Clearcut

by Nina Shengold

  His truck wouldn’t start. Earley turned it over twice, checked the gas gauge, the fan belt, the clutch. He was cursing a blue streak before it occurred to him that he’d stuck the wrong key into the ignition. What a bonehead, he thought as he backed up, his tires spitting gravel and gouging out ruts.

  The shadows were lengthening as Earley pulled out of the clearcut. He could picture Reed back in the bus, replaying the three tapes of Earley’s he liked as he cooked up some goddamn elaborate dinner. Well, he could eat it himself. Earley stepped on the gas, bumping so hard over an old skidder track that his pickup lurched sideways and his rotten tooth sent a stab of pain up through his skull.

  He wondered how Reed had been getting along on his cast all day long. Had he run out of wood? Could he make his way down to the creek to haul water? That path would be tough to negotiate on a crutch. Five years ago, when Earley had gashed his thigh with his chainsaw, the guy he’d been working with, Leroy, had stayed by his side like an army nurse till he was back on his feet. Men were supposed to take care of each other. Deserters were scum.

  All right, Earley thought, then I’m scum. No big news there; just ask Margie Walkonis. My scum credentials are legion.

  He sped towards the fork where the main road continued downhill to the highway and town, and his own muddy spur switchbacked up to the bus. If he kept going straight, he could be inside Zan’s tent in less than an hour. Reed would be worried when he didn’t show up for dinner, but Reed was a big boy; he’d cope. Even if he was hurt. Earley mentally kicked himself. Scum.

  He was right at the fork now. His foot lifted off the gas pedal, hovering over the brake. I want her, he thought, and went straight down the hill.

  Earley snapped on the radio at the exact spot where Reed had discovered the static died out, but there was nothing worth listening to, just hellfire and brimstone and Toni Tennille. The highway whizzed under his tires, and he realized he hadn’t driven to town by himself since the night he’d picked Reed up hitching. He remembered how Reed had stood huddled up in his drenched poncho, the dazed way he’d stared when the pickup pulled over, his eyes wide and ghostly, as if he had given up hope.

  It was strange to remember how green Reed had seemed at first glance, spacey and nervous and painfully young. If he hadn’t lit up that reefer, thought Earley, I would have left him on the road outside Bogachiel campground and never looked back. I’d have taken my shower and gone to the Cedar, and Zan would have been there shooting pool. I would have met her all by myself. One man and one woman, like everyone else.

  Earley pondered on this for a moment. He had to admit there were flaws in his argument, starting with not having had even one dime for a shower if Reed hadn’t been with him. And would he really have had the raw nerve to walk up to the beautiful woman he’d seen bending over the pool table, when he was flat broke and stunk to high heaven, without even knowing her name?

  Probably not, he conceded. He probably would have just sat on his barstool and fantasized, too awkward to hit on someone who was so clearly out of his league. Reed had brought them together. Just as Zan had brought him together with Reed.

  He pulled his truck onto the shoulder, just past the curve where he’d picked up Reed. I can’t do it, he thought. I can’t leave him alone. Reed was making spaghetti and meatballs, green salad, no fuss. He was wearing an old V-necked undershirt, ripped at the notch, and those loose drawstring pants he had worn to the laundromat, the ones Gladys Keneally called trousers. He had slit the right leg to the knee to make room for his cast. “How’d it go?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual as he looked up from the chopping board.

  “Fair.” Earley sat on the driver’s seat to unlace his caulks, jerking the straps off the boothooks one-handed. “Got the rest of that log we were working on bucked up and bundled. I’ll drop by the mill and put in for a flyout next week.”

  “Take me with you,” said Reed. “I’ve been doing a whole bunch of reading, and I’ve got some questions about this new clearcut they’re trying to ram down our throats. We’re right at the edge of the national park. That’s protected land. There are watershed issues. I think we can still pull the plug on it if we get organized.”

  No way in hell, Earley thought; the last thing he needed was Reed rolling out some tree-hugger rant at Vern Gillies. And if anyone caught any whiff of an off-color vibe between him and Reed, he’d be dead meat in Forks for the rest of his life. Earley kicked off his caulk boots and reached for the basin and soap. Reed handed them over and went to the stove for the kettle.

