Canyon Secret

by Patrick Lee

  Tomas loved hearing about Shorty’s Navy stories. He memorized all of the ports he visited, the people from other countries he met, and the women from the Asian countries that he spent time getting to know. Tomas started to entertain thoughts of joining the Navy himself. He even talked to Shorty about it. “What a jerk that Buck Morris is to Shorty. It’s just that he’s so jealous of all of Shorty’s experiences.” He faced his partner and said, “Go ahead, Shorty, what happened after you got to your machine gun?”

  “I’ll finish the story once we get to the block, Kid.” He flipped Morris a dirty look and popped a butterscotch candy into his mouth. He silently looked out the window as the bus passed North Lion Lake, and he thought about how much he enjoyed telling Tomas his stories. “The Kid is the only one that’s interested in my Navy stories. What a great kid he is. I hope he does join the Navy; he could go to any school he wants. I wonder what his old man thinks about it?”

  The men walked slowly to block number four and climbed down the ladder. Tomas climbed down first and took Shorty’s lunch bucket from him and set it in the corner with his bucket. He readied the powerful vibrator for the day as Shorty poured himself another cup of coffee. Clifford and the other two men joined them in the block. Shorty growled as he surveyed the condition of the block to be poured. “The rain and snow made a mess out of them steel forms. Be careful today, it’s slicker’n hell in here today. Pay attention, Kid. We’ll rotate out more often until this rain stops.”

  The operator shack hugged the east wall of the mountainside next to the cement mixing plant. After the full buckets left the cement mixing plant, the endless cable roared through the giant wheels housed in the operator shack. Buckets hung off a carriage attached to the cable. Each bucket held sixteen cubic yards of cement and measured ten-feet high, six-feet long, and six-feet wide. Each cubic yard of cement weighed about twenty-three hundred pounds.

  Jiggs Quinn enjoyed his reputation as the top operator on the Hungry Horse project. His booming baritone voice matched his laugh. He reviewed the order of the bucket drops with his bellboy, Frank Rodriquez. “We’ll start out with drops on the six block. Then we’ll catch four and finish up on the two block for the first run.” Jiggs laid out the rest of the order of drops for the morning.

  Rodriquez jotted the order down on his pad, looked up and asked, “Did the rain cause any problems last night?”

  “Graveyard shift told me they had a couple of short-out electrical problems. They picked up the slack in time, so no big problems.” Jiggs pinched a small chew from his Copenhagen can and slipped it behind his lip. “Give me plenty of time in between loads just in case. I’ll tighten slack more often in case we get another power overload or short-out. Okay?”

  His veteran bellboy smiled, gave a thumbs-up signal, and walked down the stairs of the shack. In his mind, he reviewed the order of the concrete drops and mapped out his points to stand and signal for each of the cement drops for the blocks.

  After he finished telling his Navy story to Tomas, Shorty Davis barked out the rotation schedule for the day. He gathered the attention of his crew as the loaded bucket of cement headed their way. The crew hugged the corner as the bucket dropped its load into block number four. Each block was thirty-feet wide, ten-feet long, and five-feet high. The bucket soared skyward as the load emptied. Tomas and Clifford fired up their vibrator and started packing the concrete on their side of the block. The other two men followed and started pounding the concrete into the corners of the block right next to Tomas and Clifford. Shorty worked behind the crew and prepared the back-up vibrator. His eyes shifted up through the pounding rain as the bucket disappeared on its journey back to the mixing plant.

  Jiggs Quinn watched the next bucket empty above the two block and sky for the trip back to him and the mixing plant. His bellboy walked back to his point to direct the next load back to block six.

  Shorty’s crew in block four moved through the cement and backed toward the west wall. The vibrators noisily forced the cement down into all possible crevices and small holes. Shorty set the back-up vibrator in the corner of the block. The rain pelted his hardhat and bounced off his slicker. Noise from the vibrators shut out the rest of the world from the five men working in blocks four.

