Damnation Spring

by Ash Davidson

  She searched his eyes for a glint of the old anger. I’m never going back there. But it was gone. His uncle had been arrested dozens of times for gillnetting on the river, back when it was banned. But the Yurok had taken their case all the way to the Supreme Court and won. She ’d seen his uncle in the paper when the decision finally came down a few years back: Yuroks had fished the river since time began, and they had the right to keep fishing, forty-five miles in from the ocean, plus up the creeks a mile on either side—the whole reservation—no matter what the state said. Colleen had had the map of it drilled into her head by every pissed-off weekend fisherman who sat down next to them at a Sanderson fish fry, hands tied behind his back by the state of California while Yuroks hauled out salmon the size of dogs. Rich seemed to think it was fair, but now you saw bumper stickers in town: SAVE A FISH, CAN AN INDIAN.

  “How long have you been back?” she asked.

  “A couple months,” Daniel admitted. “I’m glad I ran into you. Actually, I wanted to ask—” He looked a little sheepish. “I probably should have asked you a long time ago—”

  “Mrs. Gundersen?” Melody Larson came up the aisle, her two-year-old on her hip. “Guess what?” She grabbed Colleen’s free hand and pressed it to the taut skin of her belly, low down, until Colleen felt the baby’s head. “Feel him?” She grinned. She was only twenty-three, but there were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. “It worked. Those exercises.” She turned to Daniel. “She made my baby do a somersault,” she explained. “Saved me from a C-section.”

  Colleen felt her face color.

  “She delivered this one in four hours.” Melody Larson bounced the girl in her arms. “I’m going to have this guy in three.”

  “I’ll come by again on Wednesday,” Colleen promised, anxious for her to leave.

  “It’s a date,” Melody Larson said, and bustled down the aisle, leaving them alone.

  “How long have you been a midwife?” Daniel asked, a word she never used herself.

  “I’m not. I’m not trained or anything. I just kind of—you know. You do it once and word gets around. You know how this town is.”

  “I thought blood made you sick,” he teased, and suddenly she was back at the movie theater in Arcata.

  She blushed deeper. “I learned how not to let it.”

  He pushed air out his nose. “Good memory.” His eyes dropped into her basket, then met hers with a flicker of playfulness too intimate for the bleached light of the aisle. “You know those pretzels taste like nothing, right?” He had a way of asking questions that made her feel both important—his attention so entirely on her—and stupid.

  “They don’t taste like nothing,” she said. “They taste like cardboard.” He laughed. A rush of warmth in her abdomen, the pleasure of making him laugh. “My husband likes them,” she added.

  “Ah.” Daniel nodded. She was a married woman. Her pretzels were none of his business.

  “Mama?” Chub stood at the end of the aisle, watching them, Matchbox car in hand.

  She stepped back. Daniel cleared his throat.

  “Did you pick one?” she asked Chub. “Let’s see.” She held out her hand to accept the baby-blue pickup, Rich’s Ford in miniature, and her purse slid off her shoulder, something skittering across the floor.

  Daniel retrieved the fallen earring: a garnet teardrop set in gold. Rich had given them to her in the hospital, as if the new truck already waiting outside weren’t enough. All summer they’d been tucked into the side pocket of her purse, where she wouldn’t have to look at them.

  “Pretty,” Daniel said, then glanced at her ears. “You should get them pierced.”

  She held out her hand and he dropped it in.

  “Thank you.” She took Chub by the hand. “Good luck with your research.”

  Daniel gave his old salute. Silly now, to think how it had once made her heart flutter.

  “Who was that?” Chub asked as she unloaded her items at the register.

  “Just a boy I went to school with,” Colleen said, aware that Daniel was still behind them somewhere. She hoped the cashier hadn’t overheard them talking. Gossip traveled quicker than water, ran through the creeks, out people’s faucets into their coffee mugs. Colleen had to start over twice, counting change into the woman’s waiting hand.

  In the parking lot, she dug in the side pocket of her purse for her keys and felt the sharp backs of the earrings. She’d been meaning to take them to the jeweler to have them changed to clip-ons, but now she drove down to the town square instead. Chub played with his new pickup while the woman dabbed Colleen’s ears with rubbing alcohol.

