Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  “Way to go, Eric!” a voice in the dark cried.

  A guy from the Nogales crew tackled one as though playing touch football. “Oh no you don’t … gotcha!”

  What next? Lassos?

  These antics struck me as hilarious. Once I reached a certain level of fatigue, everything struck me as hilarious. I laughed at that thought too. Boy, I must be tired.

  Not far from me, two guys from the Nogales crew babbled to each other in Spanish. I recognized the word mujer as “woman,” but not guera. They laughed and grinned at me. Obviously, they didn’t realize I knew a little Spanish.

  “You talking to me?” I asked, grinning myself.

  Their eyes widened. Oops. One stuttered; both shook their heads adamantly. True: I didn’t know that particular word, or if it was derogatory, but they didn’t know that. A twinkle of delight rippled through me. Let them wonder.

  We hiked out at three a.m., deadbeat, dirty, and footsore, and arrived as Mark and our relief crew pulled up to the staging area.

  When he passed by me, he touched my hand and whispered, “So good to see you, Linda.”

  Sparks tingled through me, along with a wave of desire. The pull to stay was strong, but I had no say in the matter. My shift was over, and his had just begun.

  Eric commandeered their truck for our return trip. I dozed in the passenger seat; three guys zonked out in the back.Eric startled me when he swerved to the side of the road.

  His voice shook. “There. Look. An overturned car.”

  On the road’s edge: a car tipped over on its side—its wheels still turning. All sleepiness evaporated. Eric picked up the radio mike and called for help. The two men didn’t appear seriously hurt, so he gave them a hand to climb through the open driver’s side window. One man suffered a cut on his forehead, blood dripping into his eyes. My first aid training kicked in.

  “Eric. Shouldn’t we help?” I asked.

  He motioned me away from the men, his voice low. “We aren’t supposed to. Too much liability. We could get sued.”

  After a shocked pause, I said, “Can’t we at least give him a compress?”

  “Well, okay. But that’s all.”

  I walked to our truck, took out gauze pads from the first aid kit, and gave them to the injured man. Thanking me, he pressed them to his head.

  “Let’s go,” Eric said.

  I stared at him. “Aren’t we going to wait for the ambulance?”

  Eric’s anxiety mounted. “They’re on the way. Let’s go.”

  This felt wrong. Could we get sued for helping? Not helping? I didn’t know. Too tired to argue, I rode to Florida in silence. At five a.m., I went to bed, collapsed, and died.

  MY FIRST DAY off, I took care of chores. Done by noon, I wandered down to the office to check my inbox, restless. Too bad I couldn’t work seven days a week. I wanted to.

  A little past five, crew-cabs pulled in, with everyone ready for a beer. I joined them. For the first time since I’d been with Mark, he seemed distant, preoccupied. This felt awful. Was he having second thoughts about us? I didn’t want to break up with him, but wondered if I should do so before he broke up with me. Wouldn’t that hurt less? Joe provided a timely diversion by asking me to lunch at the Summerhaven Inn in the Santa Catalina mountains the next weekend. Why not spend a whole day with him? I’d show Mark I didn’t need him anyway. First I’d have to get through another whole week of dragging brush on Madera Canyon Road, though. That project just wouldn’t go away.

  When I entered the office, Texas John and Clark, with heads down and cigarettes in hand, wore serious expressions. This, in itself, was a big red flag. Serious anything for Texas John and Clark was an oxymoron. I never took John seriously, and Clark was known as the corny-joke king.

  Texas John shook his head. “Woo-wee it smelled bad. At first I figured it was a dead cow. Never thought I’d find a body out there. Guy was bloated up like a whale, covered with maggots.”

  My stomach lurched. I got the picture. I turned around and left.

  Once in the truck, Texas John started up again.

  “Sheriff said it was probably a drug deal gone bad. Poor sucker. They shot him in the head and left him for coyotes.”

