“Yes, b’y, seen it all,” said Ben with a dismissive air, scooping up his cards. “All right, buddy, your cut,” he said to Chris. “How’s your game, Push—try a game of crib?”
Push blinked. He shifted his attention to the cards, staring at them fixedly, like something foreign he might’ve enjoyed but had never learned. He made an imperious sweeping motion with his hand, and as if having done away with the question, he turned to Chris, his chest welling up, his neck thickening.
“Missing fingers,” he grunted. “Seen lotsa missing fingers. Crawl away from that—crawl away from what takes a finger— nobody crawls from a fire—first thing goes—thin skin.” He tugged at his earlobe. “No fat. Somebody screws up, something blows—patched with pig skin. Ever see a pretty pig—?”
Ben gave a huff of impatience.
“Hey.” Chris knuckled the table for Push’s attention and, just like those times he’d unwittingly galled Father, spoke in a yielding manner. “No need for worry—I’ll have them jimmies trilling like larks. Sis over there—she likes waking to larks, don’t you, Sis—want a game? Have a game with Ben, watch his cheating, he’s a damn cheat.”
Push’s eyes had shrunken to slits. His head bobbed lower and lower at Chris’s words, as though they were bits of a puzzle he had to put right. Shaking his head, he scraped back his chair and lurched to his feet. “Keep her greased, you young fuck,” he growled. “Keep my rig greased.” Shooting his hands off from his side for balance, he trod heavily towards the door and stumbled outside, leaving the door swinging in his wake.
I watched at the doorway as Push regained his balance and staggered towards his trailer. Then he stopped in his tracks, sighting Trapp sitting in the dark on the bunkhouse steps, flaring a match for a smoke he held in his mouth.
“Burn the fuckin’ place down,” muttered Push, and shoved off around the cookhouse. Trapp flicked his burning match to the ground, his cigarette glowing through the dark as he took a deep drag. I could feel him looking towards me. Closing the door against the dampish night air, I turned to Ben.
“Trapp’s sitting by himself again.”
“Not one for company.” He pushed the cards towards Chris. “C’mon, Betty, deal her up.”
“Drop the Betty, and I fuckin’ mean it,” said Chris. He’d spoken softly, yet his words were stiff.
Ben gave an appreciative grin. “You got it, bud. Now deal.”
“They’re poisonous towards each other—Push and Trapp,” I said.
“Reared on poison, wouldn’t they, Sylvie? The Trapp clan. Imagine suckling that tit all your life. From what I hear, Push and Skin weren’t suckled any better.”
“Well, time they weaned themselves, don’t you think?”
Ben laughed. “The whisky bottle. That’s as far as they got. That’s their witch mother, the whisky bottle.” He flicked Chris’s cards with the tips of his. “What have you got there, bud? What’re you hiding—where’d you get them points? Hell you never pegged all them points. And look at his forehead— cripes, Sylvie, can’t you fix it?”
Chris’s forehead was blistering with zits. “Can’t touch nothing without oiling up something,” he complained as I rummaged through a corner cupboard, fishing out a first-aid kit and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“Here, keep still, I cleans it,” I said to Chris.
“Yuh, they don’t like each other much,” said Chris. “Push, Trapp, Skin—seen stray cats get along better.”
“Scaredies,” said Ben. “That’s all they are, scaredies. See themselves in the other’s eyes—hates what they see, and tries to claw it out. Petty stuff. Petty stuff, is all. Like that on all the rigs, petty stuff—in banks and law offices, too—everybody looking to move up, trying to steal your job, whispering silly willies in somebody’s ear, ‘Hey Push, I seen Ben snoozing behind the mud tank, Hey Push, Ben’s gone off early agin, Hey Push, Ben’s jacking off down the mouse hole.’”
I gave him a dubious look. “Seen lots of bad-ass characters in the bars, but not all sitting at the same table. And I’ve never been inclined to join them. Sit back,” I said to Chris, soaking a piece of cotton wool with alcohol. “Pull back your hair— aah, it’s stiff with dirt, when did you last wash it?” He let out a yowl as I dabbed at his forehead and swiped at the liquid drooling down his cheek.
