NSummer

by Never Summer (retail) (epub)

  Fresh doubts and worries now assailed him, crowding out the last vestiges of his peace of mind. As the boss’s thoughts hit bottom he suddenly hated the work. The hassles were just not worth it.

  Fuck it all! Who needs it?

  For a moment Jacques visualized just walking away. Why not liquidate? He could do it. Sell his share of the business to his brother. The tantalizing prospect of freedom now danced before him like a voluptuous woman that a man is free to desire but can never possess. Mesmerized, Jacques stared straight ahead past the tip of his nose into blank space even as he drove, wallowing in fantasy like a boar driven to the edge of insanity by a sty full of sows in perpetual heat.

  Whom did he encounter peering into this darkest rummy corner of his soul? Why, his better half...

  Ahhhhh sweet Sarah.

  His doting wife was loveliness itself. He and Sarah were now arm-in-arm, standing together, watching their six-year old son Isaac ride his two-wheeler. The boy was the apple of his eye, the pride of his life. Only last month he had removed the trainer wheels from Isaac’s bicycle. Now, as he watched his son in his mind’s eye Jacques wanted to sweep the lad up in his big rough arms.

  In that instant the boss was back, fully in command, scoffing at himself.

  Screw the tree huggers and the fine print and the escape clause and the parasitic lawyers that never produce a thing in this world except trouble for honest working people. Screw them all!

  As Jacques rebounded from his dark reverie he began to contemplate his options from a more positive angle. Damage control was still possible. He might yet avoid a financial bath. Only a fool judges it too late to cut his losses. A man likes a positive spin. Is not trouble just another word for opportunity? Does not each problem contain within it the germ of a solution? Yes, it comes down to how a man choses to see it. One can decide to view the daily cup as “half full” or “half empty.” Take your pick.

  This was not the first time Jacques had faced trouble on a job. He had been pressed hard before, a time or two. Once, he had been backed to the wall.

  Yes, there was that job in Wyoming.

  It was a big right-of-way job for a power line through the Wind Rivers, when the weather went to hell in mid November and the diesel turned to jelly in the tanks. That had been one cold bitch in hell. The project was also similar to Bowen Gulch in that it had been complicated by fine print.

  Double-digit bullshit! But I bested the bastards!

  Yes, Jacques had waltzed to the bank with the largest net take ever for Right of Way Inc. Even his over-cautious brother had been impressed. Didn’t it always come down to last resorts, the final inch? Was this not the true measure of a man? His mettle?

  Jacques gave it more gas as he rubbed his abdomen. He had left Rustic in such haste that he skipped breakfast, a mistake as he well knew. The boss’s insides were always prone to enzymatic self-destruction. His nervous stomach was trip-wired to his mercurial moods, and now he was feeling the familiar ferment, accompanied by those tumbling belly rolls and somersaults that sometimes made him feel old and gray before his time.

  With his left hand on the wheel the boss reached across the dash and snapped open the glove compartment. Brushing aside a tape measure and a flashlight, he groped under some maps until he found the Tums. With the bottle in his free hand he pried off the cap with his teeth and popped several pastel tablets into his mouth, he didn’t bother to count, as he hit the gas, veered across the median stripe into the opposite lane, and roared past what looked like a family in a blue station wagon with Iowa plates. They were creeping along at a lame fifty mph. As Jacques cruised back over the line, chewing antacids, he looked in the rear view shaking his head.

  Tourists…

  For the next few miles there was no traffic, just the way he liked it, the open road. But, now, he passed a vehicle going the other way that looked familiar, and it was followed by two others.

  Jacques caught a glimpse of the lead driver out of the corner of an eye, only a glimpse but that was enough. Maybe it was the wise-ass grin on the man’s face, or something about the mug.

  What...!

  Staring into the rear view he missed the next curve and careened across the stripe into the other lane and nearly ditched his pickup. Fighting for control, Jacques swerved at the last instant. That kept him on the shoulder, but even so, he nearly lost it. With a screeeeeeeech the truck jumped back onto the highway tracking rubber and fishtailed down the road. Fortunately, Jacques was an able driver, and luckily there was no oncoming traffic. He swerved until the brakes finally took hold and rolled to a stop. Through it all one eye had been glued to the rear view.