  “These’ll work,” the woman said, examining the garnet studs, then loading them into the piercing gun. Colleen flinched when its cold nose grazed her ear.

  “Fear’s worse than the pain,” the woman said.

  Colleen felt her own power, sitting so still with a weapon so near. How long had it been since she’d done anything on impulse?

  “Does it hurt?” Chub asked when they got back in the truck.

  “No,” she lied.

  Her ears throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She tilted the rearview mirror to peek at them. They were pink and swollen, but Daniel was right: she felt pretty.

  * * *

  Colleen leveled the cup of flour with a knife and dumped it into the bowl. Rich came in the front door, already dusk in the yard.

  “What took you so long?” she called.

  “Stopped off to see Lark.”

  “How is he?”

  “Still kicking.” Rich came into the kitchen. “What are you making?”

  “Lemon loaf. Chub and I ate. Your plate is in the oven.”

  “Let me get washed up.”

  Chub came running down the hall, catapulting himself into Rich’s arms. Rich grunted.

  She rechecked the recipe, though she made it almost every week—lemon was Rich’s favorite. Enid grabbed handfuls of flour, ran the faucet straight into the bowl when the milk ran out, but Colleen did things by the book. She cracked two eggs, pinched her sore ears.

  Rich came in after a few minutes, toweling off his hair as she stood mashing the lemon into the hand-juicer. He pulled her hair back and kissed her there, in the old spot behind her ear. She tensed, waiting for him to notice the earrings, but he was already opening the oven door.

  “How was your day?” he asked, pulling out his plate.

  “Fine.” Acid juice marbled the batter. “We went down to Arcata. I got you more vitamin E.”

  He tucked in. She greased a pan, turned the oven up. Rich brought his empty plate to the sink. She gathered up the mixing bowl, the dirty whisk and measuring cups, and bumped him once with her hip. He shook water off his hands.

  She finished the dishes, got Chub ready for bed, turned on his rocket night-light.

  “Good night, cookie-boy.” She pressed her thumbs into his dimples. “Good night, my sweet Grahamcracker.” Chub yawned and snuggled in, rubbing the blanket’s satin edge under his nose.

  When she came out, Rich was on the couch, thumbing through a lumber catalog.

  “You didn’t notice anything different about me?” she hinted.

  “What?” Rich asked.

  She straddled his lap, the couch’s old springs complaining. He leaned back to get a better look at her. It took him a moment.

  “They hurt?” he asked, frowning.

  She nodded. She wanted to tell him about Daniel. How he’d recognized her, after all these years. The first boy she’d ever kissed. The only one, not counting Rich. She waited for him to tell her she looked pretty.

  “How’d a nice girl like you end up in a place like this?” Rich asked, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her heart skipped. Rich groaned, as if the weight of her bothered his back. “I’m beat.” He yawned and patted her thigh, the way he patted Scout to let him know that was the end of the ear rub.

  She’d shed the plumpness of pregnancy, but it had left behind cellulite dimpling the backs
of her thighs, a stubborn handful of loose flesh at her belly. It brought tears to her eyes when she pinched it, this sad little roll of fat and skin, and no living baby to show for it. Maybe it was this new softness in her body that had made Rich start coming home late—he got off at five thirty, he should have been home by six—turning his back on her in bed, too tired to make love. He waited for her to swing her leg off and stood.

  “Are you not attracted to me anymore?” she asked, Rich already halfway down the hall.

  “Am I what?” he asked, tilting his head, waiting for her to repeat it.

  His hearing was going, especially in that right ear, his saw ear, thirty-five years in the woods slowly lowering the volume knob on the world around him. She felt a wash of shame.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  August 14 RICH

  “Don’t be long,” Colleen warned Rich as he ducked out the kitchen door after Chub. “I’m making pancakes.”

  The baby had been due today. She’d kept herself busy all morning, hadn’t mentioned it. He’d almost wondered if she’d forgotten, but now he heard the quiet plea in her voice. Don’t leave me alone here, Rich.

