“If you’ll just be so kind as to take a seat —”
“What I want to know,” says Cooper, “is why someone had to get killed before our fire became a priority. If we’d had a helicopter, we could have plucked those guys off the ridge.”
“And what about the bombers?” says a firefighter in front of me.
“They were on another fire,” someone shouts. “Protecting buildings.”
“Buildings!” Cooper roars. “We’re more important than some damn structures.”
There’s a murmur of angry support; they’ve skipped denial and moved right along to rage. Groves tries once more to bring his lecture back on course, but it’s clear the crowd was expecting something different. They want to talk about the fire. They want answers.
“Look,” Groves says loudly, “I wasn’t brought here to discuss that. If we could just —”
But he’s drowned out by more shouting.
“They never should have been up there —”
“What about the arson? Are there any leads?”
“This is fucking pointless —”
Groves’s attempt at bargaining has failed and he’s slipping into depression. Grey walks onto the dais and stands silently, arms crossed, staring at the crowd. Despite his stubby stature, he has a foreboding presence. The arguing and cross-talk dies down.
“Sit down, Cooper.”
Cooper sits.“Sir,” he says.“With all due respect, what is this horseshit?”
There’s a murmur of support. Grey holds up a hand, turns to Groves.
“Is the rest of your presentation like this?”
Groves looks offended. “It’s on the grief cycle. It seemed appropriate.”
“I’m sure it is,” says Grey, looking at the crowd of restless firefighters. “In university.”
There’s a ripple of relieved laughter. Groves scowls; he’s having trouble with acceptance.
Grey addresses the crowd. “As ineffective as it may seem, this stress debriefing was intended for your benefit. But it is completely optional and I won’t hold it against any of you if you choose to diffuse your stress by other, more conventional means.”
“Thank God,” says Cooper, standing. The rest of Brashaw’s crew stands with him and they troop out, quickly followed by the smoke-jumpers and most of the support staff. Groves watches them go, clearly distressed at his inability to soothe their anguish.
“If anyone has need of further counselling,” he shouts. “I’m in Room 223.”
The counselling session continues in the Pine Room — a bar in the motel with knotty pine wainscotting and a wall covered with video gambling machines. Chairs are pulled around small circular tables, quickly covered with glasses of draft, rum, and whisky. Cooper, the centre of gravity for Brashaw’s crew, sits at one end of the room. He sees me looking, motions me over.
“Have a drink, Cassel,” he says aggressively. “Have a fucking drink.”
The bar reeks with the scent of smoke and sweat; these boys have come straight from the fire. Cooper’s tanned face is streaked with black like a weary commando. I motion that I’m going to the bar for a drink but a waitress swings past, her tray loaded, delivering another bomber drop of alcohol. Cooper grabs a glass and thrusts a rye and Coke at me. “Pull up a stump,” he says.
I look around, drink in hand, searching for a chair.
“Get the fuck up,” Cooper hollers at one of his men. “Make a hole for this survivor.”
Three firefighters stand and offer their chairs. I hesitate, then take one. I was expecting recriminations and accusations from the men on Brashaw’s crew. But they’re friendly in a belligerent sort of way, and crowd around, jostling and talking. Cooper holds up a hand for attention, leans forward and looks at me. “So tell us, what happened up there?”
Talk around me dies down but it’s still deafening in here; the room vibrates with country music, shouting, and the chime of gambling. Young, stubbled faces watch me expectantly, as if I might have some answer that will make everything clear. I don’t want to disappoint them but all I have to offer are details I’d rather forget: the fire roaring through the trees, the mad scramble up the hill. I drain my glass of whisky — it burns inside, like the scorch across my back. Another whisky is slid in my direction. I pick up the cool glass, hold it without drinking, wonder where to start.
“We needed to get to the ridge,” I say slowly. “To look over the fire.”
