“Slipped,” I explained my muddied hands to Cook, and sat for a moment on the toilet seat, trembling. It felt as though I too had been caught in an unmentionable act, a wretched, unmentionable act. A truck roared towards the trailer, doors slamming, Ben’s laughter sounding over Chris’s. Another truck, more voices. My hand hurt. I ran cold water over it, over my face, noting a slight scratch from where I’d struck my forehead.
“Where’s your helper?” Chris was demanding spiritedly of Cook. “Got her run off? No good, was she?”
“Ah, she was a lousy waitress too,” chimed Ben. “Bring on the grub, by jeezes, I’m gut-founded. Slide your chair over, make room, Dirty Dan. Cook, what’s happening, my lovely, and where’s your help?”
I dried my hands and let myself out of the washroom, mechanically greeting Ben, who stood before me with a silly grin on his face, along with the rest of the crew, who were crowding noisily around the table, sharing jives with Chris about last night’s escapade. Joining Cook at the sink, I helped scoop the last of the broiled bangers onto the mash, wincing as she drummed the spoon against the pot, signalling a buffet-style lineup for the rest of the food. The crew were unusually feisty, but I took no heart as they heaped their plates with peas and carrots and scoops of green salad. No different than if that boot had been aimed at my face, so unnerved was I by its crudity, its harshness.
Filling the sink with hot water and detergent, I left Cook to do the serving. A cry of mock fright sounded from Ben as Cook put a thick coiled sausage on a plate of mash before him.
“I’d rather keep yours—where it is,” said Cook as he reamed his hands down the front of his pants. “I expect it works better there. I suppose,” she added through a bout of snickers and laughs from the men.
Frederick tapped Trapp’s plate with his fork. “Back east specialty, isn’t it—bologna sausage,” he asked loudly.
“Ye-es, my son,” said Trapp, “good hunting too, hunting balonies, hey, Ben.”
“Ye-es, my son,” replied Ben, “hard to catch though, when they gets going.”
“That why you Newfs are crowding us out—too stun to catch a baloney?” asked Skin.
“You got her,” said Ben, “thought we’d do better hunting gophers, right Chris?”
“Naw, Ben’s just teasing,” said Chris, “not hard catching balonies, hey, Trapp?”
“Naw, stun as the gnat balonies are—like some rig pigs I know, ha ha.”
“Pass the butter, Dan,” said Ben. “Dirty Dan—helluva name, where’d you get that one, bud?”
“Called after me pa,” said Dirty Dan. “So, how do you skin a baloney beast?”
“Skim!” said Ben. “You don’t skin balonies, you skims them.”
“How do you skim them, then?”
“Don’t know, never watches. Squeamish when it comes to skimming. How about you, Pabs—ever skim a baloney?”
“Draws your blade across the belly and watches the skin skim back,” said Chris.
Dirty Dan sniggered. “Favourite barb-b-q, is it—baloney steak?”
“Never eats it,” said Chris. “Was born full of it—like Ben, there. You too, I’m thinking.”
I lifted my eyes at the hoots of laughter and looked at Chris, his elbows sprawled across the table, his mannerisms slow and easy like Ben’s, his T-shirt frayed at the neck and a thatch of hair, stiffened with dust, crowding his forehead. Aside from his boyish grin and the excitement glistening his eyes, he was looking no different than the seasoned rig workers he was sharing dinner with.
A heavy thud sounded on the cookhouse steps, and I stood riveted as the knob rattled, the catch unhooked, and the door opened. Push stepped inside, his flat face darkened with anger, the whites of his eyes reddened with either fatigue or booze, most likely both. The crew fell into a resigned silence as he bore down on them, snarling, “You gawd-damned pansies enjoying your tea? Where the fuck are we down that hole?”he hurled at the squinty-eyed geologist. “Them gawd-damn shakers are stinking of carbon, what the fuck have you been doing, powder-puffing that snout again?”This last he aimed at Frederick, the only man still eating.
“Nature of a borehole to stink of carbon,” replied Frederick. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he forked mashed potato into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. Push’s face twisted contemptuously and for a second it appeared he would jam Frederick’s face into his plate. Instead he threw a fiendish look at Trapp.