  “We’ll be right back,” he promised.

  Rich let Scout off his chain and up the hill they went, Chub riding piggyback, spurring him with his heels, giant sword ferns swishing in their wake.

  “What creek is this?” Rich asked, splashing through the first crossing.

  “Little Lost.”

  “You’re sure it’s not A Lot Lost?” Rich teased.

  They crested the no-name ridges, then headed up 24-7 Ridge, steep as climbing stairs.

  “There she is,” Rich said as the big tree came into view. His heart surged. He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a secret. One minute he wanted to shout it at the top of his lungs, the next he was guarding it like a damn china egg. The 24-7. All his life she’d sat on a shelf in his mind like a trophy. Now she was his, and nobody knew it yet.

  Rich let Chub slide down and sat back against the tree’s rough bark. Scout threw himself to the ground, panting. Chub dragged an arm along the 24-7’s girth, circled her, came around the other side, and climbed into Rich’s lap.

  “How do you cut a tree?” Chub asked.

  “It takes a whole crew,” Rich said, thumping a stab of heartburn—equal parts hope and worry—loose with his fist.

  “But how?” Chub banged his head back against Rich’s chest and looked up.

  “I’ll show you, when the time comes,” Rich said. “You know your great-great-granddad Gundersen was a sailor before he was a tree-topper? They sent a bunch of sailors into the woods, so what do you think they did? They used the same pulleys they used to load cargo onto ships, and a high-climber to hang them. That’s where high-lead logging came from. Your great-great-granddad taught your great-granddad to high-climb, and your great-granddad taught your granddad—my dad.”

  “And he taught you,” Chub finished.

  “Lark taught me.”

  “What about me?” Chub asked.

  “What about you?” Rich tickled him.

  “Stop!” Chub shrieked, grabbing his hands.

  They’d cut Damnation Grove, upper and lower, the last of Sanderson’s major old-growth holdings. Once that was out of the way, Rich would harvest the big pumpkins off the 24-7. The real timber would be gone by the time Chub was old enough to lift a chainsaw. Rich didn’t like the idea of Chub logging anyhow. Too many ways to die. Chub’s life would be different, with the money from the 24-7. Rich would be the last Gundersen to work in the woods.

  “Let’s go, Grahamcracker. Pancakes are getting cold.” Rich lifted Chub by the armpits, setting him upright. “Which way home?”

  Chub pointed.

  “Good. Lead the way.”

  Scout ran ahead. Chub hummed, the same tune Colleen had been carrying on her breath all morning. Sounded familiar.

  “What song is that?” Rich asked.

  Chub shrugged and kept going.

  It wasn’t until they were on their way down the hill, almost to the backyard, that Rich recalled it.

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

  Colleen used to sing it to comfort Chub as a newborn. Rich hooked Scout’s collar to his chain.

  “Who’s a good boy?” Chub asked, scratching Scout’s ticklish spot. Scout flopped over, foot thumping in surrender.

  At the kitchen door, Rich stopped, hand on the knob, watching Colleen through the glass. Her ears were still pink. He couldn’t help but feel responsible: another hurt he’d caused. After they’d taken the baby away and told Colleen to rest, he’d walked, numb, along the hallways until he stood staring at the earrings in the window of the hospital gift shop.

  I guess I’ll get my ears pierced, she’d said when she opened the gray velvet box.

  He’d seen her wear earrings, never occurred to him to turn one over. Earring’s an earring.

  Now he watched her pour batter into the pan. Seven hundred and twenty acres. Don’t tell her. Not yet. Wait. Time it right. He inhaled, turned the knob, and pushed in.

  “Smells good,” he said.

  She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, eyes red-rimmed. He’d interrupted her humming again.

  COLLEEN

  From a distance, the crowd ahead looked like it was celebrating, gathered at the Mill Road turnoff, blocking the way to the community center. Rich tapped the pocket of his pearl-snap shirt, the shirt she ironed before every fish fry, to reassure himself his toothpicks were in it. His truck window was cracked for air, even in the rain. Through the half-inch gap came chanting.

