“We should go to town,” I said impulsively. “This evening let’s go to town. Ben will drive us—soon as the shift ends. We can buy a present or something for Father—and Kyle,” I added as his eyes took on a glint of interest. “Been near on two weeks now—they must be missing you.”
“Money,” said Chris. “We’ll send home money. I got about five hundred bucks clocked. You lend me that much and I’ll stick it in the mail.”
“Great, we’ll take a few days off—”
“No, we won’t.”
“Then how you gonna send money, everything’s closed by the time we get to town.”
“Write a cheque, stick it in the mail.”
“I just said, everything’s closed.”
“Right. So, back home when the post is closed, we shoves the envelope in through the mail slot, throws in the right change and—”
“—and the postmistress licks on a stamp and mails it,” I ended for him. “Don’t happen that way here.’Course, we can always stay in town once we’re there—find sensible work—”
“Jeezes, here she goes.”
“Kidding, just kidding.”
“Yeah, right, just kidding.” He got up, slopping the rest of his tea down the sink. He stood there, watching the milky liquid run down the drain hole, then looked at me with a sad smile. “Don’t think I’ll ever sit in Father’s boat agin.” He shook his head. “Don’t think I will.”Draping his arms around my shoulders, he kissed the top of my head and went outside. When next I looked out the window he was sitting aboard the truck with Ben and Trapp, his arm dangling out the window, his flaxen head bobbing as they lurched over the ruts and potholes.
I WAS AT THE WINDOW again ten minutes later when the night crew came roaring up to the cookhouse door.
“Cook! Come look, come look,” I shrieked. Falling out of their trucks, the men looked like oversized boys just back from a mud fight on some riverbank. The whites of their eyes gleamed against their brown, muddied faces—their throats, hands, clothing—every part of them that hadn’t been covered in coveralls was slathered in mud.
“Spillover,” said Cook.
“Spillover?”
“Mud coming back up the pipe.”
Spillover. I remembered Ben’s big spiel that first evening at camp, sitting in the truck and telling Chris about the rig. Pressure. Everything’s pressure, he’d said. Keeping it balanced. Same quantity of mud being pumped down the pipe comes back up the borehole outside the pipe. If the mud starts coming back up the pipe—you stop everything. There’s something pushing it back up. And nobody moves till that something is known.
“Like a geyser. Broke the pipe to make a connection, and she flowed up like a geyser,” said one of the irate men when I leaned out the cookhouse door to ask. He lingered behind the rest as they headed for the showers in the bunkhouse, his bald head the colour of chocolate, his round blue eyes like pools of spring water amidst his muddied face. “First time I seen such a thing,” he said, and then followed after the others with a look of surprise still clinging to his face as though one of them might’ve smattered him with mud cakes when he wasn’t looking.
I strained to understand their words as the men trickled into the cookhouse later for breakfast, faces scrubbed, hair wetted back. They weren’t looking their usual tired selves, near falling asleep into their food as they ate. Their eyes were bright, their movements quick, and their talk loud and overrunning one another’s.
“Can smell gas, can smell fucking gas in the mud—”
“Because it’s down the hole, numbnuts, it’s in the formation—that’s why we’re drilling there—”
“Don’t like it, don’t fucking like it—”
The driller, nicknamed Eeyore for his high forehead, long ears, and slow, dragging speech, nodded as he spoke around a bite of toast. “U-tubing, boys. Small kick. She’ll right herself, we’re too far from the zone—”
“Can still blow, can always fucking blow, man—one highly pressurized crack, and she’ll blow—”
“That’s what drilling is, sonny,” said a raunchy voice, “sitting on a mega bomb some stun bastard might trigger any minute. Can’t handle knowing that, go to town.”
“Can’t hack’er, pack’er, sonny,” said Eeyore, still nodding over his bit of toast. “This is just a phenomenal thing that happens in the course of drilling. We’ve pressured up—we’re flowing a bit of mud—and now we’ll see. She’ll drop off in an hour. She’s U-tubing—”
“Been smelling gas all night, and we got pressure, it’s a kick,” said a crewman.
“Shut her down, should be shutting her down, I say we call Push, get Push outta his bunk,” said another.
“Thatta boy.”A tall, bony man named Chop leaned forward with a snort, his shoulder blades lifting from his back like amputated wings. “You go wake Pushie if you want, I’d rather the blowout. Hey, boys, don’t anyone trust ol’ Eeyore, here— he’s the one hired to see. That right, boss? Sees everything through them gauges, don’t you?”