  Far too late to tell him to stop—the picture was permanently etched into my brain. No longer would I think of the experimental range as a place where cattle and deer roamed. Knowing executions took place here ruined my sense of security at Florida; or heck, the whole district. Texas John pointed out where he made the gruesome discovery. I wondered who else lay out there, hoping I wouldn’t be the one to find them.

  An invite to the lodge for drinks after work with the gang promised a needed distraction from a morbid day. When everyone gathered to leave, I asked Joe if we could go for a ride.

  Parking where we could watch a distant storm, we leaned against his ’56 primer-gray Chevy pickup. Lightning pulsed like the heartbeat of the universe, sending ragged bolts from cloud to cloud, firing down strikes on ridgelines of faraway mountains. Our conversation drifted to our first fire.

  “You should’ve warned me not to put our packs there,” Joe said, taking my hand, threading his fingers between mine.

  I laughed, but quickly defended myself. “Oh no, no … I trusted you to know where it was safe to put them.”

  Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, he said, “I’ve never met a woman like you.” He rubbed his thumb over my calluses, sending tingles up my arm. “Your hands are so small and delicate … I’m impressed by how hard you work.”

  His compliment felt strange, as though he was making a big deal out of nothing. Not that he’d offended me, but why would I do anything else but work hard?

  “You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” he said.

  Not too long ago, I didn’t think so, either. But with Opie and Texas John’s daily put-downs, sometimes I felt like I did.

  Joe understood, and squeezed my hand. “Opie’s an idiot. John is,” he frowned, “well, John. You need to ignore them.”

  I wished I could. A chill made me shiver. Joe removed his Levi jacket and wrapped my shoulders against the mountain-cool air, then put his arm back. I waited for him to kiss me, but he didn’t. Was he nervous? I made him nervous. Touching and sweet. Joe was both sexy and shy, a combination I liked.

  That weekend, Joe and I drove to the Catalinas. Residual clouds from monsoon rains the night before swirled through the pines. The air was fragrant from soaked earth, and water droplets fell from needles when a breeze shook branches. It was downright cold for late July. We climbed the Mt. Bigelow lookout tower and visited Wilma, my friend from last summer; ate a leisurely lunch at the Inn. Clark had invited us to his house for a dinner party in Tucson, and we decided to take him up on it. On the drive, Joe said he worried about getting in the way of Mark and me.

  “Don’t,” I said, after a brief pause.

  In a secluded spot of Clark’s backyard, we lay together on the lawn.

  “I want to kiss you,” he said. “But I don’t know how.”

  More than eager to teach him, I did. And we practiced many times. He told me I was beautiful, and that he thought he loved me. Beautiful? No, I wasn’t . .. but that he thought so? Yes, that felt wonderful. In my heart I wondered if I was falling in love with him too—but at the same time, I didn’t believe I deserved his love. I asked him how he could love such a messed-up girl.

  “Easy,” he replied with conviction.

  MARK AND JOE made a repair outside my quarters the next morning. Watching them, I felt like my emotions were split in half. They were exact opposites. Mark said thrilling and romantic things that made my insides melt, but could I trust what he said? Shy and reserved Joe said little, but his strong self-assurance was both masculine and sexy. He made me feel safe and secure. Who did I want to be with more? Did I have to choose? I felt like I was in the middle of a book, but hadn’t read the beginning.

  Mark hosted a birthday party for Opie Taylor on Sunday. I thought to pass, because o
bviously Opie would be there, but I liked being around everyone else. The heck with it, I’d go and have fun. Inside, loud music blared, and the laughter was alcohol fueled. Joe caught my eye when I joined the gang, and he smiled shyly at me. My heart did one of those flip-flop things.

  In the center of the room stood Opie, teetering as he guzzled down a beer.

  “Watch out,” Mark said, laughing. “Two-beer Opie just passed his limit!”

  Opie swaggered up to Joe with a drunken grin on his face. He poked a finger at Joe’s chest. “I’ll bet John calls you Josephine because you’re, you know, one of those.”