  “You’re getting around pretty well on that thing,” Earley said, watching him walk. He wished Reed had put on different pants. Those gauzy things clung to his ass.

  “I’m a runner,” said Reed. “I’ve had every leg injury going. Shin splints, sprains, tendonitis, torn ligament. I don’t know when to give up.” He poured hot water into the basin, then dipped in a washcloth, wrung out the excess and laid it across Earley’s forehead. Earley tensed at his touch.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” said Reed. “It’s the least I can do.” He dabbed the steaming cloth along Earley’s brow, wiping away sweat and sawdust as he moved it gently over his cheekbone, the side of his beard. A few drops of hot water dribbled down Earley’s bare throat, soaking the neck of his undershirt.

  “How’d you get this?” Reed asked, one finger stroking the bald strip of skin where the scar tissue parted the stubble.

  “Hatchet,” said Earley. “Splitting kindling when I was stoned, drunk and stupid.”

  Reed smiled. “Like last night?”

  “Cut it out,” Earley stood quickly, pushing his hand away. “I’m heading over to Zan’s. I just stopped in to make sure your leg was okay.”

  “Bullshit,” said Reed. “You came home because you want me too.”

  Earley’s hand had flown out in a fist before he even made a decision about it. Reed crumpled against the dinette table, clutching his stomach. He made a guttural grunting noise, retching up air.

  “You okay?” Earley asked, with his fist still cocked. Reed staggered forward and punched him hard under the jawbone.

  “Now I am,” Reed rasped, balling his fists like a prep school boxer.

  Earley saw that Reed’s knuckles had split and were bleeding. He tasted the metal and salt tang of blood on his own lower lip and grabbed at Reed savagely. He’s half my size and his leg’s broken; this isn’t fair, he thought as they grappled, but they weren’t fighting anymore: Earley was pressing his cut mouth to Reed’s and Reed’s mouth was gasping against his, and Earley was bending him over the cedar slab table, shoving the dishes away to bear down on his body, relentless.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Earley knocked off work early on Friday and drove into Forks by himself. He was looking for Clay Johannsen, the chopper pilot who contracted wood runs for Gillies’ mill. He’d heard various rumors of where Clay was living these days—he moved almost weekly, from fishing boat cabin to trailer to biker chick’s sofabed—but he figured that someone at Gillies’ would know how to track the man down.

  Reed was going to be pissed at him. That was a given. At breakfast, Reed had gone off on one of his rants about stopping the Royalton clearcut, insisting that Earley come back and get him before he drove down to the mill. Earley hadn’t said yes, but he hadn’t said no either; he had simply avoided the question and let Reed assume he’d agreed. And leaving Reed up at the bus while he went into town was the tip of the iceberg: both of them knew Zan was coming tonight. Earley’s guilt-ridden thrashings with Reed didn’t stand a chance next to the real thing. He was dying to get Zan in bed, and he knew that Reed knew it. Whatever he did, Reed was going to be pissed.

  Earley bounced his truck into the mud-rutted lot outside Gillies’. The mill was in full swing, workers swarming like hornets. Two crews were offloading their day’s haul of logs; Earley was glad neither log truck was Harlan’s. At the end of the lot, he spotted a purple-and-black motorcycle parke
d at an angle, its front wheel stretched out on a long, Easy Rider–style axle. Clay’s Harley. Only a true timber madman would ride a hog in a place that got ten feet of rainfall a year, Earley thought as he parked alongside it. The spikes of his caulks pulled up divots with every step, caking his feet with a layer of clay. He heard the scream of bandsaws tearing into raw wood and the magnified clanking of cranes dropping logs into place. The air was thick with pine resin and the spicy grit of cedar sawdust; Earley could feel it right down to his lungs.

  He swung open the office door, surprised to find nobody at the cash register. He rapped on the doorframe to Vern’s inner office and looked inside. Nobody there either. Well, it was payday— someone had to show up pretty soon.

  Earley spotted a topo map on Vern’s desk and stepped closer to look at it. His eye swept from the glacial formations on top of Olympus to the coast, looking for the familiar double-S curve and twin forks of Suhammish Creek. There were red-numbered sections blocked off on both sides. Earley traced the west fork from clearcut Unit A-46 to the spot where he’d parked his bus, in the wedge of virgin forest that started at the creek and stretched to the summit of Suhammish Peak. That section was outlined in yellow. Two thousand acres, he thought. It must be the whole flank of the mountain.

