Clearcut

by Nina Shengold

  Reed looked to the rear of the bus, where a door said EMERGENCY EXIT. Earley’s extra-large futon was heaped with big pillows and bordered by Indian bedspreads strung from the ceiling with clothesline. The copper and cinnamon paisleys gave it a seraglio look, accented by a Playboy centerfold taped to a milk crate of books and tapes. There was a hurricane lamp on a wire spool alongside the bed, with a clamshell ashtray, some incense, a jar of hawk feathers. The rest of the room was a jumble of clothes, boots and beer bottles, landsliding down from plank shelves to the rug.

  “Do you play?” Reed asked, pointing at something. Earley had to look twice before he realized Reed didn’t mean the pouty brunette weighing her tits in both hands, but the scuffed guitar in the corner.

  “Not me. It belongs to this girl I was seeing a couple of months ago, her teenage son. He brought it out here one night, played some ‘Kum Ba Yah’ shit till we fell asleep.”

  Reed picked up the guitar, idly tuning the strings. Then he sat on the edge of the futon and started to play, notes cascading in ripples and runs as his fingers flew over the fretboard. He stopped just as suddenly, frowning at something he’d done. He set down the guitar and looked over at Earley. “It’s not my main instrument.”

  “Shit, man, what is?”

  “Mandolin. Dobro. I fiddle a bit.” Reed stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Earley knew when a subject was closed. “You cook at all, Reed?”

  “I can open a can.”

  Earley shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of cans.”

  “I was kidding,” Reed said. “I can cook.”

  “Good, it’s all yours. Wanna fix dinner?”

  Reed looked a bit startled. “I guess. Sure.” He set off for the kitchen.

  “No rush,” Earley said. “I’m still toting six pounds of beans in my guts from that treeplanter stew. Go hang up your stuff or whatever. It’s too late to work today.”

  “Show me,” said Reed.

  “Show you what?”

  “What we’re going to be doing.”

  Earley wasn’t sure what to make of Reed’s eagerness. From his standpoint, the kid was just begging to be abused. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Gotta start a fire in here anyway. Might as well burn up some cedar.” And find out if you’ve got the stones for the job, he thought. Your Visa card isn’t worth shit in the clearcut.

  He grabbed hold of the joystick that opened the bus’s pneumatic door. Reed followed him back out and paused on the steps. “Where’s the toilet?” he asked.

  “You’re looking at it,” said Earley. “I dug a pit back by those two hemlocks right there. Paper’s in a tin can.”

  Reed nodded and walked off. His stride had a vertical lilt, as if every step he took might be the one that would lift him up into the sky. Earley took out his Drum pouch and rolled a smoke, squinting. He still wasn’t sure why he’d asked Reed to join him. He could have made plans to see Zan on his own, with Reed halfway to Fairbanks and out of the running. He wondered if they’d bring her up here for weekends, if she’d fall for his bus in the woods like her buddy had.

  Earley noticed his mind steering clear of the word “boyfriend” and reminded himself she was sleeping with Reed. He thought of their two bodies sprawled beneath moonlit sheets, and that moment when Zan had reached out for his hand, twining her fingers through his in the darkened motel room, their bodies so close he could feel her breathing. If Reed was enough for her, she wouldn’t have left him to travel up north by herself, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be hitting on Earley.

  “So what do I do?” said Reed.

  Earley turned, startled to see him so close. He dropped his cigarette into the mud, ground it under his heel and led Reed to the chopping block.

  Earley jerked his axe out of the stump with one hand and set a big cedar round down in its place. “We’re cutting up salvage. Some of it’s logs that got left on the ground back when cedar was trash wood, some of it’s stumps. When a logger falls trees all day long, he’s gonna work at a comfortable height for himself. That leaves a few feet of saleable stump for the shake-rats, but we’re always working below the waist. Hope your back’s not too bad.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Now it’s fine,” Earley said. “Tell me about it next week.” His own back had hurt him for years now, a dull ache so constant he’d almost forgotten how he’d feel without it. “I buck up the logs into rounds, and you knock off the bark, cull out the rot-wood and knots and split them into bolts. The cedar mill bevels them down into roof shakes. You ever split wood?”

  “Boy Scouts, summer camp.”

