Day Into Night, page 20
The general murmur of conversation peters out.
“Good evening.” Her voice is strong. “It’s good to see so many of you here. As you know, I called this meeting to discuss recent events. In particular, I’m talking about the resurgence of activity of this so-called Lorax.” She pauses, looks over the top of her half-glasses to check if her class is paying attention. “Until now, we’ve avoided this topic — in my experience, extremism rarely garners sympathy. But this time the Lorax has struck in our backyard and people will look to us for a comment. We have a duty to respond. How we respond will further define how we are perceived. I’m opening the floor for discussion.”
There’s a long silence. Murtow stands and waits, the patient hall monitor. There’s about 20 people here, more women than men, everyone dressed in jeans and Western shirts. I’m tempted to give her my opinion of the Lorax, but doubt it will be well-received. I want to remain inconspicuous. Finally, an older lady in the front row speaks up, her voice thin and tremulous. “I think we have to abhor the violence,” she says. She’s knitting, needles poised, yarn wrapped around one finger. If nothing else, she’ll get a pair of socks out of the meeting. I’m tempted to tell her I take a size eleven.
“Yes,” Murtow says. “Violence is rarely sympathetic.”
There’s a murmur of agreement, interrupted by a guy in the second row.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he says loudly. He’s about 50, overweight, with a bulbous varicose nose set in a grouchy face. “Maybe them loggers brought it on themselves. They must be doing something wrong or the Lorax wouldn’t have gone after them.”
There’s a mummer of assent I find troubling. Clearly, the group believe the Lorax is in the right.
“They’re probably part of that gene experiment,” someone says.
“Yes,” comes another comment. “And they’re cutting way too many trees.”
“That’s why they’re doing the experiments — they need to grow the trees faster ...”
The meeting continues on a predictable trajectory. The usual myths and misconceptions are aired and the consensus seems to be that logging should be outlawed. You’d think none of them live in wooden houses or use toilet paper. Emotions run high and voices rise in excitement. It’s like watching a talk show without a moderator and finally, I can’t take it anymore.
“If the forest wasn’t logged,” I say, “it would burn.”
Heads turn and there’s a shocked silence. I’ve blasphemed.
“It’s a dynamic system. It isn’t always going to look like you see it today.”
A long moment of silence; they may burn me at the cross. Murtow peers at me over her glasses, her expression demanding an explanation for this insolence. I suppose I could just stop, go to the principal’s office and take my 50 lashes. But of course I don’t. “The forest around here is pine and pine regenerates through fire. So unless you want it to burn off, or allow it to become infested with pests and disease, it’ll have to be cut.” Another silence and for a moment I think I’m getting through, then Murtow looks away, shuffles a few papers and the meeting resumes. I’ve been disregarded and understand why Carl didn’t want to come.
“I see you came to make friends,” whispers Telson.
“Good thing I’m close to the door.”
A discussion ensues on how it might be possible to publicly abhor violence while still drawing attention to the underlying problem of clear-cutting. Sounds a lot like decoupling. From somewhere behind me, a deep voice cuts through the conversation.
“You’ve got it all wrong. Why denounce violence?”
It’s a man in the back row, sitting alone. He’s young, wearing a jean jacket, ball cap and work boots. He looks to be the same size as the man in camo, but the ball cap isn’t crimped in the middle and the boots are brown, not black. But these are superficial differences, easily changed.
“Those bastards should be scared when they head out to the bush,” he says. He’s leaned back, an arm flopped over another chair, relaxed. “They should know someone is watching, that there’s going to be consequences when they screw up.”
I wonder how he thinks Nina Pirelli and Ronald Hess screwed up and stare at him, wanting to make eye contact, to see if there’s a flash of recognition, something that might give me a clue, but Murtow has his attention. “We all know your opinions Reggie, but someone died here. We can’t endorse that kind of violence on either moral or ideological grounds. That’s not what we’re about and the merest suggestion would destroy any community support we might have.”