“Got the shit outta your eyes yet, shitface?” he growled. “You been getting any pressure on them gauges?”
“None I never told you about.”Trapp leaned back on his chair legs, grinning stealthier than a mouse creeping alongside baseboards as Push looked at him blankly. “Wha’sa matter, Pushie, don’t remember our chat? You need more sleep, my man.”
Push faltered, his face taking on that pursed look of one trying to dredge forward last night’s dream. Finding nothing to catch hold of, he rolled a fist towards Trapp. “Screw with me, you turd.” He swerved the same massive fist towards Frederick who was assiduously examining a hunk of sausage before chomping a piece inside his mouth. With a snort of disgust Push turned away from the table. Frederick raised his head and I was jolted by the hatred in his eyes, by the hatred in Trapp’s ha ha ha’s pinging off Push’s back as he stomped out of the cookhouse. Trapp and Frederick faced each other and then looked away, as though embarrassed by the intimacy of their combined hatred.
Swallowing hastily, the geologist scraped back his chair. “Better go keep the lid on,” he muttered, hurrying after Push.
“Whose lid—the well, or Push’s?” Frederick called after him, pushing at his glasses again. His shoulders shaking with mirth, he clamped his square white teeth through another bite of sausage.
Skin was looking through his greasy overhang at Trapp. “Did we or didn’t we get a fuckin’ kick in pressure?”
“The old boy’s blood pressure,” replied Frederick. “That’s the only pressure kicking out there.” He rose, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Enjoy your desserts, good fellows. I’ll go tuck cocky in.”
“Ha ha ha. Bar the coopie door, man. Muffle that squawking.” Trapp turned his humourless laugh onto Skin, who was holding a steak knife in one hand and a fork in the other, staring at him.
“Did we get a fucking kick?” demanded Skin.
“Ha ha, like cocky said, it’s my balls hanging over that hole, sonny, and they don’t like swinging.”
“Your balls.”Skin snorted. “Two fucking wet tea bags.”
Trapp cupped his hands before his mouth, making a grotesque gesture with his tongue. Skin dropped his fork and sprang to his feet, holding his steak knife threateningly. Just as quickly Trapp was up on his feet, fisting a knife in one hand, his fork in the other.
“Hey! Sit down, sit the fuck down!” roared Ben. He was on his feet too now, his face contorting with disgust as Trapp and Skin faced each other like two hissing cats. Stabbing his knife into the table, Skin kicked back his chair and lunged for the door, shaking the cookhouse as he slammed it behind him.
“Sit down, for fuck’s sake, sit down,” Ben shouted at Trapp.
Trapp sat slowly, his eyes still slewed towards the door.
Ben let out a grunt of exasperation and dropped into his seat. “Did we get a kick?”he asked angrily.
“Naw, we didn’t get a kick,” said Trapp. He tried for an easy laugh, but Ben was madder than hell.
“I don’t trust that four-eyed fuck of an engineer,” he shot at Trapp. “You listen to Push, you don’t listen to that stun, four-eyed fuck.”
Trapp gave a dry laugh. He shot a glance at Cook, who was cleaning down the sink without any apparent concern. “Hey, Cookie—nettles in that soup? Rings burning our arses this evening.”
Cook wheezed something unintelligible. I stood guardedly by the window, watching Ben drink deep from a glass of water Chris slid towards him. I watched the rest of the crew peck at their food and one by one filter out of the cookhouse. I watched
as each of them paused for a moment outside the door, looking towards their truck, their bunkhouse, as though unsure of which way to go. Trapp was the last to leave. He too stood undecided before heading resignedly towards the bunkhouse. Men without comfort, I thought, dropping their unsettled heads onto whichever pillow would bear them and with nothing of themselves to unpack—no thoughts, no song, no commitment or loyalty—like the houses back in Cooney Arm, emptied shells, awaiting the souls that once were to come back and inhabit them. Small wonder they kept trekking into such unredeeming circumstances.
I looked from the window back to Ben, the same uncertain look playing itself over his face as he sat without moving, his eyes buried into the cold bangers and mash on his plate. Feeling my eyes turning onto him, Chris picked up his fork, feigning hunger over the cold grub. Begging off to bed with a throbbing head and her bottle of brandy, Cook closed her room door, leaving Chris and Ben staring dully at the table of dirty dishes and me standing by the window watching them.