I pause, expecting someone to challenge me, to say this was my fault, that I never should have dragged Brashaw up there with me. But if they have doubts, they don’t show it. I was the incident commander and my decision is not questioned. I relax a little, begin to relate the sequence of events starting from the drive up the old trail behind the ridge. Once again, I avoid mention of Brashaw’s preoccupation with the canyon’s curse, reluctant to shift blame to an old superstition. When I pause to sip my drink, I notice the crowd around me has deepened; the entire bar has come to hear my story. Even the waitress stands listening, her tray held at her side.
“After the call, we both stood there, hypnotized by the flames. They were something to see, like a snake rising over the hill, and for a few seconds, we couldn’t move. Then we made a run for the truck, down through the trees, until BB twisted his ankle.”
Around me, the faces of his men cringe, no doubt imagining themselves in our position. Someone takes the empty glass from my hand, gives me another.
“What’d you do?” asks Bickenham.
“The fire was coming up the hill pretty fast and I wasn’t sure how far away the truck was. So we went back upslope, to deploy in the open, away from the fuel. It was a bitch of a climb though, with his bad ankle. He’s not someone you can just pick up and carry.”
“That takes guts,” says a firefighter, slapping me on the back. “Not abandoning him.”
Someone punches my shoulder. “You’re a fuckin’ hero.”
There’s a roar of approval and I wince. “I’m no hero.”
“Sure you are,” says Phil, the squad boss. “Anyone who has the balls to —”
“No — goddamn it! It was my fault we were up there to start with.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence. Men stare into their drinks.
“Fuck that,” says Cooper. “You did what you had to.”
“No —”
I feel like an idiot, don’t want to explain what seems so obvious to me, set aside my drink and stand. Reeling. Hands support me on all sides but I shake them off. Everyone watches but no more questions are asked. They clap me on the shoulder, tell me to hang in there. I’m overcome by a deep, embarrassing gratitude for their support. The waitress, slim and dark-haired, offers me a drink on the house. I thank her, switch to beer, which has a higher LD50. There’s a pay phone near the washroom and I take my beer with me. I know it’s not a real good time, but I gotta make a call.
I dial Cindy’s number. Breathlessly, she accepts the charges.
“Porter, God almighty. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, Cin. The guy I was with didn’t do so good though.”
“I know. It’s all over the news. It must’ve been terrible.”
I tell her some of what happened, leave out the gruesome details. I’m starting to slur. Cindy listens and offers friendly support. Her voice makes me intensely homesick. I want to be playing cards with her, watching a movie with the kids.
“You really okay, Porter? You sound a little depressed.”
I assure her I’m hanging in there, tell her I’ll be home soon. The bar seems a little louder, a little more alien, when I hang up. I finish my beer, start another. I’m past the point of caring how much this will hurt tomorrow. Past the point of caring that I vowed never to do this again. Someone buys me a blue shooter. It looks like Windex but goes down easy enough. So does the next drink.
Someone slaps me on the back. It’s Grey. “You okay, Cassel?”
I nod, my head bobbing to the music. I know I’m drunk when I enjoy Willie
Nelson.
“That’s good,” he says. “Get this out of your system.”
I nod and he moves on, consoling the troops. There’s a bit of a ruckus and I turn to see Cooper standing unsteadily on his chair. He steps onto a small round table, knocking over glasses of beer and whisky. Bleary-eyed, he gazes across the room and raises his drink.
“Draw nigh, ye drunkards!” he hollers over the music. “Ye cowards, ye dissolute men.”
Cooper sways, his face glistening with sweat. Glass crunches under the thick soles of his boots.
“— ye are sots. Ye bear the mark of the beast on your foreheads —”
It takes me a minute to place what he’s saying. Dostoevsky, from Crime and Punishment. At the moment, it seems oddly appropriate. He staggers again, nearly falling; hands reach up to steady him. He grins down at them, anointing his faithful with spilled beer. Looking solemn, he tries to continue, but he’s lost his train of thought. He raises his empty glass once again.
“Here’s to Bert Brashaw — the King!”