  I know that rig. That not only looks like! Son of a bitch if it isn’t Jimmy Thurston in his Wagoneer going the other way like a bat out of hell. An’ it looks like...yes, he’s got...what? three...four of my loggers with him. Plus two other rigs..

  Jacques found all of this difficult to assimilate.

  That’s more than half of my crew heading down the valley at ten in the morning, away from the job site...where they ought to be dropping trees.

  He checked his watch, then, with his sleeve wiped away the sweat on his forehead. For good measure he popped two more Tums. His stomach was doing those freaking half-gainers again.

  Fifteen minutes later he reached the field office at the main landing at Bowen Gulch. Braking hard, he spewed gravel and slid to a stop within ten feet of the trailer. Popping the stick out of gear, he yanked on the safety brake and without turning off the engine slid out the door and headed for the office, calling his foreman. “Francis!”

  No reply. There was no one around. Jacques poked his head inside the office. The place was forebodingly empty.

  Where can that man be?

  He fought back a mounting rage. His chest began to palpitate in asynchronous counter rhythm to the jazzy back-beat under his belt. Suddenly dizzy, Jacques leaned against the trailer to steady himself as a blinding flash of white light moved up his aorta and carotid artery, stabbing into his head. The shock passed, however, and he sighed with relief as he saw Francis Delacour coming out of the timber on the far side of the deck.

  “Francis!”

  Jacques was instantly annoyed by his Foreman’s casual demeanor. The man appeared too calm.

  “Morning, boss. Did you get the skidders?” The man’s pleasant tone and manner grated on the boss’s frayed nerves.

  Does he never react? Francis would sound upbeat after being mugged out of his skivvies!

  “I could only locate one skidder,” Jacques said, spitting out the words. “The driver’s right behind me. But that can wait. What’s going on, here? Five minutes ago I passed Jimmy Thurston and half of my crew going down the valley, headed for Granby.”

  Francis stared back not comprehending, his face a blank.

  Now came another shock. Reeds were parting inside Jacques’ head. Slowly he was becoming aware of what his eyes and ears had been trying to tell him, indeed, had been shouting at him ever since he climbed out of his pickup. Jacques looked around.

  Where are the others?

  Yes, that’s it. Wake up to the fact there are no other vehicles in sight. No rigs meant no crew, no business as usual, no start-up. Where are the rest of the men? The jimmied skidders were still parked at the edge of the landing but otherwise the deck was deserted.

  Jacques paused to listen.

  Yes, wake up to that, too. The problem is that the woods are strangely silent, too silent, absent the noisy music the boss has learned to love so well. The healthy din of screaming chainsaws telling him a crew of men are on the job, getting after it.

  “The woods,” Jacques mumbled. Yes, Jacques, the woods! The timber! Where is the sonorous medley of men at work that is music to your ears? The sweet symphony of loggers tapping out their screaming Stihls, Huskies, Partners, Jonsereds, and Homelites to the max. The lovely clamor of men dropping trees and limbing branches. Oh those beautiful discordant harmonies! Timber on its way to becoming logs
, soon to be loaded up and sent down the road. The sound of money, Jacques, greenbacks, coins clinking, silver rattling and rolling, hard-earned interest accruing on principal, liquid assets piling up like wood chips. The sweet sound, God willing, that will put you over the top and make you a wealthy man, or, at any rate, rich enough to retire before the age of fifty. Thereafter to kick back and gather in the good life. Recreate? Travel? Hell yes, whenever and wherever you like, maybe to winter in sunny Arizona or southern California, or even fly down to Oaxaca if you have a mind to, and take the wife and kid. And summer? Yes, summer in France and Switzerland, visit the Bernese Alps and the great cathedrals, and Paris too, the Louvre, and, while you’re at it, track down the family’s ancestral village in Normandy. Or maybe just fly fish the high lakes in the Sawatch range if you take a notion. Or hell, for that matter, just stay home and watch football, or do nothing – laze around the house all day in your PJs. Is this not the American dream? Is this not what the labor and sweat is all about? Why we strive eight to ten hours a day, five or six days a week, 50 weeks, year after year? Is it not why we put up with the hassles and the bureaucrats, the slings and the arrows? Yes, of course it is. This is why it matters greatly that the woods are as quiet as a cemetery, this morning, and why where there ought to be screaming saws, there is nothing...