“What community support!” says Reggie. “Everyone works at the sawmill.”
“All the more reason to be careful how we present ourselves.”
Reggie grumbles a bit, but is quiet. I make a mental note to look him up.
The meeting drags on. Telson doodles unicorns and rainbows. We play tic-tac-toe. Finally, it’s decided the Mountain Guardians will release a comment denouncing the bombing as an unacceptable reaction to a genuine concern. One way or the other, they’re determined to get some mileage out of this tragedy. I’d like to infiltrate the group, but I’m pretty sure I’ve blown my chance. I need help from someone they wouldn’t know, look over at Telson — the gypsy vegetarian doodling smiling flowers on her pad of paper — and dismiss the thought. Perfect as she would be for the job, I have no intention of placing any more women in harm’s way.
The discussion swings toward more mundane concerns — housekeeping and fundraising. Bake sales and raffles to save the world. Telson leaves with me and we stand in the parking lot near her Bug. It’s dusk, cooler but pleasant. Soon the first few stars will come out.
“You have any supper plans?” I ask.
She considers, gives me a sly smile. “Why? Are you asking me out?”
Once again, she makes me feel like a teenager. “Maybe. Yes.”
“Well ... I sort of have plans.”
I must look comically crestfallen because she laughs. “I’m kidding, Porter.”
We agree to meet at a restaurant, where she parks her Bug. I suggest we get take-out, find a spot with a view and watch the stars come out over the mountains. She’s agreeable and with two warm, brown paper bags in hand we climb into Old Faithful, head out of town.
“Don’t you find it strange to have the steering wheel on the wrong side?” she says.
Old Faithful is an English machine. “You get used to it.”
There’s a ridge facing west, overlooking the town, which I spotted on my helicopter trip in from the fire. It takes a while in the dark to find where the trail leaves the main road, Telson stomping an imaginary brake pedal as we round corners, but we clear a line of trees to find a panoramic view of dark mountains, sparkling sky and the Christmas tree sprawl of town lights.
“Wow.” Telson sits up. “This is really something.”
We get out, sit on the dry grass; it smells of sage and juniper. We dig into our paper bags. The food is in little Styrofoam trays and is still hot. Neither of us says much as we eat and I steal a glance at her now and then. There’s a sliver of waning moon and she’s a mysterious figure in the moonlight, long, wavy hair and slender hands. The tiny metal stud in her nose gleams like molten metal. She’s so different from Nina, but in a way that’s comforting.
“You see that really bright light over there,” I say. “That’s Jupiter.”
“Really?”
“And that one to the left and down, that’s Saturn.”
She sets aside her Styrofoam tray. “I always thought those were stars.”
“No, they’re planets. With a good pair of binoculars, you can see their moons.”
She sighs, leans forward and hugs her knees. “People don’t look at the sky enough.”
For a long time neither of us say anything. I want to move closer, put my arm around her, but somehow feel it’s the wrong thing to do right now. Or it’s the right thing and I’m an idiot. Neither possibility is very comforting.
“Porter, are you married?” She says this without looking at me.
“No, I’m not married. Why?”
A long pause. “No reason,” she says.
There’s always a reason for a question like that. Next, she’s going to ask if I’m gay. I make a pre-emptive strike by moving over, sitting closer. She looks at me and smiles.
“You seem married.”
“To a ghost. It’s an awkward arrangement.”
She brushes hair away from her face. “Just my luck.”
“I’ve had a little experience with luck too. The bad type anyway.”
Her hand finds mine. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” I say. “But this helps. Let’s leave it at that for now.”
14
CARL IS FINALLY OFF the duty desk. He’s frazzled from the stress and long hours, is talking in short sentences, like he’s still on the radio. It’s Saturday, but like everyone else in the fire business, he needs the overtime and so he’s still working. We head out together to demobilize a fire camp. It’s a nice, mindless sort of job.
