Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

“I told you, thirty bucks,” she hears Frank say. “I’ve got overhead.”

“You’re kidding me,” replies Fletcher. “There’s no way I’m paying more than fifteen.”

“You want me to unfix that leak?” the man says.

As Maggie reaches the porch, Fletcher gives her a look, and she knows she should stop to take his side, but she passes by him into the house. Upstairs, she grabs her purse and counts out bills, then flies back down and pushes them into Frank’s hand. He examines her for a moment, making her realize what a sight she must present. Her wet skirt is as filthy as his truck, the broken strap of her top tied together in a clumsy knot.

“Hippies,” says Frank with a shake of his head. He waits for a rebuttal, but neither Maggie nor Fletcher obliges him. “Bet you’re Americans too,” Frank says. Fletcher crosses his arms and stares at the money in the man’s fist. At last Frank grunts and sets off down the porch stairs in the direction of his truck.

As he drives away, Fletcher turns to her in bewilderment. “Why did you pay him?”

“You looked so helpless,” she replies.

He appears about to protest, but then he draws her into his arms. “He would’ve come down to twenty,” he says.

She knows he’s right; ten dollars makes a difference. It’s good of him to care about such things, especially when he’s probably never had to haggle in his life. She’s about to tell him so when he tenses against her, fingering the knotted strap on her shoulder.

“What happened to this?” he asks.

“It broke.” She can’t bring herself to tell him about the church. Not about the girls either. “Where are we at with money?” she asks instead. “It’s only been a week.”

“We need to talk,” he replies. There’s an unsettling gravity in his tone.

“Okay. But I need to change first.”

When she comes back downstairs, there’s no one in the house, so she makes her way to the front lawn where the camper is parked. A stick of incense burns on the dashboard, and Pauline sits at the fold-down table, a daisy chain lopsided on her head, conducting a tea party with her doll. Across from her, Brid in her sunglasses and bikini throws clothes and toys into a burgundy suitcase.

“Heard the gas is fixed,” says Brid when she sees her. “C’mon, honey, let’s skedaddle.” Pauline sets down her cup and saucer with care before climbing out of the vehicle. Brid starts after her, then sighs and pivots back to the suitcase. “Just a second, I haven’t taken La Evil yet today.”

Maggie frowns, not understanding, even when Brid pulls out a bottle of pills.

“You know, Elavil,” says Brid. “Wonderful stuff. Keeps you from sticking your head in the oven. Hard on the eyes, though.” Momentarily she lowers her sunglasses. “You thought I wore these just to look hip? Wale calls it La Evil, as in, ‘Sufficient unto the day is La Evil thereof.’ ”

Maggie says nothing while she waits for Brid to swallow her pill, only thinks of what has just been so casually revealed. Then they carry on into the house with Pauline singing ahead of them. When they enter the kitchen, Brid’s all jagged cheer, calling out, “Hey handsome!” to Fletcher where he sits at the table. She dances her fingers playfully over one of his shoulders, but he isn’t in a playful mood.

“We need a new plan,” he says, his voice sounding self-assured even as his hands grip the edge of the table. “The way things are going, we’ll never get anything done. We can’t spend Morgan Sugar’s dough forever.”

“It’s barely been a week,” says Brid. “That’s a little quick to have blown the bankroll.” She sends Pauline off to occupy herself in the mud room, then sits next to Maggie at the table. “Besides, I thought the whole thing was a stitch-up between you and your father.”

“The company still expects to see something for its money,” says Fletcher, “and I promised we’d have at least eight working bodies from the start.”

Brid stares at him with skepticism. “You get new marching orders from Daddy today?” When Fletcher doesn’t reply, her look grows sharper. “So your old man’s under the impression that we’re here to make his company a profit.”

“Technically, that is why we’re here …” He breaks off and looks grim.

There’s an ache in Maggie’s gut. Gathering herself, she turns to Brid and finds her staring back as though waiting for Maggie’s intercession.

“Fletcher’s dad understands we’re doing things our way,” says Maggie, trying to sound measured and reasonable. “He knows eventually we’ll buy the place from the company. Until then, though, Morgan Sugar’s paying our salaries.” She knows very well that Brid has already been informed of these facts.

“Fine, so we’ll get the workers,” says Brid. “Those draft dodgers from Toronto—”

“I’ve talked to them,” says Fletcher. “They can’t come for at least a month.”

Brid heaves herself back in her chair. “Okay then, big shot, tell us your plan.”

Looking at them with a wary eye, he says, “There’s a programme up here. Government run, migrant workers. Pretty easy to arrange.”

“You’re kidding me,” says Brid. “What, Mexicans?”

“Jamaicans.”

“Oh, even better.” She helps herself to a cigarette from a pack on the table. Maggie has a sense that right now Brid and Fletcher strongly dislike each other. This fact should soothe her somehow, but instead there’s an intimacy to the whole thing that’s excruciating.

“The workers fly up, stay the season, fly back,” says Fletcher. “It’s a lot cheaper than local labour. Plus, you know, it puts money into the Jamaican economy—”

Brid smiles an awful smile and shakes her head in disbelief. “You are fucking kidding me.”

“It would just be till we’re off the ground.”

Maggie hates the beseeching way in which Fletcher says it. Is this why he asked Brid to join them here—to earn her approval? She doesn’t even care about the farm. She’s only come up for the sake of her daughter and her AWOL boyfriend.

Maybe Maggie shouldn’t be so judgmental, though. It isn’t like she has spent her own life driven by idealism. Even now, her urge is to leave the table, take the Super 8 camera outside, and have some time alone. She’s already starting to imagine what that would be like when she realizes Brid is staring at her.

“You’re not even paying attention, are you?” says Brid.

“No, I’m listening.” She turns to Fletcher, but he only sits there sharing Brid’s quizzical expression.

“So what do you think, then?” Brid asks her.

“I think—” she begins, not knowing what she thinks.

“I don’t know.”

“For Christ’s sake.”

“No, wait.” She can’t just leave it at that. This place needs to be a success. “We should try Fletcher’s plan. I mean, we wouldn’t be forcing anything on the Jamaicans, would we? They want to work up here. And we could pay them better than minimum wage. We could even help them stay in Canada.” As she speaks these words, it sounds like a plausible arrangement, especially considering she’s devised it on the spot. But Fletcher looks troubled.

“Now hold on,” he says. “There are rules, for one thing, and paying them more money kind of defeats the purpose—”

“What is the purpose, though?” she asks. “I mean, I thought we’re trying to create something fair and equal here.” At this, Fletcher’s face darkens and Brid beams. “I know you’re trying to do that,” Maggie adds hastily. She feels herself sinking. “So if you think your solution is the best idea,” she says with a sigh, “we should probably just go ahead with it.”