“For gawd’s sakes,” I said wearily.
“Just take it easy, will you, cripes.”
“Hold still. Just what exactly is Trapp’s job?”I asked, and sighed with impatience when Chris let out another yowl as the alcohol stung into his swollen pustules. “Don’t touch it,” I ordered.
“Get away with that—” “Sit still.”
“Will you get the hell away?”
I swabbed his mouth and he cursed again, bolting from the chair into the washroom. Laying down the swab, I sat next to Ben, trying to follow his words.
“He decides how fast or how slow we lower the pipe down the drill hole. He works the brakes holding it back. He watches his gauges—it’s his gauges that guide him—is she losing pressure, or gaining pressure, or is she levelling off? That’s the mud thing again—is the mud coming back up the hole, or going down and cycling back up through your annulus— which is what you want—what you pumps down the hole equals what’s coming back up. He always got to be watching his gauges, figuring what’s going on down the hole. He’s Push’s eyes. He’s Push’s eyes, nose, and ears. He got to be paying attention every second—especially when Push isn’t on the floor. He reports to Push, he reports everything to Push.”
“And to Frederick?” I said.
“No, no, Frederick is his own man. Told you before, Frederick’s boss of the underground—which is a crew of one—himself. They consult—Frederick and Push and, well, the geologist, too—they consult about what’s happening and how to go, but it’s Push’s rig, Push’s crew. Frederick got nothing to do with the crew. Sometimes they get into arguing what certain pressures mean, and either one of them got the authority to shut down the rig if they thinks there’s something happening that they’re not sure of. But overall, it’s Push who does the ordering. And perhaps it’s based on what Frederick tells him, or based on his own knowing. But on this rig for sure it’s Push who does the ordering, which makes me feel right at ease because Push got it all over that stun-fuck Frederick— greener than a spring pasture.”
“Neither of them make me feel exactly secure,” I offered.
“Imagine they feels the same about you,” muttered Chris, shuffling out of the washroom. Dabbing a wet bit of tissue to his forehead, he took his seat, throwing me a petulant look. “Your deal,” he said to Ben. “Any chance of a drink—witch mother?” he asked me.
I took another swab at his forehead, and exchanging a conspiratorial grin with Ben, made a round of drinks. I sat down to watch as Ben bullied Chris into a premature play and then assailed him with a double run on points. He egged Chris into another premature play and then pegged more points, knuckling Chris’s shoulder with the affection of a big brother. He tossed me a wink as Chris nailed his next play for two points, and then let out a soft laugh, high-fiving me as he counted out a run and out-pegged Chris for game.
My belly tingled along with my fingertips. I feared mooning again. This cramped camp with its bullying scaredies was starting to feel warm and cozy beneath the pearly light of the moon. Myrah sauntered through my corridor of thought, ringing bells of alarm, of warning. I didn’t care. I couldn’t help it anyway. Love was a spring rain, and I stood thirsting from the long drought since I’d last been sprinkled upon by the attentions of Ben Rice. Adding to my growing sense of comfort in this unlikely place was the eagerness in Chris’s eyes as he challenged Ben to another game of crib. One week. One week of living in this camp and working the rigs, and the guilt about Father had loosened its restraints from my brother’s face.
I DOUBLED MY EFFORTS at cleaning and scrubbing the cookhouse floors. I double-dosed the scrubbing water with vinegar, detergents, and other lemony-sc
ented cleansers. And yet I could never free it from the stench of diesel, of dankness, of ground rot. And no matter the savoury stews and soups Cook dished out, the hot bread and muffins, the juicy steaks and spuds, and no matter the fat, grey pussy willows I plucked from the roadside and sat on the table in a mayonnaise jar, an oppressive air jaded the cookhouse. Jaded the whole camp. Hung over it like the darkest of clouds.