“It’s a split shift Porter. You’re supposed to gear up slowly.”
“I am gearing up slowly.”
I’m driving an International three-ton stakebox so old that if it breaks down we’re going to have to go to the museum for parts. Carl is slumped in the passenger side, wearing sunglasses and knawing on a hunk of homemade deer jerky.
“Pull that button up when you shift,” he says.
“You want to drive?”
Carl says nothing, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. If it was up to him, we’d be doing this with a team of horses and a buckboard, which would probably be just as fast. I skip a gear or two and the truck lurches, the old stake sides creaking and flopping. Carl slides a few degrees farther down the seat.
“You meet the crazies?” he asks.
“The Mountain Guardians?”
“Yeah. What’d you think?”
I picture Angela Murtow at the podium, lips pursed — the picture of piety. The lady who was knitting. Reggie, frothing at the mouth. “They’re a different bunch.I made the mistake of trying to explain pine ecology.”
“Which I’m sure they appreciated.”
“Not exactly.”
Carl chuckles. “Porter Cassel — leaper of small buildings and dispeller of myths.”
“It wasn’t a total loss. Christina Telson was there.”
“The girl? She a Guardian?”
“No, I think she was just curious.”
“Uh-huh.” He gnaws on his jerky. Ahead, the mountains are cloaked, the air filled with a fine solution of wood smoke and road dust. The fire we’re headed to is extinguished, but others are still burning farther north and to the west. The air smells like burning bark and grass.
“How’d they react to the bombing?”
“The Guardians? They’re milking it.”
Carl nods as if he expected this, gazes out the window. I’m thinking about Murtow’s little group — locals concerned about their backyard; maybe a few from the city. Watchers and whistle-blowers, they struck me as mostly harmless. Except for one.
“Carl, what do you know about a guy named Reggie?”
“Reggie Barnes?”
“I didn’t catch his last name. Young guy, long brown hair, sorta chunky.”
“Yeah — that’d be Reggie Barnes. He worked for us a few years ago, as a warehouseman. Not our best warehouseman; he had a little problem with inventory. We’re flying a patrol one day and pass what looks like a small man-up camp — Forest Service tents. When we stop, these guys come out, drinking beer, just pissed.
They’ve got Forest Service lanterns, chainsaws, campstoves. They’re
Reggie’s buddies. Said he lent the stuff to them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Reggie had a different concept of lending. We had to let him go.”
We grind uphill on a gravel road. Empty, the truck is lugging, everything vibrating. Dust rises in sheets from the floor, the door panels, behind the seat. I open the window to let this airborne portion of the road return home but it doesn’t much help, just sucks in wood smoke. The abrasive mix doesn’t seem to bother Carl, who lights a cigarette.
“How can you do that?”
He blows a smoke ring. “Do what?”
“Smoke when you’re engulfed in smoke.”
“This smoke is better,” he says. “It has nicotine.”
I downshift, turn onto a narrow logging road. The gear from the fire camp we’re demobilizing will be flown to the road by helicopter. I park, call the fire boss, confirm that we’re ready. As usual, they’re behind schedule and we’ll have to wait.
Carl pulls out a paperback — one of those wilderness adventure, turn-of-the-fur trade books. The character on the cover looks a little like Carl with his buckskin jacket — all he needs is an Indian princess to rescue. I look around, wishing I too had brought something to read, end up reading the Forest Service stickers on the dash. Safety First seems to be the main character; they don’t have much of a plot. “Carl, do you think Reggie could have done it?”
Carl looks up. “Done what?” He’s still stuck in the story, riding into the hills.
“The bombings. You think he’s capable of doing something like that?”
“Reggie?” Carl shakes his head. “He’s too lazy.”
I think about this for a minute. “What do you mean?”
“God forbid they actually decide to do something, get their hands dirty.”
“You’re talking about the Guardians?”