  Earley gave Reed a splitting wedge. “Place it.”

  Reed hefted the five-pound wedge like a shotput and jammed its sharp edge in the cedar. Earley nodded, feeling a slight edge of irritation that Reed had done it correctly. “Right. Go with the grain, never cross it.” He picked up a sledgehammer and brought it down square on the wedge with an effortless one-handed swing, as if he were tapping a nail into plywood. A thick chunk of cedar fell down to the ground.

  “That’s probably simplest to start. Once you get the feel, you might switch to a mallet and froe”—Earley swung a wedge-ended froe down with one hand and the sledgehammer down with the other, snapping another chunk clean off the cedar— “or a splitting maul. Whatever you think you can keep up all day.” He handed the sledgehammer to Reed and stepped back to watch.

  Reed swung it surprisingly clean, unfazed by the eight-pound weight. It took him a few swings to pound the wedge through, but he brought the sledge up in a smooth, fluid arc and his aim was not bad. Eagle Scout, Earley thought to himself, Merit Badge for Camping. But let’s see you do it all day in the wind and sleet.

  Earley watched Reed’s long fingers slide down the battered ash handle. “Be right back,” he said. Reed kept on working. The metal blows rang through the clearing and echoed off a distant rockface.

  Reed had split the whole round and was on to the next by the time Earley found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, tossing a pair of Dean’s grimy suede work gloves onto the chopping block. Reed paused, his face flushed from exertion. “I don’t need those,” he said.

  “Yes you do,” Earley said. “Your hands’ll get blistered right down to the bone, and then we both lose money.” Reed looked at him, wiping a damp strand of hair from his forehead. He put on the gloves and went back to work. Earley watched his thin shoulders rise as he lifted the hammer and crashed it back down. You’ll do fine, he thought, wondering why he felt so grudging about it. You’ll work out just fine.

  SIX

  Earley got up first, chunked wood in the stove and made coffee. Reed had left the coffee tin on the wrong shelf, and the basin was still full of dishes from last night’s supper. He frowned and thought, no more free ride. He went in to wake Reed. They ate quickly and got in the truck.

  It was barely dawn and the rain needled down in a fine, sleety mist. The high peaks were veiled. Earley squinted, but couldn’t make out any sort of horizon. The silhouettes of fir trees loomed out of swirling clouds. Earley drove with his coffee mug in one hand, shifting gears on the bone-jarring ruts of the access road without ever setting it down. Reed was wearing an old pair of Earley’s rain overalls, with the cuffs rolled up a few times around new-looking hiking boots. He’d put on a red chamois cloth shirt that looked so pristine that Earley couldn’t help wondering if Reed’s mother had sent it for Christmas. He had Dean’s suede gloves in his lap.

  Neither one of them spoke. This is it, Earley thought. This is where we find out what you’re made of. He slurped on his coffee. He used plenty of sugar and never stirred; by the time he got down to the dregs, it tasted like warm coffee ice cream. He’d sited his bus several miles from the clearcut on purpose: along with the view of Olympus, the twice-a-day drive cleared his head.

  They rounded a curve and Earley braked suddenly, swerving. Reed grabbed at the dashboard. “Shit,” he said, breathing hard. There was a downed
hemlock across the road, just in front of their bumper. The trunk was at least two feet thick.

  “Must’ve been wicked windy last night,” Earley said. “That’s still green.” He left the truck idling and went to the back for his Husqy. The saw purred to life on the first tug. Earley carried it close to his hip like a bass guitar, as relaxed as if it were part of his body. He lopped off a few branches, revving the saw as he moved alongside the trunk. He nosed the tip upwards and sliced out an undercut, then angled down from above and burned into it, easing the saw free before the tree split. He walked down a few feet and repeated the motions. A section of trunk fell free.

  Earley sliced off three more lengths and turned off his saw. “Firewood,” he said. “We can pick it up on our way home.” Reed got out of the truck cab and rolled the logs off to the side of the road while Earley put his Husqy back under the tarp. He did that without being asked, Earley thought. That’s a good sign. They drove right between the cut ends of the blowdown, heading for Suhammish Creek Unit A-46.