I felt it each day as I trekked across the field to the rig and entered its rumbling belly. I felt it each time I laid my basket of sandwiches and fruit on the table inside the doghouse, huddling for a moment before its vibrating glass front, peering out at the men scarcely recognizable inside their shapeless, grease-blackened coveralls and hard hats, dancing and dodging around the swinging chain, the moving metal parts, Push’s mouth warping to the side as he yelled into their faces, fisting his palm when it appeared none of them had either heard or cared to look, flashing his eyes up the steel tower, gesturing wildly at the derrickhand who stared back down, mouth pursed as though he might spit. I felt it each time Trapp’s hands splayed like claws as he stared down the haughty length of his nose at Push, who was consistently wringing fists big as yams at him from across the rig floor, and at Skin, who was always sneaking glances at him through the greasy lock of hair escaping his helmet and pinching his nose as though staving off the stench of shit.
And I felt it the time I saw Frederick, the engineer, chuckling like a silly overgrown boy before Push’s enraged face as they stood arguing before the array of gauges at the station where Trapp worked.
“Who’s boss over who, agin?” I asked Ben later that evening.
“Frederick bosses the underground, Push bosses the rig floor. Formation, pressure, that’s Frederick’s stuff. Rig floor, rig hands, that’s Push’s stuff. Push wants to shut her down, he shuts her down. Freddie don’t like what’s happening underground, he shuts her down.”
“So how come they argue all the time?”
“Cuz Freddy’s the book-happy scholar, and he got the smarts and he got the papers, but he got dick-all according to Push because he don’t have Ex-per-ience. And in this game if you don’t have experience you got to trust others to guide you right—them with experience. But this Freddie Four-eyes, he just got his nose out of a book and hasn’t learned yet what experience is, and Push hates him for that—hates his arrogance.”
“And you trust Push—even though he works when he’s drunk?”
“Bastard knows every squeak on that rig floor. Creeps about like a nervous mother, listening to gears, the pumps, the jimmies—most times he knows what’s happening just from the sounds they’re making, their grunting and groaning and whining—yeah, he’s a good mother, Pushie is, I’ll give him that. Speaking of mothers, how’s yours?”
“Uh?” It was one of those rare moments when Chris had gone early to the bunkhouse and Ben was left sitting alone at the table, idly flipping through the cards in a game of patience, watching me standing at the sink dicing vegetables for a pot of soup for the night crew.
“I was talking to my mother,” he said, “and she said that you and your mother had a spat at the hospital.” He lunged forward, catching a turnip as it rolled off the sink. “Here you go.”He bounced it from hand to hand like a ball. “Want me to peel it? Need some help there? Here, pass that knife, I peels your turnip.”
I took the turnip from his hands and pointed at a bag of potatoes.
He was standing close, quite close; I could feel him. I fumbled with the carrot. He fetched a knife out of the block and started peeling spuds. My hair was sweaty from working all day and hung lank in a ponytail. I was wearing one of Cook’s oversized aprons, permanently stained from years of splattering grease. I hadn’t freshened my lipstick since right after supper, and my lips felt dry.
“We were arguing over ideals,” I said, biting my lips to redden them, “the plight of the young and foolish—getting so caught in ideals and cleverness that we overlook common sense sometimes.”
“And your mother says—?”
“She says some people need never leave home to learn.”
“Like your brother.”
I shrugged. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “And that learning comes to some people, like my brother with his images. And in some cases—like with Chris—it’s for the rest of us to bring learning to what he gives us.”
“Your mother said that?”
“Kinda.”I shrugged again. “I think she’s right.”
“I think I like your mother.”
“Oh—and why’s that?”
“Why’s that—why’s that, let’s see—she thinks for herself?”
I laughed. “Yeah, she does that.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” he asked, shouldering me. “People clutch on to other people’s ideas because they’ve none of their own. Or they don’t trust their own. Like you right now, eh, Sis?”
“Stop calling me Sis,” I mumbled.
He threw a spud into the pot and scrubbed his grist-grained hands onto the sides of his jeans. He took the knife out of my hands and laid it on the sink and started kissing my mouth, wrapping one of his legs around mine like a snake, forcing me hard against him. I was caught unprepared, hadn’t taken a breath of air, hadn’t brushed my teeth after supper. He slid his hands beneath my T-shirt onto bared skin and I forgot about air and toothpaste. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pushing into him. “The night crew,” I whispered against his mouth, “I’ve got to finish the soup.”