  “The fuck are you doing here?”

  Earley turned. Vern was glaring at him from the door. “I ought to plug your thick skull. Tramping into a man’s private office.”

  “Keep your shirt on, I’m not in your cashbox. Just checking this map.”

  “That’s your future in black and white. Harlan Walkonis catch up with you yet?”

  “Yeah, he drove up my driveway and let off some noise.”

  “More than noise,” said Vern, spitting a gob of snoose into a Coke can. “Those bulldozers gonna be rolling the end of this month.”

  “You got a spare copy of this?” Earley picked up the map.

  “Not for you,” Vern said. “And I got no time for weighing out your pissant shake bolts today. I’m up to my eyeballs in serious lumber.”

  “I’m not here to sell,” Earley told him. “I’m looking for Clayborne.”

  “He’s up in the air. Flying in some equipment for Gus Ritchie’s outfit, up near Lake Ozette. You looking to order a flyout? ’Cause I’ve got his schedule right here on my desk.” Vern riffled through piles of paper and squinted down at a clipboard. “How about the tenth at ten? Even you ought to be able to keep track of that.”

  Earley decided to sidestep the sarcasm. If Vern Gillies needed to feel a bit smarter by telling himself other people were stupider, that was his problem. “You’re on,” Earley said, quietly sliding the topo map under his jacket.

  The aisles of the FoodMart were full of tired housewives with overstuffed carts. Earley turned each corner warily. He was sure that he’d run into Margie, still wearing her pink cafeteria smock, loading up on Doritos and Tab for another long weekend alone. He wondered if Margie knew that Harlan was trying to force him out of his clearing. Probably not. Even if Harlan’s new chippie had already booted him back home, he wasn’t the kind of guy who told things to his wife.

  What would he say to Margie if he did run into her? Earley had always prided himself on doing the right thing by women— assuming that they didn’t dump him, of course, which they usually did—but he knew he’d left Margie marooned in her loneliness, nobody home but the ghosts of her kids. He winced at the thought of her running into him here, buying dinner for both of his other lovers.

  “Hey, Ritter!” The voice was a man’s. Earley turned to see Scoter Gillies, flashing his snaggle-toothed grin as he slouched over, lugging a twelve-pack of Colt 45. “What the sam fuck are those things, mutant scallions?”

  “Pretty much.” Earley turned, shamefaced, and tossed three leeks into the top of his cart with the lentils and ginger root.

  Scoter let out a low whistle. “You know how to cook with this shit?”

  “I’m strictly Swanson’s TV. Reed does most of the cooking.”

  “Your splitter? I heard where he tried to make firewood out of his anklebone.”

  “He’s one hurting boy.” Earley tried to match Scoter’s tone. He felt as if he was impersonating some former self, like a tired comedian hauling out shopworn routines.

  Scoter nodded. “Hard times, man. So you’re cutting solo?”

  “Done cutting, just stacking it up for the chopper. I’ve got shitloads of cedar up top of the ridge, half a mile from the road as the crow flies and twice that on foot.”

  “Who’s flying you, Clay J?”

  “I just signed him up at your dad’s.”

  Scoter nodded. “Don’t count on him making it. Old Clayborne’s been looking a little red-rimmed in the nasal department these days.”

  “He always did have a touch of the sniffing sickness.”

  “Touch my ass, he’s a medicine cabinet on legs,” Scoter said. “I bet you could barter him some of that Maui if lame boy is interested. Think on it.” He thumped Earley hard on the back and winked. It was just normal guy stuff, but it made Earley twitch. What would Scoter have said if he knew about him and Reed? Touch my ass, indeed.

  Earley forced a smile and said, “Later.” He swung his cart towards the front of the store, found a checkout that wasn’t too busy and piled his things onto the rubber conveyor. The cashier finished bagging the order ahead of his and turned to face him. It was Amber Walkonis. She looked at Earley with a suspicious squint.

  “You’re that friend of my mom’s,” she said.

