Look at Flower

by Robert Dunn

  About fifteen minutes later a big truck turns a corner, and when Run sees it, he starts laughing, just like that. He’s holding his chest, guffawing up and down. I’m wondering what’s so funny but figure it must just be letting all the tensions go.

  Then the truck, with a squeal of tires, swings to a stop right in front of us, and this big guy in a plaid shirt wide as a blanket and with a long black beard that flows down from his chin like a waterfall comes dashing up to us, picking up little Run and swinging him around and around.

  “Wow, Mike, it’s you,” Run says, his voice a little strangled by the near choke hold this guy has him in.

  “Run, my man!” Mike finally drops Run and holds out his hand; Run gives it a loud, firm slap that resounds on the wide country street. Then he turns to me.

  “And who’s this little daisy?”

  “I’m Flower,” I say, sticking out my hand.

  This Mike guy tilts up the side of his head. “You’re not funnin’ with me, are you?” A look to Run.

  “No, that’s her name,” Run tells him. “Least the only one I know.”

  I smile, and Mike says, “Well, she’s sure pretty as a daisy!” His shirt’s rolled up his wide arms, and he throws a big hairy elbow at Run. “Cutest thing Mike’s seen in a dog’s age.”

  Run gives him what I hope is a smile of agreement, and then we all climb into the truck, me in the middle. Mike takes up about half the wide seat, which presses me over to Run. His arm’s a little cramped, and he lifts it and settles it over my shoulders. I feel warm inside, and let myself fall against him just a teensy bit, enough to feel his black hair spike my cheek.

  As we leave the town, Run says, “Big Mike’s the head of the Lumberjack Chorale.”

  “The Lumberjack Chor—”

  “Yeah, a singing chorus of lumberjacks. You’ve never heard of ’em?”

  “Can’t say that I—”

  “They were in Life magazine. Years back now, right, Mike?”

  “A whole three pages, wrapped around a Chrysler ad. Had my mug right up there big as day.”

  “Really, what—” I give my head a shake. “Now you guys are funnin’ me, right?”

  “Not for a second, sugar. Some folk people put a record out on us back in the ’50s. Real collector’s piece I hear.”

  “But that’s it—you guys sing—”

  “While we cut lumber.” Mike shrugs, and I can feel air move in the cab. “And all the rest of the time, too.”

  “It’s the coolest place I’ve ever been,” Run says. “You’ll see. I found them when I was running the rails as a kid. My dad had their album, and I just—”

  “He’s a hard worker, this boy,” Mike says. “And a fine singer. You ever heard him hit a tune?”

  I shake my head.

  “I think he’d make a great member of the Chorale, if I could get him on the right side of the law.” Mike laughs, but Run doesn’t; he blanches. We’ve been really careful not to talk about what happened back there in Oregon—even between the two of us. “Hit a nerve, eh, son?” Mike reaches past me to punch Run on the shoulder. “What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing much,” Run says. And we both hope that that’s that.

  - - - - -

  Look at Flower, I’m standing in my wispy, swirling skirt on the backs of two big guys who are bent over at the waist, bearing me up the steps into the lumberjack dining hall, as the wood sign has it—everything here is hand-hacked wood, you know—while Big Mike takes photos. Seems like I’m the only young chick these guys have seen in a while (except for the biweekly bus that comes up the hill with what Run calls “professional ladies”), and I’m being treated like a goddess, carried everywhere, applauded as I go by. It’s pretty dizzying. I think all this tribute is going to Flower’s head.

  We’re inside the dining hall, and my two “horses” carry me up to a raised platform with a rough-hewn wooden table on it. They lift me up on it, and when I get my balance, I’m looking out at a sea of red-plaid-shirted lumberjacks, aligned along more wooden tables.

  “Speech!” Big Mike calls out. He’s at the closest-in table, next to Run and an empty space I guess is mine. “Speech, speech, speech!” the rest of the room cries.

  I’m blushing. Deep, to the bottom of my skin. “Um, I—I don’t know what to say,” I start off in a wavering voice.

  “Louder.”