  It was colder up here, longjohn weather. The mud of the road had a hard, frozen look, and the rims of the puddles crackled with ice. Earley remembered the rawness of his first northern winter, how he’d felt like he’d never get warm. A person could get used to anything, given a chance; now he’d probably wilt if he went back to Georgia. He tipped back his coffee mug, slurping the sweet, sandy dregs. He could feel his front tooth throb. The truck burrowed upwards and finally broke through the treeline, into the midsection landing where Earley parked.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Reed, staring. Earley looked out the windshield and realized: he’d never been in a clearcut before. The land was bald, scarred as a battlefield. Limbs lay twisted on top of each other, their needles dead brown, and giant stumps loomed through the mist like so many tombstones. The ground was a wash of mud, crisscrossed with skidder tracks. A few limbless spar trees still stood where the yarders had been. Reed’s eyes traveled up and down the bare acres of mountainside; nothing green anywhere. “Jesus,” he said again.

  Earley had nothing to add to that. “Let’s get to work,” he said.

  Earley’s saw kicked up a backwash of warm cedar sawdust, as fragrant as cinnamon. It was a scent that infused his skin through every pore, but he never got sick of the fresh dusting that started each work day. He eased his saw into the side of a log about four feet across, burning a kerf to the heartwood.

  Reed worked like a virgin. At first Earley slowed down his pace so he wouldn’t lose heart, and once or twice he quit bucking logs and helped Reed split bolts, but he soon got impatient with how far behind Reed was dragging. This guy’s costing me money, not helping, he thought. He’s not going to cut it. But Reed never complained or looked at his watch. He seemed startled, though grateful, when Earley told him it was time for a lunch break.

  They put down their tools and set off for the truck. They’d been working high up, and the grade seemed even steeper on the way down, a sheer scoop of earth. Reed lost his footing a lot as they clambered through downed limbs and slash. His new hikers were slathered with mud. Earley slowed down.

  “If you take to the job, we’ll buy you some caulks next time we’re in town.”

  “I have taken to it,” said Reed. “Mud, sleet and backache. What’s not to love?”

  Earley didn’t like his sarcastic tone. He’d be hard put to say why he loved being a shake-rat so much, but love it he did. Independence, he guessed. Getting to work in the weather all day, with no roof and no walls, just the wilderness rising around him. He could call his own shots, without some boss getting into his face, like every other lame job he’d had. Earley had scabbed on a road crew, unloaded semis, baled hay, picked chilies, pumped gas, hauled garbage and worked in a lumber mill. Somebody had to do all of those things; he was damn glad that it wasn’t him. They climbed down past the last cords of shake bolts he’d cut with Dean.

  “What happens next?” asked Reed, eyeing the tall stack of cedar.

  “We bring ’em on down to the mill, in the pickup if we can get close enough. If it’s too far off-road, like we’re working today, we sling the bolts into a bundle and copter it out. I’ve already cleared out the bottom landing where most of the money logs were. We’re down to the dregs on this unit, not more than a couple weeks left.”

  Reed looked back up the mountain, its acres of stumps jutting up from the mud. Earley shrugged. “There’s a point where it’s not worth the time it takes getting there. Factor in all the slogging up and downhill, we’d make more flipping fries at McDicks.”

  Reed nodded. “So then what?”

  “We start on the next hillside over. Or move the bus someplace else and stake out a new claim. I spotted some clearcuts up by the planters’ camp that probably haven’t been picked over yet. We could cruise over and check it out.”

  Reed looked at him. Earley rolled his shoulders to loosen his neck muscles, wondering if he’d tipped his hand about wanting to see more of Zan. He should just keep his mouth shut, he reckoned; he’d never been able to hide much of anything. “Zan doesn’t know,” Reed said quietly. Earley met his blue eyes with a surge of guilt. “That I’m working with you. When we said good-bye, I was on my way up to Alaska.”

  Earley realized this must be true. He kept his voice carefully neutral. “No phones in the woods. We could drive up and see her next weekend.”

  Reed looked at him for a moment too long. “I’d like that” was all he said.

  We, Earley thought; dead giveaway. I should have said, “I could drive you up.” He wondered why he felt so guilty; he hadn’t done anything yet. And he didn’t owe Reed a damn thing, he reminded himself. Zan could make her own choices. He doubted, in fact, that she’d ever done anything else.