  “Boss, I...”

  Jacques waved Francis silent. “Shhh, wait!” he said. Side-by-side the two men stood, Francis the ramrod biting his lip and Jacques the boss champing at the bit, his ears straining toward what he thought and hoped would be there, what must be there.

  Maybe they used the other Forest Service access road. Maybe they parked higher up...

  “Do you hear?”

  Muffled by distance came the faint but unmistakable whine of a chainsaw echoing up the valley. The sound was feather-light, soft as velvet on the morning air. The saw was a long way off. But no matter. One saw.

  Jacques waited, still counting. But that was all. That was it. No more. Only one saw. ONLY ONE! One saw where there ought to be a medley. One saw a symphony does not make.

  As if reading the boss’s thoughts, Francis said, “That’s not us, boss. It’s just some guy cutting firewood. I already checked it out. The crew didn’t come in on the other road either. No one showed up for work.”

  The words hit Jacques in the gut. He grabbed Francis roughly by the shirt. “Where’s the rest of my crew?” he shouted in his face.

  “Hey! Whoa there, boss,” Francis said gently, matter-of-factly, in the lowest key he could muster. Francis was concerned by this rising ire in the chief’s voice. The tone was as dangerous as a chisel tooth. “Simmer down, chief. No cause to get riled.”

  Jacques loosened his grip. He knew his foreman was right. Yes, right as ever. Francis was always right. Thank heaven for cool-headed ramrods like Francis Delacour. Struggling to regain his composure, he brushed his foreman’s shirt with his hand as if to erase the outburst. He took several deep breaths. The heat drained from his face. Calm returned. Jacques motioned down valley. “I just passed half the crew,” he said. “Would you believe they were headed for town?”

  “I know, boss.

  “You do?”

  “You just told me.”

  “I did?”

  “Look, chief,” Francis said, “I was just this minute on my way over to camp, to find out what’s going on.”

  “Huh?”

  “When you pulled in.” Francis paused, then continued. “Boss, yesterday evening, Rosemary went into labor, so I had to rush her to the hospital. But when I left camp everything was quiet. No problems.”

  It took another moment for the words to penetrate the clouds. Finally, Jacques asked with genuine concern, “How’s Rose?”

  “Fine, boss. Just fine,” Francis was clucking like a proud rooster. “We have an eight pound girl. She arrived at five this morning. I’m a dad.” Francis was beaming from ear to ear.

  “Congratulations,” Jacques said. He was smiling too. “That’s great news.” He gave his foreman a friendly punch. Momentarily reveling in the good news of fatherdom, the two men embraced in a warm hug. However, the good feeling was short-lived. “Didn’t the men know today is start up? Hell they should have, I told them a dozen times.”

  “I did too, boss.”

  “So, where the fuck are they?”

  Francis shook his head.

  Jacques looked at his watch. “They should have been here over an hour ago…”

  “It’s weird, boss. I don’t know what’s going on. Something.”

  “Damn,” said Jacques. “You think they’re down with ptomaine?”

  “Don’t know. They…”

  “What?”

  Francis told Jacques about the previous evening’s all-you-can-eat spaghetti feed. It was enough to send the boss’s dark thoughts galloping ahead. If Jimmy and crew were down sick that would explain why they skipped work. It might also explain why they were headed for town. Maybe the men were on their way to the medical clinic in Granby.

  Good Christ, just what I need, my entire crew out of action with stomach flu, or worse.

  Jacques had seen it happen, yes, more than once, seen the biggest toughest brawniest loggers laid up for days, weeks even, racked by dysentery, helpless as babes, flat on their backsides, that is, when they were not beating a path to the can. Stomach flu could put an entire crew out of action. Not a pleasant thought.

  Murphy’s Law again?

