Billy and the Bearman. David A. Poulsen
left.”
“That’s okay. I’m not very hungry. You finish it.”
“Well, at least you’re an easy keeper.” Bearman reached for the last of the food.
“Did he . . . did he do that very often?”
“Often enough.”
Billy took a long drink of the hot tea, then studied the steam rising in misty tentacles from the cup.
“So . . . so what do you think we should do?” he asked. “I don’t mean today. I mean, for the next while.”
“Well, we’ll have to make this camp a lot more permanent. Maybe even come up with a bit of a tent. You’ll be glad to hear that. That way I figure we can last here maybe a month or six weeks . . . that is, if you’re planning to stay. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to, you know.”
Billy looked around. The camp was pleasant enough in the daytime with the sun threading its way through the tall trees to create a patchwork pattern of light and shadow in the clearing. He could hear the wind up high and see the tops of the trees moving, but here on the ground, the shelter of the bush kept the wind from being much more than a whispering breeze.
“I think I’ll stay.” He nodded approvingly at the surroundings. “But won’t they look for us here?”
“I doubt it.” Bearman reached for the tea and refilled their cups. “This is one spot even my old man doesn’t know about. And he wouldn’t bother looking for me if he did. Now the cops are another matter. Especially after that little . . . scuffle in town last night. But I’m a better bushman than any of them. How about your parents? They gonna be looking for you?”
“Yeah, I think they’ll try to find me.”
“Don’t matter, they won’t, not out here.”
“What about food?” Billy asked. “And I don’t have any clothes except for what I’ve got on.”
“We’ll have to get some. I’ve got a little money for food, but that won’t get us far. We can trap some and shoot some.” Bearman slapped Billy lightly on the shoulder. “You’re gonna be livin’ off the land, Kid. I’ll make you a mountain man. Maybe they’ll call you Bearman Junior.”
“Or Bearman Two,” Billy grinned.
“Come on. Let’s get down to the creek and clean up. Then we can go get some supplies.”
“But we can’t go into town. The police . . . the cops . . . they might be looking for us.”
“Correct,” Bearman said, pouring the rest of the tea on the fire, “so we go to a different town. There’s a little place, Palliser, south of here. There’s no RCMP post there, so we should be able to get in and out without much trouble. There’s even one of those Goodwill stores there, so maybe we can scoop you a few clothes.”
“What about you?” Billy asked. “Maybe you could use some clothes too. That coat, it . . .”
It happened so fast that at first Billy wasn’t sure exactly what was happening. Bearman jumped to his feet and threw the pot down so hard the last drops of liquid splashed up and into the fire while the pot itself bounced noisily over the rocks. Billy started to laugh at what he thought was a joke or some kind of crazy acting out for fun.
He choked back the laugh when he saw Bearman’s flushed face and wild, out-of-control eyes. Billy had seen that look before — on his stepfather — and it was a look that brought a wave of fear that travelled through him like pain, hard and quick.
“What?” Bearman bit the word off. “Stinks? Is that it? You think my coat stinks. Just like those guys last night. Maybe you think I stink too?”
“No, I don’t think that at all. I just . . .”
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