“What if he can’t see anything, bonehead?”
“Then it’s his fault if she blows—he’s the driller—everything’s the driller’s fault—”
“That’s good, numbnuts, that’s just great—meanwhile we’re flying through the air with DoDo and Toto—”
“Right on, bud—who the hell knows what’s going on three miles underground; how the fuck does anybody know that?”
“Already told you what’s going on,” said Eeyore.
“Don’t trust it, man—you’re the driller, you should’ve shut her down. I think we’re in the zone and you should’ve shut her down—it was your call, man, you’re the driller.”
“Opinions are like assholes, bucky; everybody got one.” Eeyore’s eyes hardened and a flush of anger reddened his ears, creeping up the length of his forehead. “I said we’re nowhere near the zone, I made my call—you boys got that? You don’t like it, take it up with Push. Take it up with Freddie the Engie— they’re the ones calling the shots—I made my call, and now it’s theirs. You boys got that?” He shot a surly look around the table then closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though the burst of anger had fatigued him. “But it’s the driller’s call to tell somebody if his gauges are showing pressure,” he added. “I didn’t see any pressure till she broke. That I can tell you.”
“Sad to say it, Eeyore, but you ain’t instilling a whole lotta confidence in me, man,” said a quiet, steady voice.
I glanced towards the fellow talking. Kip. Hired on but a fortnight ago. He kind of looked like Chris with his blond hair blending into brows that ridged darkly over questioning eyes.
The confused, muddy-faced crewman from earlier, and two young cousins with black hair tightly clipped to their skulls, had been casting expectant looks around the table as though wanting this irregularity to be done with, to be soothed over so’s they could fall into bed for an easy sleep. They’d looked dispiritedly towards Kip as he spoke, but their faces grew expectant again as the driller shook his head, saying, “Can’t hack her, pack her, boys. Ride to town if you’re looking.” Eeyore shoved his plate aside and got up from the table as Frederick’s truck drew up outside.
“Bonehead. Not a synapse in his fucking skull,” muttered one of the crewmen, glowering at the door closing behind the driller.
“How’d they all find each other?” asked Kip. “Never seen so many boneheads on the one rig.”
“She’s not right out there—I warned the day driller—” said one of the cousins.
“What did he say?” asked the other.
“He didn’t like it, could tell he didn’t like it, but the engineer come up to him. Talked him over; I could see him being talked over, and I told him that too, that he was being talked over—”
“Fuck, what did he say to that—?”
“His face gnarled up like a knuckle, thought he was gonna spit at me—”
“What’s going on out there—what’s making them all so edgy?
” asked Kip.
“That four-eyed fuck of an engineer is what’s making them edgy—that’s what she’s all about, that four-eyed fuck hating the Push and calling his own shots. That’s what’s happening on that rig floor.”
“They’re laughing out there now,” said the irate crewman from earlier, looking out the window at the driller and the engineer. “Must’ve figured out what was happening, else they wouldn’t be laughing, would they?”
The cookhouse door opened and Frederick strolled inside, nodding towards the crew. “She was U-tubing, boys,” he announced, with the satisfied look of a captain surviving a thunderous storm at sea. “I told everybody what was gonna happen. We’d pressure up, flow a bit of mud, and it was gonna die—pressure was gonna drop off in an hour.” He looked at his watch. “Which is exactly what happened. She was U-tubing. We been drilling fast—too much weight in the annulus. Pushed the mud back up the pipe. She’s evened out.”
The men looked at each other as Frederick spoke, some nodding in agreement, others shaking their heads and grunting.
“I think we should be casing,” said one of them with a heated look at Frederick. “I think we should call Push. I don’t like that smell of gas.”
“Small bit of gas in all these zones, Cocky, that’s why we’re drilling here,” said Frederick. He looked at the rest of the men. “We’re three hundred feet away from the reservoir. And three hundred feet could be another five, six days’ drilling. Seismic’s showing no changes. We’re not gonna tippytoe, we’re gonna make hole.” He looked at Cook, who was draining a dipper of hardboiled eggs into the sink. “The boys are highly emotional this morning, Cookie,” he said with a loud laugh. “Perhaps they can have their dessert before din dins.” He flashed square white teeth that looked like an attractive awning over an empty storefront and backed out the door.
One of the crewmen cringed. “Dumb bastard.” He tossed back the rest of his coffee, glaring disgustedly at the cousins, who were now snorting laughs his way.
“Hell with you all,” muttered the crewman, and stalked out of the cookhouse. A muffled thump sounded, followed by a loud curse.
