“Yeah sure, just give me a minute I changes aprons. Ben, go get him back, please.”
“I’m serious. We’ve had two quit in the past six weeks, and Cook’s desperate. You’ll be hired in two seconds. Hell, you’re hired now, if you want it. Think about it—when was the last time you up and done something spontaneous—think about it, will you think about it?” he asked.
He smiled that old tender smile.
My pulse remained flat, the blood pooling like still water in my veins. “What’s he going to do, he’s got no work clothes or nothing—he can’t just go off to a camp.” I moved away from him, straightening chairs, hustling tables, removing empties. Ben hopped by my side, tossing in a word when he could.
“I’ll take him shopping, I’ll take him with me to Peace River this evening, be back in the morning, think about the offer—Sylvie.” He gripped my arm, facing me. “I won’t take him if you’re not agreeing. I’ll bring him back here tomorrow, see how you feel. Got that?”
“Sure, I got that.” I waved Ben aside, clearing a load of empties off the cigarette machine, dropping a handful of quarters inside for a pack of smokes for one of the patrons, silently muttering, “Bloody hell you’ll talk him out of it, not when he’s riding that stubborn streak of his.”
I swerved around the tables, staring more openly now at the multitude of rig workers, their scarred hands and fingers missing, their bruised and scratched skin, their wearied, overworked eyes. The accident stat I’d thrown at Ben hadn’t come from thin air; I’d read it in Maclean’s whilst waiting on laundry a week ago—dated, perhaps, but only by two years, and from what I’d been reading in the papers, it still applied. Roughnecks, lean and tough, the equivalent of yesterday’s cowboy (the article went on to say), were daily wrestling hundreds of tons of steel pipe miles into the earth in search of oil … death and mutilation are simply part of the risk … thirty-nine dead in the past three years, eleven dead in the past ten months … some crushed under tons of steel, others hit by whiffs of poison gas, food wolfed down in between one-minute pipe changes, lotsa money and lotsa cost of flesh and blood, inexperience, insufficient training, fatigue, twelve-hour shifts, fourteen days on, seven days off, work fast, make money, get out, safety issues resisted by governments and roughnecks alike—trying to force a roughneck into more respectable hours like telling a cowboy to trade in his horse for a Jeep.
The afternoon dragged on square wheels. Before going home that evening, I called Gran from the bar. She was just back from the hospital with Kyle and was having a cup of tea now before bed.
“Be another couple of days before he’s home,” said Gran. “He’s done damage, but he was walking the hallways this evening.”
“And Mom?”
Gran paused. “Your mother’s fine, don’t go worrying, Dolly. See to things out there, and she’ll be fine.”
“But how is she, Gran—do she still think I talked Chris into leaving?”
“She knows Chris well enough for that. And she’s too busy with your father to worry about much else. Do he have a job yet, Dolly?”
My turn to pause. “Actually, yeah, he does, already. Guess what, Gran, he’s going to start with Ben in the camps. Tomorrow morning. Tell her that, will you—that might make her feel better, that he’s working with Ben. Ben will take good care of him.”
“My, that is good, then. Yes, I’ll tell her that, I’ll tell her that this evening. For sure, she probably already knows—Suze is down with her tonight, and probably Suze knows.”
“Yes, probably she does. You don’t go worrying now, Gran.”
“Nor you either. And so, you’re getting on, then?”
“Your tea’s cold by now, you still like it cold—”
“I’ll add a drop of hot water. Kyle, put a drop of hot water in Gran’s tea.” Her voice faded as she spoke aside to Kyle, and I could hear the aged tremor in her tone.
“You got your lamp lit?” I asked, feeling a twinge of homesickness. “Let me talk to Kyle. Ky? How are you, got Gran’s lamp lit for her?”
His voice was small, too young for the worries just now put onto him, but he spoke well. “He looks better by the day,” he said of Father. “Mother’s the one who’s depressed, doctor said it’s supposed to be Dad, but it’s she instead.”
“Don’t go telling your sister that,” I heard Gran grumbling in the background, “she’ll be worrying for nothing, and stop chewing your fingers, you’ll be down to stumps by morning.”