  Frank Rodriquez signaled from above the four block and Jiggs sent the loaded bucket out of the shack. The bucket glided over the first two blocks. Jiggs felt the electrical power shut off. “Shit! Oh no!” His voice roared out of the shack as he frantically reset the buttons and pushed the power buttons in front of him. No response. “OH my God. No!” He pounded on the red emergency shut off button several times and ripped the phone off the hook. No dial tone.

  The endless cable went slack. A fully loaded bucket dropped from the skylines as it flew pass block three and continued its downward route toward the four block. Shorty casually glanced over his shoulder and saw the out of control bucket racing toward his crew. “Look out! Get over the side!” His crew kept working. In slow motion action, he lifted one boot at a time out of the heavy concrete and slipped as he attempted to close the distance between the oncoming bucket and his oblivious crew. The bucket doubled its speed as it entered the top of the block. The men seemed a mile away as each of Shorty’s labored movements seemed slower than the one before. He yelled again. “Get out of the block!” No reaction from his crew. His voice pleaded in a slow motion action. The words lingered in the air. The men continued to work. “Get out! Get out!”

  Shorty stepped up on a partially exposed crossbar in the rebar. And with the two by six board in his hands, he heaved his body into the backs of his four men. Tomas and Clifford bounced over the steel forms and landed on the front of the forms outside of the block. The other two men landed between the steel forms and the front part of the block. Their vibrators whipped over the front of the Dam. Both men hung on to the wooden supports.

  The roar of the crashing bucket into the walls of the block caused men in nearby blocks to look up. They unconsciously shut down their vibrators and stood in confused disbelief. The east wall of the block collapsed. Red-hot cement poured over the face of the Dam like lava from an erupted volcano. Most of the reinforcement bar anchors in block four violently separated from the mangled steel forms. Excess cable continued to roll and tear at the walls of block three. And then it stopped. Deafening silence covered the east end of Hungry Horse Dam.

  Mass confusion flooded the accident site. Stunned men stood frozen in time and struggled to believe what happened. Other men raced to the four block and peered into the area devastated by the run away concrete bucket. The first aid team came from all sections of the construction site and gathered as a group near the disaster area.

  Word of the accident quickly spread to the west end where Mikhail and his partner talked and unloaded a stack of metal pipes used for cooling poured concrete. Bud Reynolds nodded his head and wrinkled his sun-tanned face as the walking boss filled him in. Mikhail set the final three pipes on the storage rack. He turned and faced Bud walking quickly toward him. Bud gathered his breath. “Mikhail. A full bucket of mud crashed into block four where your kid—”

  In two steps Mikhail blew by Bud and disappeared around the bend of the Dam. He stumbled as he stepped over lumber, tools, makeshift stairs, and ironworker’s materials. His mind raced and the same horrible memory of his childhood and the news of his father’s accident ripped into his mind. His heart roared with pain. Men stepped aside as he trampled by them. Mikhail struggled to catch his breath and the nerves lit up every inch of his heaving stomach. Block number five stood ahead of him. Voices belted out instructions and men grabbed ropes, shovels, and boards as they sped toward the devastated four block. Mikhail bowled four men over makeshift stairs and handrails. Men set heavy boards across the surface of the block while other men pulled the tangled endless cable up and out of the block. Mikhail looked. Tomas was nowhere in sight. His heart sunk and his stomach heaved his breakfast.

  One voice stood above all others. Jiggs Qui
nn shouted instructions, “Hook that goddamn come-along cable to that bucket. You over there, get to that pickup parked near the safety gate.” His partner, Frank Rodriquez pushed the man out of the way and hooked the come along cable. He then raced to the Dodge Power Wagon pickup and jumped in the cab. He pushed the ignition button and the engine fired to life. Jiggs waved his hardhat, and Frank slowly backed up. What was left of the now empty bucket fought the pressure. The truck tires spun, and black smoke rose from the gravel road. Finally, the bucket eked away from the crushed west wall of block three.

  Mikhail now stood next to Jiggs Quinn in the block. Both men gasped as the moved bucket partially revealed an arm and foot of a man. Another man carefully removed concrete and splintered wood and steel. The crushed man’s body became exposed. Jiggs stepped back and whispered for the first time in his life. “Good God Almighty, it’s Johnny Davis.”