  The risk of food poisoning was ever-present with men who are not in the habit of bathing regularly or cleaning up after themselves. It was why Jacques always made a point of reminding the crew to wash with lots of hot water after eating. “And dammit! Use dish soap.” Not that the bastards usually listened. So much wasted breath.

  “Only one way to find out,” Jacques mumbled.

  “I was casing the lower unit,” Francis said. “Just now. I wanted to make sure they’d finished the flagging. Looks like everything’s ready.” He paused. “Maybe I should have checked the camp, sooner.”

  “We’ll do it now.”

  Francis nodded. The two men jumped into the boss’s still purring rig. Jacques released the hand brake, threw it into reverse and backed out sending gravel flying. He jammed the stick hard into second, forget first, and gunned the engine. As he picked up speed he shoved it into third, grinding gears. They made all possible speed down the Forest Service gravel road toward the logging camp trailing rocks, exhaust, and dust, not to mention the acrid smell of burning clutch.

  THIRTY SIX

  The logging camp was serenity itself. From somewhere back in the woods came the drilling of a downy woodpecker. The sound had a dreamy quality like a stroke of balm on the inner ear. The aspens and firs rustled ever so gently, caressed by the softest of summer breezes. More balm; the sound of solace in a world gone mad, spinning off its rocker.

  In Bobby’s camper the peaceful air stirred the half-open window shades. However, into this sea of tranquility was about to fall a red-hot poker, seething and hissing, violent and intrusive as a squeaky wheel.

  Rusty was lying on the bed beside her man feeling the much-anticipated first effects herself of los ninos fabulosos when from afar came the distant low roar of a motor. From half a mile away the sound had no substance. It was hardly more than the suggestion of noise. Whether her man also heard it was doubtful. Bobby was no longer aware of sound, as such. In his case bed, trailer and world had already merged into an ego-less avalanche of liquid plasma.

  Presently, the sound of the motor grew louder. Rusty propped herself on an elbow and now distinctly heard the metallic crunching and grinding that even she recognized as the hurried and reckless downshifting of gears. This was followed by the screeching of brakes and tires on gravel. No doubt about that sound. A vehicle, probably a truck, had just arrived at the logging camp. Now came the racket of truck doors opening and slamming shut, and the loud noises that men make when they’re in a big stew about something.

  “Bobby, some
body’s coming,” Rusty said. “And whoever they are they’re in a hurry.” Bobby half-opened one lazy eye but promptly closed it again. He rolled over and buried his head under a pillow, Bobby’s way of saying “no” to external reality.

  Now came the thunderous sound of the foreman’s deep bass voice booming through camp; and above it the no-less-insistent bark of command, the voice of Jacques St. Clair, crew boss.

  “Bobby,” Rusty said, shaking his shoulder. However, the gruff commotion and even Rusty’s gentle hand on his shoulder was like files screeching on his heightened senses.

  For another short eternity he lay in peaceful stillness, absorbed by the inner symphony of the spheres, much too content to be bothered by external trivia. Rusty shook him again, harder this time.

  “Bobby! Come on! You got to get up.”

  “Uhhh?”

  At last he stirred. Moving in slow motion, Bobby pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his face and eye sockets. Slowly Bobby gathered himself and began the Herculean chore of dressing. He reached for his robe, but tossed it aside.

  “No, not that,” he said. “Seen my pants?”

  Rusty handed him his trousers. Without bothering to pull on his underwear, Bobby rose from the bed. He did not even attempt to put on his shoes and socks.

  “Oh bother.”

  “My goodness! Are you large!” Rusty said, giggling at her man’s tumescence as he shuffled toward the trailer door.

  “I’m here, Jacques!” Bobby attempted to shout as he shoved a bare foot into the leg of jeans. “Over here!” However, the words came out in a barely audible whisper. To Bobby, the croaking sound of his own voice was like the far-off sound a pebble makes when you drop it into a deep well, nothing, nothing, nothing, then out of the void, ker-plunk. To Bobby it seemed as if this remote ker-plop was the fathomless sound of time itself. Nonetheless, he was determined to make himself heard from the depths of this deep cave. Marshaling himself against the sweet chords and the melodious strains inside his head, Bobby poked his head out the trailer door and called again. This time he succeeded in projecting his voice with force.