“Come on, let’s give Sis a break,” said Ben.
I watched indifferently as they got to their feet, scraping plates, gathering cutlery, bungling their hands over the same spoons.
“I can’t stay here,” I said.
“Tomorrow I’ll take you somewhere,” said Ben. “Somewhere nice. Where I always go.”
“When you’re threatened by knives?”
He dropped the one he was holding and looked at me. “It was a bad show, Sylvie,” he said humbly. He leaned against the table, his face taking on a stupefied look. “Dumb fuck,” he muttered. “Stupid dumb fucks. It’s not been this bad. Look, I wouldn’t have brought you here—either of you,” he said to Chris.
“So let’s clear out,” I said.
Ben fixed his attention on the cutlery, slowly gathering it into a pile. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
“It’s all right, buddy,” said Chris. “Whatever the hell, we’ll get past it.”
“No. It’s not all right,” I said, my voice trembling. “There’s nothing all right about this place—what the hell, Ben—what does Trapp have on you?”
“I owe him. I can’t leave him here. And he’s not ready to leave yet.”
“Will he ever be? What do you owe him your life or something?”
Chris gave a blow of impatience. “You always jumps to the worst.”
“And you’re acting like there is no worst—”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Hell it’s not, it’s a fucking tinderbox. I can see covering for a friend,” I said, turning to Ben, “but not to this degree.”
“No. No, you don’t see,” said Ben stiffly. “You don’t and I can’t help you see it. Can’t talk to you about it—either of you.” He carried a stack of plates to the sink, fiddling with a pile of potato scraps, his back to me. I turned to Chris, who was noisily clustering a group of glass tumblers and casting resentful looks my way.
“What about you,” I demanded. “Is this where our father would have you? He’d choke himself if he saw this place—and you working here to buy him a boat,” I ended derisively.
“Let it go,” muttered Chris.
“I won’t, I won’t let it go. He wouldn’t have you here for ten trucks, for ten boats. You insult him if you think that. And your father too,” I assailed Ben. “They’d both choke at this place.”
Ben kept his back to me, fumbling with the plates. I turned to Chris. He lowered his eyes. My words had punctured him, but I couldn’t stop. I clung to the back of a chair to keep from shaking. My breathing was quick and ragged and I felt driven, like something caged, needing to get out, needing for him to get out, too.
“Shamed, he’d be shamed of us,” I drummed into my brother’s silence, “and you know it—Chris, you know it. He’d burn every dollar you sent him. He’d throw it back in your face. No worthy man would put himself here. None.”
Chris started away from me, the tumblers slipping from his hands and shattering at his feet. His face had been burnt by the sun but not yet darkened. It burned a deeper red now, spreading in splotches down his throat. Ben clattered a handful of forks and knives into the sink and crossed the cookhouse. “Your sister’s right,” he said to Chris, shoving chairs into the table with unnecessary force. “This place is getting bad. Me, I’m gonna be here for a while, gotta see some things through. But I’ll drive you both to town—after work, tomorrow.”
Chris let out a snort. “I’m not her youngster. Or yours either,” he flung at Ben. “You can both go—but I’m staying till fall, like I said.”
I stared at him anxiously. My hand stung from where I’d fallen and hot tears threatened to pour. I retreated into anger instead, and looking coolly at Chris, and then Ben, pointed to the door.
“Better still, the both of you go,” I said, jutting out my chin. “Go. Get the hell outta my kitchen—this is what I signed on for.”
We all three looked to the other. A tap on the cookhouse door jarred our attention, and Trapp stepped inside, an apprehensive look squinting his face as though it was a private home he was entering, not sure of his welcome.
“Gee, plumb out of nettle soup,” I said sharply, placing myself before him.
He nodded, avoiding my eyes. He bent sideways, trying to see around me to where Ben was squatting before a cupboard, digging out his whisky. Chris started scuffing together the broken glass with the toe of his boot. I held my spot before Trapp, my chin jutted so hard it ached. He forced himself to look at me, his greeny eyes lustreless in the dulled light from the one bare lightbulb.
“I was looking for the tonic,” he said, apologetically.
I stared at him without expression.