“Fell off the step, he fell off the step,” said one of the cousins, and they broke into a paroxysm of laughs.
The blond-haired Kip stood up with a look of disgust. “Worked on a lot of scumholes, boys, but none this stinking bad.” He waved adios and walked out the door.
I watched through the window as he gunned his truck to life and sped off down the road. I looked to the rig. I could see its red-painted sides through the thickly saturated air, the white of its derrick fading like an amputated limb into the overcast sky.
I felt ill.
Cook was mixing a pound cake, the vanilla extract she was pouring into the batter smelling like Gran, like home. Like Mother. I felt like Mother. I wrung my hands. Then I busied about the cramped kitchen, picking and poking at things, tidying things already tidied and looking anxiously out the window.
Frederick was leaving his trailer, chomping on an apple.
“I’m gonna go call home,” I said to Cook, and donning her rubber boots and bush jacket, ran out into the chilly, damp air, meeting Frederick as he was about to climb aboard his truck.
“Door’s open,” he said, as I breathlessly asked for use of his phone.
Wiping the damp off my brow, I dialed quickly. Mother’s voice was light as she answered.
“Mom.” Inexplicably, my mouth began to tremble.
“Sylvie—Sylvie, is that you—my, what a good thing you called, you’ll never guess what’s happened, we found the boat, we found your father’s boat—Sylvie—you there, can you hear me—they found your father’s boat—Gar Gillingham and Roger—it was run ashore on Big Island—carried by the ice, pushed right up on shore—not a scratch—Gran said that—she said to check Big Island, she told Chris to check Big Island— he should’ve thought to look, to go and look—what’s that, I can’t hear you—your father? My lord, the look on his face when he took a gander out the window and seen his boat—I thought he was seeing Jesus walking on the water. Poor fool, yes, yes he is a fool, a poor fool,” she said to my quiet laugh, “and he’s at the window now, still gawking—wait, wait now Sylvie, he wants to talk to you—is Chris there? He’s working, is he—you be sure and tell him now, tell him his father found his boat, to not waste money buying a boat, they’ll think we’re starting our own fishing fleet—oh, my, here’s your father—the patience of Job.”
“Dolly, you hear me, Dolly—”
“Yes, Dad, hi, how’re you doing—Dad—?”
“Back on my feet, Dolly, walking the river all week, with your mother—won’t let me out of her sight—I looks at the boat and she throws a fit,” he laughed a deep, raunchy laugh that sounded more pleased than irritated with the attention Mother was giving him. But then it became strained:“They’re leaving in droves—all the young people, leaving in droves, tell him the fishery’s all but dead—not just the inshore anymore, Dolly, it’s the offshore too now, she’s all but gone—”
“Dad?”
“That’s your mother—at me agin—get him in school, Dolly, nothing here for the young—there’s your mother agin, prying the phone from me fingers—”
“Sylvie—?”
“Yes, Mom—”
“Sylvie, you’re all right then—you and Chris, you’re both all right—perhaps you can come home for a good holiday with Chris when he comes? Gran would like that—and Kyle, he mentions you at the oddest times—and Gran—she hasn’t been the same since you both left, swear to gawd she’s aged ten years—she’s having a nap now. She got sickish—just then, before you called, she got sickish—I had to help her to her room—” Mother’s voice twisted worriedly. “Not often she gets sickish, I might call in the doctor. And Sylvie,” her voice fell, as though shielding her ears from her own spoken words, “your father’s right, about school. You’re both right, I’m wrong there—but come home first—for a long visit, you and Chris, both—you both come home—you have a good day then, and yes, yes, I’ll give Gran your love—bye, bye now, don’t forget to tell him about the boat—you hear that, that’s your father calling out bye, too—bye, Dolly, he’s saying—Bye, now, you have a nice day, we’re all fine.”
COOK GREETED ME at the door with the lunch basket. It was already past noon. The rain was a steady drizzle streaming coldly down my face. I slugged across the field, turned swampy by the rain, grateful for Cook’s rubber boots and lined bush jacket. Despite the heavy air, it sounded as though the rig was roaring louder this morning. I started up the garish steps, mindful of the slick, black mud coating them. Second step up I slipped and fell, grinding my knee across its grid. The basket buckled awkwardly around my arm, digging into my ribs. I cursed, rubbing first at my knee, then my ribs. Picking myself up, I grasped the handrail and limped up onto the rig floor.