“What’re you chewing your fingers for,” I chided Kyle, “stop that worrying, and now listen to me. I’m transferring money into Mother’s bank account. I want you to talk with one of our uncles—Uncle Manny, perhaps—and tell him to start looking for a boat for Dad, like the one he lost. You don’t tell Dad this, or Mother, not even Gran, just do it, all right? Tell Uncle Manny not to say nothing till he’s got a boat. It’ll be another couple of weeks before I get the rest of the money, but he can start looking.”
I thrived on the relief in Kyle’s voice. “I can do that, I can look too, I knows where to look, I’ll stop by Deer Lake on the way to the hospital tomorrow, me and Gran, she’ll like that.”
“But hold on now, I don’t have all the money yet, it’s gonna take a few more weeks.”
“Yes, I know, I’ll just look.” His voice grew eager, and I felt in him that sense of strength that comes with taking things back from fate. Leastways, some things. So much depended on Father’s health now, and how much of it he’d get back. Reassuring Kyle had brought a lift to my heart too, and after assuring him and Gran for the thousandth time that things would be fine, I left work and hurried to catch the bank before closing time.
I thought of Chris, the sense of purpose, the excitement on his face when he had entered the bar, and felt a stab of guilt that I’d trodden over what must’ve felt a great accomplishment, securing a high-paying job overnight, working alongside his bud Ben. Worriers all of us, I chided myself, driving back to the camp. Probably a gift from God, Ben’s calling home and Chris getting a job so fast. Five months down the road, and with both our wages plus overtime for Chris and tips for me, we could have a boat bought and ten or fifteen thousand dollars sent home—what Father probably made in a year in the woods. And perhaps by Christmas we could all be home, gathering around the table, gifts galore for everybody.
I’D NEARLY talked myself happy by the time I returned to the bar the following morning. It had felt like a fast night, jet lag from the trip across the country making for a deep pillow. A couple of circles around the bar, staring back into the wearied eyes of all those rig and service hands, and I was back to worrying again, looking expectantly to the door, watching for Chris and Ben.
“Well, how-dee-do, she said nothing about bringing back her sisters,” said Cork. I glanced up as three assorted brunettes entered, rib-hugging tube tops clinging to their nipples and jeans tight as skin dipping beneath their bellies. They moved into the dimly lit bar, their flowery scents wafting behind like a meadow’s breeze. Choosing a table closest to the men’s washroom, they sat, bracelets and neck chains tinkling, and turned inviting smiles to the room.
“Know what I like about them sisters,” said Cork, eyes digging inside their well-rounded tube tops, “everything’s up front with them babes. And what’s not is a billfold away—yeah, that’s right, Skinny, everything’s got a price. Go do your rounds,” he cackled over my grunt of disgust. “Every cocksucker here is bulging to treat them ladies.”
“No argument there,” I muttered, scratching orders from the sudden rash of fingers snapping for my attention.
Swerving about the tables, I laid down jugs and glasses, counting out my pay from the mound of bills constantly being replenished in the centre of each and every table. One of the things that had astounded me my first day on the job was the pile of tens and twenties the men tossed indiscriminately on their tables, and how it never went down, no matter how many rounds I served. It was these piles of bills the three women were openly eyeing
as they lit up cigarettes and casually chatted while surveying the room.
“Couple more whiskies, Cork.” I rested my tray on the table, sorting through the handful of coin I’d just earned.
“See over there, you see over there,” Cork commanded, pointing with a whisky bottle towards the hookers. A young fellow had seated himself at their table and was walking away now amidst jeers and laughter. Taking his place was an oldish fat man, his sleeves pushed up around massive arms, his cap stuck in his back pocket. “Know what you’re seeing there? Proper ways of women is what you’re seeing there— turning away young bucks for fat-ass piggy banks. Learn from them—always chuck what you want for what you need.”
“Chrissakes!”
“Just helping you along—”
“Chuck it, Cork.”
“Watch them knickers, Skinny, they’re starting to knot.”