  “Um,” I say—well, what can I say? “Here’s to the wonderful singing lumberjacks!” And I raise my hand high as if I’m making a toast.

  They like their brew, the lumberjacks do. Their grub, as they keep calling it, too. On each table are platters of two-inch steaks (after I take my seat, Run nudges me, points to one, and says, “Buffalo”), as well as plates heaped with mashed potatoes, carrots and peas, crumbly white biscuits, and bowls of gravy—lumberjacks put thick mud-brown gravy over everything. The beer comes in huge golden mugs, and as soon as one of the lumberjacks nearly empties his, one of the servers—young guys in red bandannas, who look a little like pirates—fills it up.

  I keep thinking of all of us back on the commune eating brown rice and root vegetables, but when in Rome, they say, and I start eating like I haven’t eaten anything in weeks. I even take a small piece of buffalo and find I like it better than beef, so I’m all over it till gravy dribbles down my chin.

  Then the singing starts. Who knew there were so many lumberjack songs! Saw, Saw, Saw that Wood; I’m Topping Off Your Tree; Look, It’s Risin’ Like a Pole; It’s a Fir, Fir Way to the Hills; On Top of Old Baldy; and my favorite, Timber! Timber!, where at each chorus every man in the room bangs his mug against the tabletop and cries, “Timber!” at the top of his lungs.

  All the lumberjacks have deep, resonant voices, and they blend amazingly. And the songs just go and go. Not just lumberjack songs but cowboy songs, sea chanteys, chain gang songs from the South, I guess, as well as old folk songs—weirdly, some I’ve heard the Grateful Dead play in Golden Gate Park, including Peggy-O and I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. We’re all singing, drinking, pounding our mugs, filling the dining hall up with sound and craziness.

  I’m starting to wonder how the lumberjacks get enough sleep to cut down trees when it’s midnight and like that all the singing stops, the men clap each other heartily on their backs and all go off to bed.

  Big Mike’s given Run and me one of three guest cabins, and it’s down a dark path. I’m following Run, and he’s stumbling, and I’m stumbling after him. We’re both giggling at every crack of a stepped-on branch. Run climbs the steps to our cabin and opens the door. It’s pitch black in there. I wait at the stoop as he goes in. He’s nothing but a shadow after a second, and then it’s so dark I can’t see him at all. “Run,” I say tentatively.

  “I can’t find the light.”

  “Is there a light?”

  “Of course there’s a light.” I hear him bump into something, clunk. “Shit!” he says. Then: “There’s gotta be a light.”

  “You tried right here by the door?”

  “Of course I did—ow!” Another thunk. “Damn!”

  “Maybe I can—” I start to say, but then my hands fly up to my face and I’m shielding my eyes from a blinding bare bulb in the center of the room.

  When I can see clearly, I notice the knotty pine walls—natch—and floor and beams across the ceiling, and in the center of the room one big double bed.

  Run’s looking at it, too.

  And even though I’ve drunk some beer, and Run drank twice as much as me—and we were both little kids compared with Big Mike—I’m standing there thinking, Oh, my God. There’s only one bed. And . . . you’re still a virgin, Cynda. What’re you gonna do—

  “It’s not my idea,” Run says.

  That hits me all wrong. Like that, there are words in my mouth: “Like why not?” Oh, no, I’m blushing.

  “Um, I don’t want to—I mean, I—”

  “You don’t want to what?” I hear come out of me. What am I saying?

 
“Well, be, um, presumptuous.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, it means, you know—” He blushes. “I really care about you.”

  He keeps looking at me funny, like he’s genuinely embarrassed and confused, but also like he digs the idea of the one bed—at least I’m starting to hope he does.

  “I’m a . . . a virgin,” I say, and that startles me so much my hand flies to my mouth.

  “A—”

  “Ohmygod, did I say that?”

  “Um, Flower—”

  I take a couple steps toward him. “You know, Run, my real name is Cynda—short for Lucinda.”

  “Cynda,” he says, trying it out.

  “And we don’t have to sleep together, you know. But, well, I think I’d like to. . . .”