  Earley added a blue pouch of Drum to his grocery pile. The last thing he wanted to do was get Margie in trouble. “You’re Harlan’s kid, right? I know your old man,” he said, wondering if Amber was still shacking up with her boyfriend Miguel. Her eyelids were thick with mascara and liner, as if she was already trying to pass for the much older woman she’d look like too soon. She’d inherited Margie’s big bust, but also her thickness; at sixteen, her flesh was already squeezed over her waistband. Her face was her father’s, cheeks carved out of ham.

  “What’s this thing?” she said, lifting the ginger without showing any more interest in Earley. “It don’t have a price marked.”

  “I can’t believe you went shopping without me,” said Reed, slamming grocery bags onto the counter. “We’re out of all sorts of stuff. Ginger. Tamari.”

  “I got your tamari,” said Earley. “And ginger, and leeks, and all sorts of fancy-ass crap no one else in Forks eats.” He slapped down a pile of Reed’s mail: three letters from environmental groups and six magazines sent Please Forward from Berkeley.

  “You just didn’t want to be seen with me.”

  “Bullshit,” said Earley, too loudly. “I was afraid I’d miss Clay if I drove all the way up to get you. And while I was down there I stopped to pick up some dinner for Zan.”

  “Yeah, for Zan.” Reed’s voice sounded petulant.

  Earley took a deep breath, reminding himself it was tacky to slug guys on crutches. “For all three of us, asshole.”

  “Don’t call me an asshole, you asshole.”

  “All right,” Earley said, “you’re a prick.”

  It took Reed a moment to realize Earley was joking. Then he burst out laughing. “Hey, you know those humongous banana slugs we always find in the compost?”

  “Yeah,” Earley said. “What about them?” He took Vern’s folded topo map from his pocket and stuck it in the storage rack next to his fly kit. He’d show it to Reed when he had enough patience, which wasn’t right now.

  Reed picked up one of his library books and opened it up to a page he’d bookmarked with a Zig-Zag. “ ‘Slugs are hermaphrodites; each has both male and female sex organs and is capable of self-fertilization if no mate is found.’ ”

  “They can fuck themselves?”

  “Wait. ‘A potential pair may follow one another and cavort for a day; then copulate for another two or three days and nights, exchanging sperm reciprocally.’ ”

  Earley cr
acked open a beer. “Remind me to be a slug in my next incarnation.”

  “Um, not so fast. ‘The penis—an inch long—is so large and turgid that withdrawal is apparently difficult. The solution sometimes is to gnaw it off.’ ” Reed closed the book. “So much for your next incarnation.”

  “This is what you’ve been doing all day? Reading slug porn?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather be working.” Reed helped himself to a gulp of Earley’s beer. “Did you stop off at Bogachiel?”

  Earley shook his head, moving away from him. “Figured I’d have enough time for a waterfall shower before Zan shows up.” He pushed a few cans of garbanzos and tuna fish onto the shelf.

  “I could use one myself. I’m as rank as a goat.” Reed glanced at his watch, which he’d hung from a nail near the stove. “We’ve got enough time to drive over to Bogachiel now. She never gets here before sunset.”

  “You can’t get your cast wet,” said Earley.

  “You could make me one of those Hefty bag boots you made Zan,” said Reed. “Duct tape all over the thighs. That was kinky.” He slid his hand between Earley’s legs.

  Earley removed it. No way in hell was he going to get kinky with Reed in the men’s room at Bogachiel. It was a Friday night stop-off for mill rats and logging crews getting spruced up for a night at the Cedar, and practically everyone else that he knew.

  “I’m fine with the creek,” he said, touching Reed’s shoulder. “Think you could get down there?”

  “I could climb to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro,” said Reed. “I’m a hobbling fool.”

  Reed left his crutch inside the bus. “I’m walking much better,” he said as he picked his slow way down the trail. “I’ll be back on the job in no time.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell me if you need a hand,” Earley said, stepping up and over a moss-covered blowdown that was sprouting a whole colonnade of new saplings.

  Reed hesitated. “You think you could pick me up again?”

  Earley squinted at him. Did he really need help, or was this just a ploy for more contact? Reed seemed to sense Earley’s reluctance. His wide eyes looked plaintive, as if he’d already guessed what the answer would be and was worried he shouldn’t have asked. Why make a federal case of it? thought Earley, just give him a hand. He stepped back over the nurse log and lifted Reed up in his arms. “Just call me Rhett Butler,” he drawled.