AFTER ANOTHER HOUR there came a lull. “Can I make a quick call, Cork? Check on my father.”
He rasped his consent, shoving a pile of coin from the bar towards me, nodding towards the pay phone in the small alcove by the washroom doors. I had the number to the hospital in my jeans pocket and dialed it quickly, feeding coins into the slot. Partway through the first ring Mother answered. Her tone sounded tired upon saying hello, and then turned crotchety as she recognized my voice asking how she was doing. “My, I thought you were Suze at first,” she said, trying to cover her terseness, “she’s calling every half hour, I don’t know what she thinks, that I’m suddenly going to up and die.”
“She’s—probably worrying more about you than Dad.”
“Your father’s doing just fine. Washed and dressed himself this morning. He’s sleeping now—tired him out talking with Chris.”
“Chris called?”
Slight pause. “So it’s true, then—he’s with Ben?” A subtle tone of relief in her voice.
“Does that make you feel better?” I asked with a kick of anger.
“I’m just asking, Sylvie, what do I know what you’ve got cooked up—especially now the two of you are together.”
“What do you mean, cooked up?”
“Suze brought down the mail,” she replied. “All them brochures for Chris. Should I keep them here, or perhaps—” I could hear her striving to keep the edge out of her tone— “perhaps he won’t be coming home before he moves to Halifax?”
I rested my head against the cool metal of the phone. “Next time he calls, ask him,” I said quietly.
“Your father’s awake. Here, he wants to speak to you.”
His voice sounded groggy and confused in my ear. “It’s Sylvie,” I heard Mother say, and hated that she’d put the phone to his ear, that he was straining to wake his self up.
“No need to say nothing,” I cut in, “just checking on you, is all.”
He spluttered for a bit, and then started sounding stronger, asking me about the trip back, when I was coming home again. There was nothing of resentment in his tone, and I breathed a bit easier knowing that.
“You keep a watch for Chris, Dolly,” he croaked. “Headstrong, he is—like your mother,” he added, mischief creeping into his tone. “Should see her, more white in the face than me, I think she rather herself lying in bed, getting the attention.”
I heard Mother chiding him in the background, and the clatter of trays—his lunch, he said, they were serving him lunch, and what a poor fare supper was last night. Spuds with no salt or butter.
It bolstered my feelings, hearing Father joking like that, and if not for Mother, I’d have been feeling rather chirpy by the time Ben came swinging in through the doors. He shook his head as I looked past him for Chris.
“Out in the truck,” said Ben. “Bull-headed like his old man. Not budging from his decision to work the rigs, and he’s not budging from the truck because he don’t want to fight with you. So.” Ben looked at me questioningly. “I meant it yesterday—about you coming to work with us.” He looked past my shoulder, making a face. “I better get outta here, you’re boss don’t look happy. Listen, change your mind, gimme a call.” He pulled a card from his back pocket and tossed it on the tray. “Here comes your boss, you’re gonna get fired, you makes a lousy waitress anyway.”
He quickly left the bar, leaving me facing a snarling Cork. An effusion of apologies and I was back to cleaning tables. Through the window I caught sight of Ben crossing the street. I saw Chris sitting in a huge, godawful truck that was encrusted with dried mud and with a rusted wheel-wench soldered to its front grille, and its flatbed loaded with sacks of spuds and bagged groceries. Ben climbed into the driver’s seat, settling beside Chris. Lowering their caps to the sun, they gave each other a high five. The engine jolted into life and they rattled down the road, leaving me with a pang of sudden loneliness, of having become the dissonant chord in the song of camaraderie that had once been ours.
I picked up my tray and turned back to the room, back to those roughened hands and wearied eyes of the men, cigarette smoke coiling around their heads like phantom nooses.
A cheer rose from the bar. The hookers were rising from their table with three older men. One of the girls turned at the door, blowing kisses around the room. The rejected young fellow from earlier staggered to his feet with a loud howl, ducking kisses as a gunslinger might dodge bullets, drawing louder cheers from his pals. I looked back out the window, mechanically taking orders. The godawful truck was heading west, towards the campsite. Dumping dirty ashtrays into a sink, I slapped them about, hosing them with hot water. Cork snatched the hose from my hand, waving his cloth crossly before my face, threatening me with firing.