  “You’re—”

  Now I’m right up next to him. We’re both only a couple feet from the bed. It’s high up on a frame, so high that you couldn’t get into it without jumping up using your hands. “Nobody’s ever been so good to me.” I touch his arm. “You know.”

  “And you’re sure you—”

  “Maybe it’s all the singing—the Lumberjack Chorale. I can’t—I don’t remember ever feeling so . . . good.”

  “But I don’t want to—”

  “You don’t want to . . . what?”

  “No, I mean—didn’t we just have this conversation?”

  I press my leg against his. Involuntarily, he drops his hands and touches my thighs. His hands are cool through the fine fabric of my thin skirt.

  “And how did it end?” I say.

  “What?”

  “The conversation we just had.” I’m smiling, my mouth open just a little, a cool night breeze on my teeth.

  “Oh, there are a lot of ways.” He’s winking at me now. “Maybe like this?”

  He reaches over and kisses me, and I realize at that moment I’ve thought of his kiss a thousand times, when I was changing his bandages, even when I first laid eyes on him, though I guess I never acknowledged it to myself. When it comes, his kiss is cool and fresh, weirdly minty, though we’ve done nothing for hours but eat lumberjack grub and drink lumberjack brew. His lips are soft; I think I worried they wouldn’t be. And I . . . I just melt into him.

  Later he’s holding me gently, my head on his shoulder, my shoulder crooked under his arm, and he says softly, “Not bad for a virgin.”

  He laughs lightly, but I don’t. I’m not sure what I’m feeling. The whole thing’s been more disarming than I anticipated. I felt overcome with all these sensations, rippling like electricity through my body—much more powerful than when I’ve touched myself—but also in a weird way a little outside myself, too, watching it all transpire. Run was passionate and committed; always that. He was careful and kind—always that, too. His almond eyes bright and endearing.

  At one point he shot straight up from me, a furious wince on his face, a strangled cry in his throat. I froze tight, finally said, “What’s wrong?”

  “My arm. Damn. I guess I twisted it somehow.”

  “Oh, you poor darling.” I touched his skin carefully. “Are you all right?”

  He gave me this look of pain and desire and so much else, and then, gritting his teeth, he lowered himself back down on me, and back in.

  Oh, my poor baby! I think now. And I let it go, the dark-beating confusion, the abrupt newness of it all. I’m simply swallowed by a lovely good feeling for Run. I burrow closer into his arms and we both fall asleep.

  It’s breakfast, the lumberjacks are singing up a storm. “Timber! Timber!” rolls out across the dining hall. Run has gotten me up at an ungodly hour, only the faintest shaft of dawn light through the yellow shade, and when we get to the dining hall, the lumberjacks are just about to head off to work. They’re all wearing their red-plaid shirts. It’s so darling!

  Big Mike hangs on in the dining hall.

  “So what’re you two gonna do?”

  We’re sitting before our plates heaped with golden-brown pancakes drooled with sticky syrup. “We don’t have any real plans,” Run says between bites.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Big Mike says.

  Run and I shrug. “Hey.”

  He looks at Run closely, then says, “Is there anything going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, back there.” He waves a hand backward. “Any reason you feel you have to be here?”

  How much can Big Mike know? What does he know about Run’s past? What was Run’s past—even I don’t know much about him before we hooked up in Davis.

  “Nothing,” Run says. “Just wanted to see you guys again.”

  Big Mike waits a long moment, then says, “Well, you’re welcome here, you know.” He gives a quick nod. “But you know the rules, Run.”

  Another long pause, then Run says, “Yeah, I do.”

  “I’ll let you slack today, you and your friend Flower here. But tomorrow—”

  Run nods, and with a genial shrug Big Mike gets up, picks up his ax from the front of the dining room, and heads out.

  “Tomorrow what?” I say.

  “Oh, it’s the rules. We’re here, we gotta work.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Like cut down trees?”

  “I will, yeah. At least best as I can do with my arm.” He pats the shoulder that took the bullet. “They’ll probably find you some kind of KP to do.”

  “How long do you think we want to stay?” I ask.

  Run takes a while to answer. “Well, we’re safe here, Little Princess—that’s a good thing. Don’t have to worry about them telling anyone about us.” A small shrug. “Let’s see.”