  Mikhail also stepped back and tears flooded from his eyes. It wasn’t Tomas. Relief and grief poured through his body. A quick prayer raced through his mind. Then grief roared. He knew how much Tomas respected and trusted Shorty Davis. But his attention reeled behind him as he heard Tomas scream, “NO! Not Shorty! It can’t be. It’s his birthday! He saved our lives. NOOOO!”

  Two first aid men grabbed him by the arms and guided Tomas up and out of the block. Mikhail’s legs struggled to hold up his weight as he followed Tomas. He reached his son and held him for the first time since he was ten years old. Tomas cried and called Shorty’s name over and over. Mikhail patted his back and said nothing. There weren’t any words. He saw through his own tears another team of men carrying Clifford out on a stretcher.

  The other two other members of Shorty’s crew walked arm in arm toward the first aid shack. Their yellow rain slickers now were splattered with cement. Silence roared back in as men continued to uncover the battered body of Shorty Davis. Dr. Green walked by Mikhail and Tomas after checking Shorty. He placed his hand on Tomas’s shoulder and shook his head as he walked back to the first aid shack.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After he visited his friend Clifford at Kalispell Regional Hospital, Tomas walked down the back stairs of the three-story brick building. Clifford suffered severe burns from the concrete that spilled over him in the accident that happened four days earlier. The doctor planned to release him the next day after his morning check-up. Clifford’s neck burns posed the biggest health problem. The burns on his hands and right arm prevented him from returning to work for a week or two. Tomas felt relieved after hearing that his new friend beat any infection or serious skin damage.

  He walked to David’s pickup parked behind the hospital. As he reached to open the truck door, Tomas noticed David drank from a can of beer. He took a quick look at his pocket watch and saw that they had a half-hour before the 10:00 a.m. funeral service for Shorty Davis.

  The beer in David’s hand surprised Tomas as he looked up from his watch. It seemed like David drank more often now. But Tomas cast it off after David described the pressures he faced as a walking boss. His thoughts shifted quickly to the task of surviving the rigors of the upcoming funeral. Tomas climbed into the front seat and dusted off his dress black shoes with the cuff of his dress pants.

  David didn’t ask about Clifford. He started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. They drove in silence over to the parking lot of St. Matthew’s Church. After he shut off the engine, David popped another beer, took a drink, and said, “I hate funerals, Tommy. I think I’ll sit out here in the truck and wait for you.”

  Tomas quickly snapped his head toward David, “You ain’t goin’ in?”

  He shook his head and took another drink of his Great Falls Select. “Like I said. I hate funerals. You go ahead, I’ll take a nap and wait. You’ll be fine.”

  Tomas tried the door handle, but it didn’t open.

  David opened his own door and walked around the back of his truck and opened the passenger door from the outside. “Damn door. It sticks on me sometimes. I’ll fix it when we’re in Butte. Now you better get in there. It’s pert near ten o’clock.”

  Only three years after the city of Kalispell had been surveyed and laid out, the first bishop of Montana in March of 1894 directed the building of St. Matthew’s Church. Eventually parishioners outgrew the small wooden church structure. On April 2, 1910, the new church was built and in a copper box for the cornerstone a photograph of Bishop Shea, copies of local papers, a few coins, a small leather-bound bible, the parish calendar, and a small golden cross were placed.

  St. Matthew’s Church was extensively damaged in February of 1938 by a fire that started in the basement. The ornately sculptured wood altar was destroyed. As part of the reconstruction and repair, new altars were created and the church was completely redecorated.

  Tomas slowly entered the vestibule of the church. His eyes surveyed the beauty of the church as he stopped and focused his attention on the full-length stained glass windows on the south side wall. Beads of sweat rolled from his armpits. He slowly glanced at the back of the heads of the people who came to show their respects to his partner. He wished David had come in with him.