I stepped carefully inside the doghouse, laying the basket on the table and walking over to the glass front. Everything, everything, was wet, slimy, and oozing mud. Skin was standing near the drill hole, his gaunt, flat face looking wearied and disgusted. He was holding the large-linked chain in his hands. Suddenly he threw it onto the rig floor as though it were a snake coming to life and went over to Ben. They shouted into each other’s face for a second, then Ben spat and swerved over to the length of drill pipe sticking up from the borehole. As he bent over, fiddling with the slips on the rotary wheel, another crewman nudged his shoulder for attention. They both shouted back and forth for a moment, their shoulders hunched against the rain dribbling off their hard hats and streaming down their collar-chafed necks.
I spotted Chris partly hidden behind a tank, his shoulders hunched to the rain. He had his hard hat pulled low, his face pallid in the grim light. His squinted eyes were drifting around the squalid, vibrating rig floor as though he were allowing himself to see it in bits. Skin was making angry hand motions to Trapp, then clawed back the chain he’d thrown down earlier. Ben, the sleeves of his coveralls
shoved up to his elbows, his forearms and hands slick with grease and mud, grasped the pipe hanging out of the derrick and stabbed the end of it onto the length sticking out of the drill hole. Now Chris was leaning against the side of the tank, motionless. He watched Skin swing the chain through the air towards the pipe. He watched the chain wrap itself around the pipes, and a roughneck moving in with jawlike tongs to torque them up.
Chris shivered. I could see that he shivered. There, I thought with sudden clarity, he’s awakening to the beast. He’s seeing it as I do. He’s seeing the grease secreting through its pores. He’s nauseated by the bad blood flowing through the crew as they feed like parasites upon each other.
I turned, not wanting to watch anymore, wanting this last thought of mine to be his truth. Hurrying from the doghouse, I crept carefully down the steps. I was but twenty, thirty feet from the rig when I heard a different sound—a huge whistling, roaring sound, like that of a jet about to land on the back of my head. I turned to see pipe—a straight line of pipe—spitting out through the side of the derrick and shooting like a black spear three hundred feet into the grey sky then breaking off in lengths—sixty-foot lengths, ninety-foot lengths—and falling back into the woods beyond. I watched the derrickhand, Dirty Dan, skim down the derrick like a cat on a greased pole. I watched Skin racing savagely across the rig floor, the other crewmen—all of them—racing to the opening—the vee-door—and diving down the slide. I saw Frederick on the ground, coming around the corner of some tank, a look of astonishment on his face as he saw the pipe vaulting into the air. He bolted for the woods. The geologist appeared on top of the rig floor and jumped without looking the fifteen, twenty feet to the ground and dove beneath the rig floor. Within the second Ben, too, appeared at the edge of the rig floor and jumped. And in that second—before Ben hit the ground—the rig started spluttering into silence, leaving only the clang, clang, clanging of the pipe as it ricocheted against the steel derrick.
Silence fell. Complete, utter silence.
I stared at the rig floor. I willed so hard I saw the orange of his coveralls, and then it was gone. I was onto my feet and running to the rig. I grabbed hold of the handrails, my feet scarcely touching the steps. He jumped. He must’ve jumped. He saw Ben jump and he jumped too. I hadn’t seen him because he jumped from the back. He’d jumped from the back so I hadn’t seen him. I screamed his name in silence. I heard someone shouting. It was Ben. Ben was shouting. Trapp was shouting too. I slipped on the rig floor and fell heavily to my knees. I scrabbled to my feet and bolted to the front of the doghouse and slipped again. He was there, over there near the borehole. He was lying on his back near the borehole, the chain wrapped around his chest. I monkey-crawled to his side. His hard hat was thrown from his head and tawny strands of his hair lay in mud, his face averted from mine. I screamed his name. I screamed it again, and again. I pulled his face towards mine. His eyes were glistening as he looked at me. They were glistening and bright, so bright I thought he was smiling. Then they widened, his pupils narrowing. A sound. He was making a sound. I stared into his eyes, his glistening brown eyes, I sank into their softness, I heard him laugh, and I laughed too, wildly, with relief, with joy. Then his pupils widened suddenly, and I was caught in that fraught moment after lightning strikes and the earth readies for the pending crash of thunder. “Wait!” I screamed. “Wait! Chris, wait! Chriiiiiss!!!” and gripped his shoulders as though it were time I was gripping onto—that second of time before the heavens crashed and a dark fluid frothed through his nose, through the corners of his mouth. And the light emptied from his eyes.
What They Wanted Page 27