There’s a thunder of approval. Boots stomp. Tables are thumped. Cooper, smiling in a bemused fashion, is about to say something more when the table begins to wobble. For a few seconds he keeps his balance, but is defeated by gravity and alcohol, and returns to earth with an undignified crash, landing partway on his companions, partway on the table. Cooper, with minor wounds, is laid on the floor, where he commences snoring.
The waitress comes around and I fumble in my pockets for money.
“Don’t worry,” she says, smiling. “They’re charging it all to Room 223.”
“Yeah,” shouts a smokejumper. “Further counselling.”
I don’t quite make it to Cooper’s level of therapy. One by one, Grey leads us out of the bar and to our rooms. I’m dimly aware that I’m leaning on him as I stagger up the stairs. At my door, I feel I have to say something, although I don’t know what, and make frustrated mumblings.
“I know, Cassel,” he says. “I know.”
5
•
LATE THE NEXT morning, I wake up on the floor, my pants around my ankles, an arm pinned under my thigh. Apparently, I didn’t make it far from the door after Grey escorted me to my room. I was probably trying to undress and lost my balance. Motel rooms should come with emergency pull-cords, like hospital bathrooms. It takes me a while to roll over and sit up, longer to come to an upright position. Then I stumble again and crash onto my elbows.
“Sorry Lord, I’ll be good now.”
The higher powers are not impressed and when I stand again, I’m in purgatory. There’s a funeral in my head for the dead brain cells, complete with drums and chanting. I limp into the bathroom, rinse my mouth with water. The chlorine taste isn’t much of an improvement. In the mirror I can see the weave of the motel carpet on my cheek. Nice to know I can still make a good impression. I want a long shower, but the water burns the scab on my back.
In the motel restaurant, I order apple juice. The waitress, a weary-looking woman in her fifties, tells me the special is bacon and eggs, but the mere suggestion of grease causes an unpleasant turbulence from below and I order waffles — food I can empathize with.
It’s a lovely morning. I wander down main street, not really sure where I’m going. I just want to get away from the motel, want to be on the move. What I really need is a long drive and plenty of loud music, but since I have neither, I content myself with a roaring headache and a long meandering walk in the heat.
The town of Carson Lake is strung along the highway, conveniently forcing through traffic to slow down and stop at a half-dozen lights. While stopped, the discerning commuter can peruse a selection of grocery stores with casinos, gas stations with casinos, and restaurants with casinos. In fact, every building seems to advertise gambling and cold beer. There’s even a laundromat and casino; if you’re short on change, you’ll have to decide if you want to play the slots or wash your underwear. I stop in the shade of a tiny ice cream parlour, buy an extra-large vanilla. The girl behind the counter offers me a selection of scratch-and-win tickets. I buy one, just to fit in.
I push on, taking advantage of patches of shade thrown by buildings and dim verandas. I’m downtown now, where buildings are closer together and there are fewer trees. A guy standing in the parking lot of the Chicken Coop Casino and Lounge is using the side mirror of his truck to shave. Kids on skateboards practise their moves in front of a grocery store. Pop’s Family Restaurant sits across the highway from Mom’s Grill and Souvenir Shop — they must have had a falling out. The door of a service station is plastered with purple ribbons and I begin to notice them everywhere. Passersby wear them like Memorial Day flowers and I realize with a jolt that is exactly what they are. A big rental sign along the highway proclaims, “We Miss You BB” and the flag at the post office is at half-mast. I pull my cap a little lower. Standing in the shade of a service station, a scruffy-looking kid sidles up to me.
“Hey man,” he says quietly. “You looking for something?”
He’s maybe seventeen, with ripped jeans and a baggy jacket.
“My sanity,” I tell him. “Have you seen it?”
He ignores the remark. “I can hook you up with some good weed.”
“No thanks.”
“Homegrown.” He grins, showing me his two teeth. “No additives or preservatives.”
“I’m trying to cut down on mind-altering substances.”