“For the burning,” he added, his tone becoming nasal. I was starting to recognize it as one he used when looking to tease, whether in torment or jauntiness. For the smidgen of a second a hint of humour softened that sharp, pointy face.
Relenting, I stood back, allowing him to enter. Ben threw a garbage bag at Trapp, and with the belligerent tone of an irate father, ordered him to help Chris with the broken glass.
I went to the sink, twisted on the taps, and squeezed detergent into the water. I started scrubbing pots first, not trusting my quick, anxious movements with the fragility of glass tumblers and plates. Chris murmured some banal comment to Trapp and I looked to him, trying to catch it. My brother’s face was pallid, and I felt deeply the slap of his rejection as he turned his back to me. I stared accusingly at Trapp, wanting to be angry with him for the terrible events of the night. But his awkwardness as he stood looking around with the garbage bag in one hand and holding on to the broom Chris had passed him drew a twinge of sympathy from me instead.
“Just sweep,” I said, taking the bag from him and directing his attention to the floor.
He started sweeping, bumping into Ben, who was pouring a round of drinks. Then he stepped back, near tripping over Chris, who was crouched behind him, picking up pieces of broken glass. He started sweeping again, clicking his tongue in frustration as Ben, putting a drink on the counter beside me, trod through his swept pile of dirt. I wondered how he’d fared growing up amongst the Trapp kin, counting eight or ten to a household, plus cats and dogs. He kept looking towards me, towards Chris, towards his little pile of dirt on the floor. Ben taunted his sloppy sweeping and he gave a forced, uncomfortable laugh that showed him to be outside the moment, studying it, gauging it, as though lacking faith in the sincerity of the moment, and was courting it with suspicion.
Chris sat at the table, fidgeting in his seat as Ben dug out the cards. He gave the first game to Ben and Trapp and leaned back, watching their play, smiling but saying little to Ben’s attempts at banter throughout the strained evening. A few times he stole a quick glance at me with the petulant look of a youngster wanting to crawl off from a family dinner.
Working a round of ham out of the deep freeze, I laid it on the sink and cursed when it slipped onto the floor. Chris grabbed it, putting it carefully back. Wi
th that he gave an exaggerated yawn, and waving aside Ben’s urging to wait, hold on, take on the winner, he bade good night to the room and headed for the door.
Ben’s brow creased with growing irritation. He opened his mouth to call after Chris, but was checked by Trapp’s wispy laugh as he pegged a run on Ben’s last play. Ben played the next card, his forehead popping with sweat as Trapp snared another run. He looked expectantly to me, as though I might put an end to his moment of twisted loyalties. But I was already heading into my room.
I slid open the window and pressed my face against the coolness of the wire mesh, staring out into the dark. The muted sounds of Ben and Trapp’s voices grew intense. I knew if I strained hard enough I might hear their words, but there was no room inside of me right then for their mystery. I looked with distrust to where Push’s trailer was burrowed into the dark. I looked to his rig. I couldn’t see it from where I stood, but in my mind’s eye, I saw it lit up a ghastly yellow by flood lamps that scorched through the dark like fallen suns.
The sky opened to a sudden downpour that stung coldly through the mesh onto my face. I slept fitfully that night to quick squalls on my window and the distant screaming of the jimmies. Come morning I awoke with the same foul mood clinging to me like a bad smell.
TEN
AS PROMISED, right after work the next evening Ben ushered me and Chris out of the cookhouse, assuring Cook we’d be back for the cleanup. With bread, cheese, smoked salmon, and a half dozen beer tucked behind the seat, we climbed aboard the truck and set off. Chris sat staring out his side window and Ben was wearing his graven image, whipping the truck irritably between gears. Neither had appeared for breakfast that morning, much less their early-morning cuppa tea and toast. Yet there was nothing of last night’s anger among us, simply the hangover of weighted thoughts and downcast eyes forbidding entry into territories too tender yet for scrutiny.
Fifteen minutes of hard driving and Ben parked before a tall hedging of jack pine, fringed beneath with grasses and golden swaths of dandelions. I climbed out of the truck, dizzy with relief in the absolute quiet, and drank back the sun-yellowed air, tarty sweet from the balsam firs crowding behind the pine.
What They Wanted Page 24