“Fuck’em.”
“They’ll soon be here.”
He kissed my face and then pulled away. “You finish the soup, I’ll clean,” he said softly, and started to scrape peelings into a garbage bag. I finished dicing the potatoes, my hands shaky, and nicked a finger. I sucked on the cut, and was debating whether or not it needed a Band-Aid when I heard Chris calling, a tinge of alarm in his voice. I turned to Ben and we hurried out on the step. The pale white light of the moon showed up the blackness of the land, and of Chris’s figure wavering towards the centre of the clearing.
“I lost me boot,” he yelled. “I lost me freakin’ boot, it’s stuck in the mud, in the jeezly mud.”
“What’re you doing out there?” roared Ben.
“It suctioned off in the mud—I heard something—heard a cat—”
“A cat! You heard a cat—you’re in the middle of the fucking wilderness—where you gonna get a cat in the middle of the fucking wilderness?”
“It was there, I heard—come help me, jeezes, I’m stuck.”
A set of headlights was coming across the clearing. It was Push’s truck.
“Jeezes, jeezes,” muttered Ben. “Get back in the kitchen,” he ordered as I started laughing.
“Sis—you there, Sis?” called Chris.
“No. Find your own boot.”
I went back inside, hurrying through the cleaning up, leaving the door open so’s to hear Ben cursing at Chris, and Chris cursing at the mud, and Push cursing at them both as he positioned the headlights of his truck onto Chris, who was wobbling on one foot, holding the other in his hand as he searched about for his boot.
The soup was bubbling on the stove, the cookhouse cleaned and the table readied for breakfast, and they were still out there—Ben laughing now, and Chris cursing, and Push sitting behind the wheel of his truck drinking whisky and snorting his own brand of laughter.
Another truck roared in bearing two of the night crew. I watched through the window as they joined the fracas—“He’s got it, he’s got his boot—the young fuck’s got his boot,” their loud guffaws following each shout. I looked at the clock. It was nearing midnight. Ben staggered into the glare of the headlights, scraping mud off his hands, his jeans, Chris limping behind him like a muddied hound.
The headlights went off and Push and the two men came noisily into the cookhouse, making coffee and pouring themselves bowls of soup, barfing out laughs at Chris and his boot. I stood in the doorway, shrugging helplessly as Ben looked at me, the
n at his muddied clothing, muddied hands, and the crew taking over the kitchen. He gave me a halfhearted good-night wave and started after Chris, clouting him on the back of his head for his fool thinking.
“Done it once myself,” said Push, “lost a boot in the mud.” He laughed. He caught me looking at him and looked torn for a second between a nod and a grin. He nodded, and I nodded and went to my room.
PERHAPS IT WAS THE ALMOST GRIN that I acted on the following day when I dragged two bags of garbage to the bin. Push’s trailer was tucked just out of sight behind the cookhouse, the narrow walkway between leading to the bin. The past few shifts he had taken to working mostly nights because he wasn’t trusting the night driller, Ben told me over tea that morning, and he was starting to fall asleep on his feet from working both night and day. His door was opened, and as I neared I heard the light, accomplished pickings of guitar strings. I listened. The occasional tunes the night wind brought me had been Push’s.
The picking ended, then Push’s voice started up with a hesitant singing of an old-time country song. He faltered on the words: “Let’s pretend—let’s pretend … we’re together, you and me—we’re together, all alone—we’re together, you and I—”
“… we’re together, all alone,” I finished with a flourish, then looked in through the doorway with a smile. Push was sitting at a small table, a guitar strapped around his neck. He stared out at me with the abrupt look of a youngster caught in an unmentionable act. Rearing to his feet, he kick-shut the door so hard the trailer shook. I jolted sideways, tripped over one of the garbage bags I was lugging, and fell. My forehead hit the side of the cookhouse and my hands squished through mud, one of them scratching across the sharp edge of a rock. I hastily got to my feet and dumped the garbage, hurrying back to the cookhouse.
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