David A. Poulsen
BILLY AND
THE BEARMAN
Text © 1996 David A. Poulsen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover illustration: Greg Ruhl
Book design: Craig McConnell
Published by Napoleon Publishing,
a Division of Transmedia Enterprises Inc.
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Napoleon Publishing gratefully acknowledges
the financial support of the Canada Council
towards its publishing programme.
05 04 03 02 01 00 5 4 3
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Poulsen, David A., 1946-
Billy and the Bearman
ISBN 978-0-929141-48-0
I. Title.
PS8581.0848B5 1996 jC813’ .54 C95-933227-8
PZ7.P68Bi 1996
To Cynthia, in B.C. and Sandra, in Saskatchewan for their endless encouragement and, again to Barb
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to social worker Lynn Dutton, to the Cochrane Detachment of the RCMP, to Alberta Fish and Wildlife and to Jim Jorawsky, all of whom provided invaluable assistance and advice during the research and writing of this book.
CHAPTER
1
He wouldn’t look at her. Billy Gavin rubbed his hand back and forth over the cold, plastic surface of the menu and concentrated on not allowing his eyes to glance up at the waitress who was standing right in front of him.
She was dark-haired and pretty — he’d noticed that when she’d been gathering up dishes at the far end of the counter. He’d have to talk to her, there was no way around that, no matter how hard it was for him to talk to people. But, no, he wouldn’t look at her.
“Could I have . . . uh . . . some french fries, please, with gravy and a glass of orange pop?”
“Sure can.” The waitress sounded friendly enough as she dabbed a cloth at the counter in front of Billy and turned away.
When she was gone, Billy counted out enough money to pay for the food; one dollar and eighty-five cents. He checked the menu again to make sure he had it right and set six quarters, three dimes, and a nickel on the counter. He moved the coins so that none of them was resting on any of the brown-yellow cigarette burns that dotted the counter’s surface.
Billy looked around. You had to be careful in these places. Some stranger could try to take your money. There were three other people in the café. Near the door a man and woman sat across a table from one another, talking quietly and eating spaghetti. For a few seconds Billy watched them spin their forks on large spoons to roll the long strands of noodles into neat bites. Billy had never seen that before. In his family, noodles were sort of slurped. You started at one end of a long noodle and sucked on it until the last of it had slipped noisily into your mouth. Then you wiped your lips. It seemed simpler, though maybe not as polite, as what these people were doing.
Over his right shoulder, Billy could see the café’s only other patron, another boy, older than himself, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Billy watched him, careful not to let himself be caught doing it. Watching people was something he did a lot. That and trying to imagine what kind of people they were and what they did.
This boy, the older boy, was hard to figure out. He was very dark, both his hair, which was uncombed, and his skin. In fact, he looked like he needed a shave. He was wearing a heavy, well-worn, almost shabby coat that was very nearly the same colour as the cigarette burns on the counter. From the darker stains that blotched the coat here and there, Billy guessed it might smell of grease and oil, the way his dad’s work overalls used to.
The other boy seemed interested only in the soup that sat before him, steam rising from the plain white bowl. Billy decided the money on the counter was safe for now. The waitress returned and set the soft drink and french fries on the counter in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said, shoving the coins toward her. “Here.”
“You don’t have to pay yet,” she told him. “You might want something else, pie or something. You can pay later.”
“I won’t be having pie,” Billy replied with a shake of his head. He didn’t tell her that, after paying for his food, he had only forty-five cents left.
“Well, that’s okay,” she said. “You can still pay when you’re finished eating.”
He nodded and stared at the french fries, uncomfortably aware that the waitress was still standing in front of him and looking at him.
“What’s your name?” She had a soft voice.
“Billy.”
“Billy . . .” the waitress said.
He knew from the way she repeated it that she expected to hear the last name too. He thought about that. Should be okay. It was too soon for the name alone to give him away. Later, when they were looking for him, he wouldn’t be able to tell people his name, at least not his real name.
“Gavin.” He still hadn’t looked up from the food. “Billy Gavin.”
“Miss?” A voice intervened. It was the man who was eating spaghetti. “Could we have a little more coffee, please?”
“You bet,” the waitress replied and moved away.
Billy ate his french fries slowly. It had been a long time since he had eaten, and he knew it might be longer still until he ate again. While he chewed on a crispy fry — the crispy ones were his favourites — he looked to his left and saw his reflection in the big window, where moths were dancing up and down on the outside of the glass. The familiar image showed a round face with serious blue eyes that peered out from under thick reddish-brown hair that fell over the forehead. The nose and cheeks were dotted with freckles, not many, although they seemed like a lot; maybe it was because of the whiteness of the skin. Billy wished he looked healthy like some of the kids at school who were good at sports, but he didn’t. Instead, he was thin and not very tall, and that made him look even younger than his twelve years.
Billy didn’t like looking at himself. He turned away from the window and continued eating until the waitress came back. He hoped she wouldn’t stay and talk this time. She was nice enough, but talk sometimes led to questions and he knew that answering questions could lead to trouble.
“How about it . . . piece of apple pie? Got cherry too but the apple’s better.” The waitress bent down and said it like it was their secret.
“No, thanks.” He let his eyes flick upwards for a fraction of a second to the smiling face.
“Okay,” she said pleasantly, then turned and disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Billy drenched his last two french fries in the gravy floating on the bottom of his plate and washed them down with the remainder of the orange pop. He stood up then, not sure whether to leave the money on the counter or to let the waitress know he was leaving and wanted to pay. He looked around again and, seeing that none of the other customers was paying any attention to him, decided to leave the money and