“Know what, Cork—you got a real bony butt.” I took off my apron, chucked it on the bar, and followed the hookers and their fat-assed piggy banks out the door.
I plucked a parking ticket from beneath my car wipers, flung it onto the dash, strapped myself in, and started down the street. The sun was burning through the windshield and I lowered my window to a warm wind, shoving a Jim Morrison into the tape deck. Cranking the volume, I turned onto the highway, thinking oddly of Mother again, sympathizing with that unrealized desire of hers to travel abroad when I was but a girl. And I thought of Chris, those feelings of unrest pummelling through him. Good then. Good for him. He was taking that extra step away from our father’s door, the one I’d already taken, the one our mother had failed to take. I felt the first sense of peace since leaving home, for as Chris said, I had no right to decide his path.
Or had I already forged the twist that had taken him thus far?
It was a question I would return to many times during the few short days to come.
EIGHT
THE MUD-CRUSTED TRUCK sat near the campsite looking like something dredged out of the river. I pulled up beside it and started across the campground, the multicoloured tents like enormous kites resting on the grass, gaily strung clotheslines stretching between them like tails. Along the riverbank lazed some of the motley-haired campers with their guitars, their bared skin already browner than the river running alongside them as they hummed and played popular folk songs of the day. A dog yapped after a squirrel scampering up the trunk of a tree. Two crows clutched the limbs of a birch, staring beady-eyed at a shiny pot of water heating on the fire pit below as two young girls scraped and sliced a bundle of carrots and spuds. Chris stood outside my tent, heavily dressed in dark clothing, the beak of his cap turned backwards, his face wearing the dazed look of a missionary happening upon his first tribe in some unmapped land.
“Baywop!” I muttered with a scant trace of affection. I glanced at Ben squatting beside a trio of girls near the river, their laughter tinkling over his words like spring water over ice crystals. Chris watched me coming with a pained expression.
“Already told you, not arguing with you,” he said, and ducked inside the tent. I ducked in behind him, falling to my knees, rolling up my sleeping bag just as he was. He sat back on his ankles, watching. “What’re you doing?”
“Ben didn’t t
ell you? My, but he likes a secret. I’m coming, too. Uh huh. Got a job. Cook’s helper.”
His mouth gaped open. “What—wait a minute, you can’t come—you can’t cook—”
“Give back,” I said as he pulled the sleeping bag from my hands. “Unless you comes to your senses and stays home, too.”
“Home!” he scoffed, punching at the side of the tent. “Freaking la la land—look, you can’t come—you’re nuts, you can’t follow me to the rigs, smothering jeezes—” He looked appealingly to Ben, who was pulling back the flap, staring in at us. “Will you talk to her—she’s gone nuts! She’s cracked! She thinks she’s coming to the rig!”
“Can’t be fighting on the rig,” Ben said and dropped the flap back in place.
Chris stared after him in astonishment. “She’s not coming— Ben! Jeezes, look at her, like the cat,” he cried as I clawed my sleeping bag out of his hand. I ducked out of the tent, Chris ducking out behind me.
“She’s not coming,” he said to Ben. “Jeezes, man, I can’t have her on the rigs with me.”
“Man!” I mocked him. “Well, man, guess you’re just gonna have to.” I stood bemused as Chris fixed his eyes on a tangled-haired youth climbing out of the tent next door, a white cloud of smoke puffing out behind him.
“What’s they doing now, smoking themselves?” he asked with a snort. “Thinks they’re capelin or salmon or something?”
Ben busted out a laugh.
“Go hide your ignorance,” I muttered to Chris, and crossed over to the fellow for a quiet word. Minutes later I was back. Ignoring Ben’s retreat to the girls by the river, I stared calmly at my brother. “Tent’s rented, the car’s looked after.”
Chris was staring at me like a disenchanted monk. “Fine, then, fine,” he snapped. “You’ll love it in the woods, especially when you gets a grizzly on your tail.”
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