“They’re such a bunch of hypocrites,” he says, closing his book and sitting up. “We’re supposed to be the ones protecting the environment — us, the Forest Service — and they hate us. They think we’re only here to help the sawmills rape the land. At one time we were respected. It was a badge of honour to be a ranger. Now, we’re just bureaucrats, civil servants. We’ve lost our credibility. That’s why these sorts of groups are springing up.”
“And you think they should be doing something? Getting they’re hands dirty?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Carl says. “They’ll just never be effective.”
“Like the Forest Service?”
“Like the Forest Service should be.”
Carl sounds like one of those old time rangers, complaining about how soft the Service has become. In their day, they rode horses, slept under the stars. His green underwear is too tight. But he does have a point — we used to get out a lot more when I first was a ranger.
“We have to get back to our roots,” he says. “Our core business —”
“You run next fall, I’ll vote for you.”
Finally, I hear a deep throb and the dark shape of a helicopter materializes in the smoke, a net full of gear hanging from a long line. Carl’s campaigning is over for the time being. The net is dropped by the truck and the helicopter augers back to the camp. We hump tents and melons of dirty hose into the truck, fold the net to exchange for the next full one. I’m thankful for the work; there’s something soothing about manual labour, so thoughtless and fully absorbing. By the time the camp is out and the truck is loaded we’re both content to rattle back to town, thinking only of air conditioning and ice cream. Carl finds a station on the old am truck radio and we listen to Willie Nelson as the road ahead ripples in the heat and warm air flows in the open windows.
At the edge of town, pickup trucks with horse trailers line the side of the highway like a redneck protest, clog service roads. There’s horseshit all over the pavement and mainstreet is barricaded by a police car. Looks like the James Gang is in town, robbing the local Treasury Branch, and they’re getting a posse together. Carl gears down, the old stake sides creaking against three tons of shifting fire gear.
“Rodeo week,” Carl says. “They’re getting ready for the kickoff parade.”
“We’re pretty much done right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”
I haven’t seen a parade since I was a kid. “Let’s go watch.”
We park the truck in the Forest Service compound, slip off our coveralls, walk the few blocks to the parade route. Mainstreet is barricaded, motorhomes and big trucks being rerouted at the four-way stop, drivers gawking as they crawl through the intersection. The street is lined with spectators, forming a gauntlet of lawn chairs; blue porta-potties interspersed like guard booths. Pickup trucks are backed to the sidewalk; families crowd on tailgates. Teenagers lob water balloons and kids squat, intent and restless, ready to dash for candy. There are more people here than the proclaimed population of the town.
I look around, hoping to see Telson.
“Who are you looking for?” asks Carl.
“Nobody. Just looking.”
It occurs to me that at least half the people are wearing the same type of blue jacket. I read the logo on the jacket of a man standing next to me. Curtain River Forest Products. The guy’s got a company watch and ball cap too. No doubt about this being a company town.
We sit, wait for the action. The sidewalk is uncomfortably hot, but I’m too tired to stand.
I hear the parade before I see it.
First come the town fire truck and ambulance, weaving from curb to curb, horns blaring loud enough to blow off a loose toupee. Children cover their ears and scream. Next march the Legion veterans, no doubt selected for this position because they can’t hear the fire truck, followed by the rodeo queen in a gleaming red four-wheel-drive. Candy is thrown and kids scamper into the street. Water-balloon-throwing teenagers are blasted by the firemen and retreat. The local Member of Parliament sweats in a new suburban, the window down. It’s going be a long parade — every business or charitable organization within a hundred miles seems to have a float.
Curtain River Forest Products has three entries. One is fairly elaborate — a papier maché version of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, framed between lifts of lumber. Little kids with oversized hardhats dispense candy from a large barrel. A banner proclaims Logging Helps Communities Grow and Prosper. The other two entries are semis pulling highboys loaded with lumber that look like they’re trying to sneak through instead of using the detour.
