled a ravioli chunk from the can. He blew on it for several seconds before placing the pasta in his mouth.
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he admitted, then added with a grin, “way better than waffles or the other stuff normal people eat for breakfast.”
“Told ya. Now as for what we’re going to do today,” Bearman mumbled, his mouth carefully working around another of the ravioli squares, “I don’t know. You have any plans?”
“Not really. I’ve never run away before.”
“Me neither.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Bearman took a noisy sip of tea, “turns out that last night was my first night on the road too. Well, not exactly my first night. I’ve camped out by myself lots of nights before, but all the other times I was always going back. This time I’m not. I’m gone for good. Actually, I took off just before I met up with you.”
“You mean you ran away?”
“Took off. Left home. Ran away. Take your pick.”
“Geez . . .” Billy reached again for the ravioli can. “How come?”
“Well, now, how come?” Bearman repeated. “Good question. You see, my old man has a drinking problem. Big time. And when he’s been drinking, his favourite weapon . . .” Bearman undid the two top buttons on his shirt and pulled it back over his shoulder to reveal a long, curving scar that started just below the back of his neck and ran down below his shoulder. The wound looked recent. “. . . . is a chain from a chain saw.” His voice was flat and without emotion. “Uses it like a whip. He’s pretty good with it.”