thing
.â
âIâll see what I can do,â Moses said, and he felt a new cramp forming in his arm this time, the one he steered the boat with. That night, after sending the kids over to stay at Sylvieâs for the night, after making love for the second time to Viddy, he discussed the problem with her.
âI canât tell Phonse to close down his place. Itâs his life. Heâs not hurting anyone.â
Lying in bed with his wife, Moses felt a huge responsibility settle upon him like someone lowering a steel-hulled ship on his chest. Phonse had been his friend since childhood. Phonse had been there to throw a coat around him after heâd retrieved Calvin Whittle from Scummerâs Pond. Moses thought his heart was going to cramp up, and Viddy massaged his chest with her hand as if on cue. âThe island has to come first,â she said. âYou have to do whatâs good for the island.â
Right then, Moses didnât think that helped at all. What he thought she was saying was that he should listen to Chicago. He knew that if he wanted to get the government involved, he could have Phonse closed down in the blink of an eye. Phonseâs salvage yard broke just about every environmental and safety regulation and statute in existence. And, in truth, to clean up Phonseâs hell-hole would be cleaning up the island. But it was all wrong.
Sleep came to him like a dull, senseless rain â cold, with pellets of ice collecting on the back porch of his brain.
In the morning, however, he had an idea. He talked to Phonse about fine-tuning his operation and opening the gun range to some of the eco-tourists.
âIâm always open to new ideas,â Phonse said. âInnovation has been the key to my success. Acadians were always open to new ideas. We come over here and the Miâkmaq tell my people to eat this root. We eat it. Prevents scurvy and tastes almost good. They tell us how to hunt the animals, we hunt âem. We survive good because we always adapt. Now we donât have to hunt the animals no more. And thatâs a good thing, too.â
âYou understand the nature of eco-tourism?â Moses asked. He was never comfortable with that large, floppy, uncomfortable word the people in Chicago used when they spoke to him. But somehow he had heard himself say it out loud to his friend.
âI understand it if you understand it, I guess.â
âGood enough. I just wanted to make sure you were with me on this.â
Phonse probably didnât have the foggiest notion as to what was going on, but yes, he was in. Phonse was always in on a new idea, ready to adapt just like his ancestors.
At first Chicago thought the idea was outlandish.âA theme park showing the ravages of cars and industry and neglect?â
âYes. And tourists can, if they wish to pay extra, take up firearms and shoot at symbols of environmental offense. Cars. TVs. Absolutely no hunting, though, of course. No shooting at anything living. Only manufactured things worthy of an ecotouristâs anger.â
âShouldnât that stuff all be recycled?â
âThis
is
a form of recycling. And Iâve already convinced the owner to use only non-lead bullets. Simple iron pellets or bullets will work. Wonât harm the ecosystem. Put a little iron back in the soil is all.â
âI donât know,â Chicago said.âThis all sounds pretty radical.â
âThink of it as cutting edge. Our timing will be perfect.â And he was right. The plan turned out to be a hit. Viddy helped design the new brochure. Phonse fine-tuned his junkyard tourist attraction. Pacifists and eco-freaks turned out to love pump-action rifles and guns with infrared scopes. Oickleâs Pond brought satisfactory remarks of haughty disgust and financial donations to clean it up once and for all. Locals sat side by side with tourists from Pennsylvania, all wearing ear protection, and