  Earley had packed their lunch, something else that Reed could start doing tomorrow. They sat in the cab of the truck, drinking sweet coffee from one thermos and ladling pork and beans out of the other. There were peanut butter and banana sandwiches on thick slabs of bread, a couple of apples, some chips. Reed could eat pretty well for a little guy. “How are your hands?” Earley asked.

  Reed held them up. There was a wedge of grime under his nails, and the skin was so blackened from glove sweat he looked like he’d been fingerprinted. The joint between pointer and thumb was chafed, but the skin wasn’t broken. “Not bad,” he said.

  “Cool,” Earley said, biting into his apple.

  The afternoon lagged. The sun that had lightened one patch of the sky disappeared under heavy gray clouds, and the wind stung their skins with invisible rain. Reed didn’t complain, but Earley could see he was lifting the mallet with effort. I wore you right down, city boy, he thought, gloating a little. And I’m only working at half speed. Wait till we really start humping.

  “Let’s hit the road,” he said. “Woods’ll still be here tomorrow.” Reed nodded, exhausted and grateful. They headed for home.

  A mat of low clouds had rolled over the clearing, the color of dirty sheep. They shook off their raingear and clumped up the steps to the bus. Earley sat on the driver’s seat, unlacing his caulks in the half-dark while Reed hung his rain overalls on a peg. “This is when we need that shower,” he said, rubbing his stiff, blackened fingers. Earley struck a match to the hurricane lamp, stoked up the woodstove and put on the cast-iron kettle. He reached into the cooler and got them both beers.

  “Day One,” he said. “Cheers.”

  “Amen,” said Reed, clunking his bottle on Earley’s. The head foamed over and spilled on the floor.

  “Not to worry,” said Earley, sprawling out on the dinette bench, his grubby wool socks in the air. “It’s just part of the ambience here at the casa.”

  “You want me to spritz a bit more?” asked Reed.

  “Nah,” said Earley. “I don’t want to fuck with the gestalt.”

  “The gestalt?” Reed’s eyebrows went up.

  “Don’t they have that at Berkeley?”

  “Oh, Berkeley’s got everything. Fruits, flakes an
d nuts.” Reed sat down on the dinette bench and swigged his beer. “It just didn’t sound like you. Let me guess. The same girl with the ‘Kum Ba Yah’ kid?”

  “Her sister.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I am.” Earley’s grin split his face as he tipped back his beer.

  “Thank God. I was starting to think you’d screwed every woman in Washington State.”

  “I’m still missing a few,” Earley said. “Life is long.”

  Reed tipped back his bottle and chugged it dry, setting it down with a satisfied clunk. “I feel like a Miller commercial,” he said, overdoing his “Aahhhh.”

  “They never drink,” Earley said. “Ever notice? The guys in those ads, they’re always like shoulder to shoulder at bars, watching the Super Bowl, or flipping burgers outside on the grill, and they’re laughing and pouring and clinking their glasses, but they never get the damn beer in their mouth.”

  “They ought to film shake-rats,” said Reed.

  “Oh, now that would sell big. The American Dream. Bust your ass in the rain for a nonliving wage.” Earley raised his beer, toasting their mud-spattered raingear.

  “You don’t even have a TV, do you?”

  “Why? Have they started to make something I’d want to watch?”

  “Not in the least,” said Reed. “Most people turn it on anyway, just for the brainwash. You don’t miss having phones and TVs and that shit?”

  “I miss plumbing,” said Earley. “The rest can drop dead.” He loped to the stove, where the cast-iron kettle was spouting a fine jet of steam. He poured the hot water into a wash basin, fished out a dishrag and cake of Chandrika soap, which he offered to Reed. “Here you go, buddy. Gestalt yourself.”

  They slid into an easy routine. As the week wore on, Earley noticed that Reed had stopped wearing his watch. He woke soon after dawn, stoked the woodstove, made coffee, even went down to the creek and hauled water, something Dean had never done once without bitching. He was quiet at work, decent company evenings; he knew when to keep to himself. It was working out better than Earley had hoped. They weren’t making their quota—not even close—but Reed was still struggling with blisters and finding his rhythm. He’d pick up speed.