  Near the front of the church his eyes stopped as he recognized the heads of Jiggs Quinn and his partner, Frank Rodriquez. The walk down the south side aisle seemed to take forever. Tomas appreciated the stained glass windows as he walked below them. Once he got to their pew, he motioned to Frank to ask their permission to join them. Frank patted the space next to him, and Tomas sheepishly knelt down on the kneeler. He bowed his head and respectfully said a quick prayer for Shorty’s family. After he sat down, Jiggs nodded his recognition and extended his hand across in front of his partner. His rough, calloused hand felt warm, and Tomas welcomed the touch of the older man. Tomas nodded his head in recognition back. A thousand words exchanged between them without uttering one single syllable.

  From the choir loft the organist stepped down on the pedal and her fingers struck the opening notes. The congregation rose to their feet as the priest led the casket down the center aisle with the help of the six pallbearers. Shorty Davis’ family followed the closed casket to the front pews of the church. Tomas swallowed hard at the thought of Shorty laid out in a suit, tie, and white shirt. He felt weak as he looked at Shorty’s wife, Carol. Shorty talked constantly about his lady at home. She stood straight and tall. One of the family members with her held her arm securely and guided her into the front pew. “He must be their son,” Tomas thought. The priest stood in front of the casket and opened the well-used book of prayers that he held.

  For the first time in his life, Tomas experienced deep, punishing grief. Years earlier, he lost himself in his schoolwork and his friends to stuff the pain from his parent’s divorce. Loss of Shorty Davis crushed him as tormenting grief overwhelmed him. Vivid memories of riding next to Shorty on the bus back and forth to work flashed in front of him like a movie on the big screen at the Rialto Theater in Butte. Flashbacks of working side by side in the hot sun on the Fourth of July roared to life. And now, nothing. He stared at the casket and vaguely heard the words of the priest. Tomas broke. Tears streaked down as he rushed his hands to his face. He felt the strong, reassuring arm of Frank Rodriquez around his quivering shoulder.

  After the funeral, the congregation filed downstairs to the basement for lunch. Carol promised Shorty she would follow his wishes should anything happen to him. The ladies of the church prepared a potluck lunch. Each person there fixed a plate and sat at the tables normally used for bingo. Tomas sat with Jiggs and Frank and picked at his ham sandwich. The two men jumped to their feet as Carol Davis stopped and stood next to Tomas.

  The entire crowd heard Jiggs, “Carol. I’m so sorry. I-I—”

  She hugged him and whispered, “Jiggs. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. He thought the world of you.”

  Jiggs stood and fought off tears. “I thought the world of Johnny too. He, he was a fine man. And he loved you and your boy there.”

  To
mas rose from his chair and in his typical quiet voice attempted to talk. Words failed him. Carol Davis embraced him and whispered in his ear, “You’re his young partner, aren’t you?”

  He stood back from the hug and said, “Yes ma’am, I’m Tom Anzich.”

  “Shorty talked about you every night when he came home. He said you listened to his wild stories of his days in the Navy.” She forced a smile and continued, “He said you were the best worker he ever worked with. And that’s saying somethin’ since he worked with a lot of good men.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks, “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. Thanks a lot. He showed me the ropes. And he made me work as steady as I could. He called you lady.” She embraced him once more and sobbed on his shoulder.

  Carol Davis slowly withdrew and placed her tear soaked hands on Tomas’ cheeks. Sometime in the next few weeks, please call me; I want to give you a picture of my Johnny with some of his Navy friends. I think he’d like for you to have it. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Davis. I’d like that too. Thank you.”

  In the parking lot, Tomas shook hands with Jiggs and Frank. With his head down, he walked over to David’s pickup. David slept with his head against the side of the door. The open window picked up his snoring as Tomas reached the door on the other side. He opened the door and jarred David awake. “What? What’s goin’ on?” He shook his head and spoke, “Oh. It’s you Tom. Boy, I went out like a light. The nap helped. Now I can drive to Butte.”

  Without asking about the funeral, he drove away from the parking lot. Tomas noticed the five empty beer cans on the floor.

  He considered asking David if he should drive but sat back, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. The events of the last hour and a half slowly rolled over and over in his mind. Sleep overtook him. He awoke fifty miles later as David pulled to a stop at the Oasis Bar in Polson.