  “What is it?” Chub asked from the backseat.

  Rich slowed to a stop, his turn signal ticking, windshield wipers clearing the view of the protesters, arms linked, four deep across the road: a bearded man in a tie-dyed bandana, a woman in an old surplus army jacket. Colleen flushed, realizing she was scanning the crowd for Daniel. All day, every time she’d thought of the baby, she’d forced her mind down a chute toward him instead.

  They were close enough to read the signs: A painted planet Earth: LOVE YOUR MOTHER. Trees: LUNGS OF THE PLANET. A lone redwood: I WAS HERE BEFORE COLUMBUS.

  “Stop sacrificing virgins!” they chanted. “Save Damnation Grove!”

  Colleen clucked her tongue. “When are they going to give up?”

  “What are they doing?” Chub asked from the backseat.

  “Nothing,” she and Rich answered together.

  Chub had fussed when she’d dressed him in his yellow button-up shirt, complained the cuffs felt tight, but now he was leaning forward, straining against his seat belt. A truck pulled up behind them and honked. Rich checked the rearview.

  “Don’t get between Don and a free dinner,” Rich said.

  “Are they going to move?” Colleen whispered.

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Rich popped the clutch and the truck rolled toward the crowd.

  “Rich—”

  The protesters dropped their arms and parted, chanting louder. Colleen felt the urge to slide down in her seat.

  * * *

  Don Porter stood in the gravel lot with his thumbs hooked through his suspenders, watching the crowd block another truck.

  “Remember when those tree huggers from the League used to come around offering to buy up timber to keep us from logging it?” he asked Rich when they got out. “ ‘Save the Redwoods.’ Those were the days. These jokers don’t want to buy shit. They just want to shut us down.”

  “Somebody better call Harvey,” Gail Porter said.

  “What do they want to do with it anyway?” Colleen asked.

  “Thirteen hundred acres of virgin redwood?” Don scoffed. “Not a damn thing. They had their way, the whole coast would be one big tree museum. They care more about trees than people.”

  Chub scampered toward the building, eager to see his cousins. A truck laid on its horn, blaring through the chanting.

  Stop sacrificing virgins
! Save Damnation Grove!

  “You coming?” Rich asked Colleen, holding open the rec-room door.

  Inside, cafeteria tables were arranged in rows, a line already snaking around the buffet.

  “There you are,” Marsha said as they signed in at the registration table. “Did you see those clowns out front?” Marsha rolled her eyes, tore three raffle tickets off the wheel, and handed them to Colleen. Marsha still worked in the mill’s front office. She sent the crosswords from Merle’s newspapers home with Rich for her on paydays, though Colleen had quit working before Chub was born.

  Colleen watched Chub lead Rich across the room to where Enid, Eugene, and the kids took up a whole table. I should be in labor right now. I should be flat on my back in a hospital bed. No. Think of something else. She searched for a distraction—Daniel in the drugstore, going on about his research, the warmth in his eyes, the hint of possibility. More of his words came back to her.

  People think it’s just about trees, or it’s just about fish. By the time they realize it’s about them, it’s too late, you know?

  “We’ll see who wins this thing,” Marsha said.

  Colleen looked at her, then down at the three blue paper tickets in her own hand.

  August 15 RICH

  They stood on the road at the base of upper Damnation Grove while Don laid out the day’s work and introduced the new guys.

  “Everybody, you know Owen.”

  Merle’s cousin’s son from up in Chehalis. The kid had Merle’s bull head and bulky shoulders, a top-heavy torso on bowed chicken legs: one hell of a resemblance. There’d been talk. But if the boy really was Merle’s, he wouldn’t have sent him to work in the woods, not if he cared two shits about him.

  “Owen’s going to run Cat for us,” Don said.

  The Sanderson kid puffed up his chest, cheek bruised from brawling with last night’s protesters.

  “And this here is Quentin Feeley, Tom’s son.” Don nodded at the tall, skinny Yurok kid. “Quentin’ll be setting chokers. Rich, show him around, will you?”