  So look at Flower, she’s a singing lumberjack, too. Well, a singing potato peeler—they eat a lot of spuds up here in Montana. I’m in with Dorothy, Spanky, and Eve, all much older women with arms thick as bowling pins and legs sturdy as stone. We got us a lot of hungry lumberjacks to feed.

  At night I cuddle up with Run. We’re getting good at the sex thing. I’m starting to like it, if not the pounding and thrusting part, the slow up-glide to him entering me and the way his body splays wide open on top of me when he’s finished. I don’t know if I’ve gone all the way to bliss myself, but I do get a grown-up sort of feeling when Run just explodes on top of me.

  It’s a funny thing, this sex deal. Back in San Francisco, where everybody was balling all the time—or saying they were—I felt pretty out of it ’cuz I wasn’t just jumping any guy coming by. I mean, free love. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but it didn’t—doesn’t—feel free to me. I see love, of course, as love, but I see this sex thing as awfully complicated, the way you’re letting some guy inside you, I mean, he could do anything, you have to really trust him—and thank God, I trust Run with my life—but then you keep thinking, He wants something; and what do I want? And what deals are we coming up with to trade all this wanting? And what are we thinking and not saying; and saying but not thinking? What bargains do we strike even as we coo the most romantic words? You know, what is it we truly want when we say to each other, “I want you?”

  That is, how can something so complicated and tricky as love and sex be free?

  Work, on the other hand—my thumb callused from the peeler, my fingertips scarred from the knives—is nothing if not clear. You give up something, the work, and you get something, the grub—and the singing, of course. And I find I’m digging the labor way more than chores back home. I mean, it’s not interesting, really, and a lot of the time I hate it, but there’s also something complete and finished with it. That is, when we’re done, I’m too tired to think, only have enough energy to eat, then bundle with Run in our bed and fall asleep; only to do it all over again tomorrow. Am I a little bored? I don’t have time to be, I tell myself, but the truth is, yeah, I am, and one of the great things about Run is that, even with the joy of his tired muscles and the way his high voice harmonizes so well on Timber! Timber!, he’s getting bored, too. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in his tou
ch.

  Then it’s Ladies’ Day! The whole camp is abuzz. The lumberjacks are up at dawn, taking long baths in the nearby stream, spraying themselves with cologne, putting on fresh-pressed (by me and the other worker women) checked flannel shirts. The lumberjacks are pumped! Oddly, Run is, too, up at 5:30 and out there singing and bathing with all the other guys. When he blows a cloud of cologne (Canoe) around him, I got to say, I’m a little surprised.

  After breakfast this yellow school bus putts up the hill, the brakes whoosh, the door flips back, and out comes this parade of . . . ladies. What else can you call ’em? They’re wearing tight skirts and blouses in gay Easter colors, stockings with seams, pearl necklaces, and butterfly brooches; and they all have their hair back in buns. It’s like they could be holding steno pads or something.

  “What’s this?” I say to Run, who’s standing near me, but also next to the line of lumberjacks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They look like temps on their way to an office.”

  Run laughs. “Think about it,” he says. “If you’re a lumberjack, what’s the most exotic woman you can imagine?”

  “What, a court reporter?”

  “You gotta say, in context they’re pretty unusual.”

  I wrinkle my brow. “But they all look like Audrey Hepburn.” I remember her from drive-in movies we went to when things were still good around our house.

  “A well-known lumberjack dream girl.” Run is beaming as the women climb down from the bus. They’re walking kind of sexy, showing some leg under their tight skirts; then, one by one, they take off their strings of pearls and swing them burlesque-style around their little fingers.

  Well, secretary look-alikes or not, the party’s started. The girls walk past the line of lumberjacks twice, then on the third trip, lumberjacks reach out and grab a hand and pull the girl toward them; they immediately buss it up in huge, flamboyant kisses. Then they disappear.

  Pretty soon nobody’s left but me, Run, one of the kitchen ladies (with a sour look on her face), and one extra secretary chick, with pitch-black hair and wearing a strawberry-colored suit.