But this is good shit, he persists — practically health food. I’m starting to lose my temper when he suddenly turns away, vanishes into the service station. A black-and-white sheriff ’s suv pulls to the pump. Deputy Compton scowls from behind reflective sunglasses.
I’m not in a socializing mood and swing away from Main Street, past the back of the service station. Beyond this the streets are narrower. Large ponderosa cast shadows. Despite marginally cooler temperatures, the backside of town is somewhat less attractive. Trailers and old stucco houses sit amicably next to metal-clad shops and industrial storage yards. Swing sets and sandboxes share space with dead cars. What the area lacks in presence, it makes up for in churches — an interesting contrast with the casinos along the highway.
The streets wind and I find myself at the edge of town, among the trees.
I rest in the shade of a massive sign announcing the new Lazy Pine subdivision. A cheery, rotund face beams at me from the sign, espousing the virtues of Lazy Pine, a quiet neighbourhood of architecturally controlled single-family homes. It’s quiet all right — there’s nothing here but a maze of dead-end gravel roads with electrical service wires sticking out of the ground. I’m suddenly very thirsty and start back for the motel.
These streets were probably wagon trails at one time, the way they meander. Does Juniper Drive continue all the way to the highway? No, it ends at Birch Street. Naughty Pine Lane sounds interesting but dead-ends at a machine shop. I spend a bit of time going in circles around Larch Crescent until finding a secondary road leading straight to the highway. A service station lures me in and I buy a bottle of deliciously cold grapefruit juice, which I drink at the checkout. A woman standing by the window watches me.
“Are you Porter Cassel?”
I don’t like being identified by strangers and pretend not to hear her, quickly stepping outside. I don’t make it far before I hear the door open. There’s a van with a familiar logo at the gas pumps. I’ve got to stop hanging around service stations.
“I’m a friend of Christina Telson,” she says, trotting up beside me.
Reluctantly, I stop and turn to face her.
“You are Porter Cassel, aren’t you?” she says, her eyebrows arched. She’s quite attractive even without the blue business suit and cameraman.
“If you’re a friend of Christina’s,” I tell her evenly, “you know that I don’t give interviews.”
“Yes, well, we’re colleagues,” she says, giving me a six o’clock smile.
I turn away, keep walking. She calls after me, asking for a f
ew minutes of my time — that’s all. Just a few questions. This is an opportunity to tell my side of the story, to set the record straight. I didn’t know the record wasn’t straight but pass on the opportunity. I think she’s given up until the van rolls quietly beside me, the window down. She’s got her microphone ready.
“Mr. Cassel, I understand it was your decision to go up on the ridge.”
I keep walking but she continues her rolling interview, so I switch directions. The van lurches, then backs up. Just as they catch me, I go forward again and the van rocks. So does the reporter, trying to steady herself with one hand on the dash. She sticks her head out the window.
“You were the incident commander —”
I switch directions again, but the novelty has worn thin and I make an undignified retreat across the service station lot, into a narrow walkway between two buildings. The van circles around, trying to corner me, but I double back and run across the highway, dodging logging trucks. A horn blares but I make it to the other side, dash into a pocket of trees. When I glance back, the van is still circling the service station.
I chuckle, head for the motel, keeping to back alleys. But the last laugh is on me. The parking lot of the motel is full of media vans. Cameramen are setting up, reporters doing sound checks.
I fade back, start looking for a phone booth.
A green minivan pulls to the curb, and for a second I think it’s the reporters again, but it’s Grey and a few unfamiliar faces. The door slides open and I’m practically yanked inside. Three serious-looking individuals in suits frown at me. Grey wasn’t drinking last night, but he looks hungover.
“You should have stayed at the motel,” he says.
The minivan pulls away from the curb, turns down a back street.
“Good morning, Mr. Cassel,” says one of the suits, sitting beside me. He introduces himself as Mark Castellino, principal death investigator for the Missoula County Sheriff ’s Department. Behind me is Robert Haines, a sheriff ’s department arson specialist and, in the front passenger seat, Kirk Noble, a Forest Service special agent from Washington.
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