The Americans Are Coming by Herb Curtis Page A

a look at us, I could see its eyes shinin’ in the flashlight beam and, and, and they were about as big around as that ashtray. I thought we were dead men but it didn’t do a thing, just swung and trotted off down through the woods. I wanted to go after it, but Dryfly said, he said, he said, we’d better not. We might get lost, so we swung and come home. We never heard it after, but you could smell it for three days.”
    “Did anybody else ever see it?” asked Bill.
    “Not that I know of,” said Shad.
    “Did anybody else ever go back to look for it?”
    “I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway.”
    “Do you think it was a ghost?” asked Lillian.
    “I dunno, maybe.”
    “Or, maybe Satan?”
    “I don’t know. Could’ve been.”
    “Did you go back after to look for its tracks or anything?” said Bill.
    “No, no, I never went back.”
    Shadrack was beginning to feel uncomfortable with all the smiling questions. “They’re makin’ fun o’ me,” he thought. “They think I’m lyin’. Course lyin’s what I’m doin’, so I might as well stick with it.”
    Bill Wallace got up from the sofa and went to the bar, poured himself a double scotch and tossed it back, grunted the hot liquid along to his stomach, then poured himself another. He was moving away from the kids. He was not interested in the Dungarvon Whopper, as he called it. The Dungarvon Whooper was Lillian’s thing. Bill Wallace commenced to thinkabout salmon pools and a place of his very own, private, away from this club of cabbage heads.
    Between the chair where Lillian sat and the sofa where Shadrack sat, it commenced to rain electricity.
    Shadrack was unprepared. He wanted to get outside with Lillian so that he might get a chance to pass the hand.
    Lillian, on the other hand, experienced a feeling of bewilderment as she eyed the thin, red-haired boy. “He’s lying about the whooper,” she thought. “He’s a liar, just like every other boy. Except . . . he’s not the same. I’d hate to see this one in an Elvis Presley haircut.”
    “Ever hear of Elvis Presley?” she asked.
    “Yeah,” said Shad, thankful for the fact the topic had changed. “I heard ’im on the radio.”
    “Have you ever seen him?”
    “No.”
    “I have a picture of him in the bedroom. I’ll get it.” Lillian went off to get the centerfold from the
Teen
magazine she’d brought from home. Shad removed his wallet from his hip pocket and slid it between the cushions of the sofa. “An excuse to come back, in case I don’t get invited,” he thought.
    Bill Wallace stood at the window, eyeing the river. “I should fish for an hour before dark,” he thought, “but I can’t leave Lillian alone with this hick . . . or would it matter? Lillian’s not about to get involved with the likes of him . . . she’s only fourteen . . . I could talk with Lindon . . .” Bill Wallace was still thinking about his very own salmon pool.
    Lillian returned with the picture. She placed it on the coffee table in front of Shadrack.
    “That’s Elvis,” she said.
    Shad looked at the greased black hair, the black leather jacket with the turned up collar, the tight black pants and the jet boots. Shad looked at the smooth tanned skin with not a freckle on it, the sideburns and the slightly curled lip. “So, this is Elvis,” he thought. “He’s a good lookin’ lad, all right.”
    Shad had heard that Elvis had his hair greased back, and had tried the grease himself, but Shad hadn’t known that Elvis’ hair was so much longer . . . and the sideburns . . .
    “The girls are wild about him,” said Lillian. “Don’t you think he’s wonderful?”
    “For a girl to look at, maybe,” said Shad, and to himself, thought, “I’ll have to let my hair grow.”
    A knock came at the door. It was Lindon Tucker. Lillian let him in.
    “You wanna fish this evenin’?” Lindon asked Bill.
    “By God, Lindon old buddy, I’m glad you’re still about. Do you have a good fishing rod,