  Joe set down his beer, grabbed Opie, and tossed him over his shoulder. Leg muscles straining, everyone cheering him on, Joe carried a protesting Opie up the hill to the station’s carp-filled irrigation tank, up the ladder, and tossed him in. Watching the spectacle in pure amazement, I thought, Wow, did Joe really do that? From what I knew about Joe it seemed out of character, but how delightful to see Opie get what he deserved.

  The next morning, Opie Taylor stumbled in late for work. I kept my opinion to myself. I hope you’re so hungover you feel like crap.

  Clark pinched his nose. “P-U, you smell fishy.”

  There was a brief outburst of laughter, quickly brought under control when Glenn entered the room. Everyone respected Glenn, but I thought no one did more than me.

  Glenn poured a cup of coffee and sat at his desk. “Range Management is building a deer fence. We’ll need to harvest forty juniper posts.”

  Early on, I’d recognized that chainsaw operators commanded respect on the crew. Some kind of macho-guy thing. So, of course, I wanted to run one. Not to be macho, but to be a chainsaw expert. A sawyer. Even more, I wanted the respect that title carried. I had much to learn, though.

  I clung to the armrest while we bounced over the rocky and rutted four-wheel-drive road to the remote Melendrez Pass, our post-cutting site. On the long drive, a sparkling glint drew my attention to the silver and turquoise necklace I wore. Four years ago, I’d purchased it on my family’s first trip west. What a bunch of naïve tourists we were. We’d hiked, in sandals no less, to the bottom of Canyon de Chelly, a desolate, windswept, sandstone canyon with towering red monoliths: Mother Nature’s high rises. We carried no water. In July. It’s a wonder we didn’t die of heatstroke or need an airlift out. In spite of my broken sandal strap, we made it back to the car. Once on the road, I coerced my dad to pull over at a Navajo roadside stand, where I selected this necklace from a blanket spread on the ground. Fourteen dollars exchanged hands, and it was mine. Years later, a friend told me the design represented earth and the universe. I decided that must have some kind of significance, so I never took it off. Truth be told: I also loved the way the silver contrasted against my dark tan.

  All unloaded at the cutting site, sawyers and swampers were ready to go. Sawyers ran the chainsaw; swampers moved cut branches away so the sawyer didn’t have to. I snagged the opportunity to work by Joe’s side so I could learn, but also because I liked to be near him. While he cut, I swamped, deftly pulling branches out of his way. His strong, muscular body handled the chainsaw with ease. After break, he let me have a go.

  I stuffed in earplugs, donned goggles, strapped on the special chaps to protect my legs, and pulled on leather gloves. More than ready to start, I paid close attention to Joe’s instructions, and to his presence. He radiated self-confidence without one iota of arrogance, and the combination was hugely attractive.

  “Let the weight of the saw do the cutting,” he said. “Don’t use the tip of the blade—it could kickback at you.”

  At first, the saw didn’t feel too heavy. But it didn’t take long for fourteen pounds to feel like forty. The saw’s vibrations made my arms tingle and go numb. Chainsaw decibels rivaled strafing jets, even with earplugs. After two hours, Joe noticed I tired and offered to take over. With reluctance I agreed, understanding my fatigue made sawing more dangerous.

  At the end of the day, we loaded the posts we’d cut. Tom and I squatted to lift the top, while Mark and Pete hoisted the butt end.

  “Got it, Linda?” Tom asked.

  Of course I do. “Umpf … yeah …” I staggered under the substantial weight, my knees wobbling as we carried it to our truck and slid it into the bed.

  Seven posts taxed our truck’s suspension, so we crept back to the station. I dozed, tired, but a satisfying kind of tired. I’d cut some trees and helped load them. I was quite proud of myself.

  At the shop, I set our saw on the workbench and removed the cover plate. In a metal pan filled with old gasoline, I soaked and scrubbed each part caked with bar oil and sawdust. The chain always needed sharpening. If each tooth wasn’t filed at a precise angle, the saw wouldn’t cut worth a darn. Might as well beat the log in half with a stick.

  Joe demonstrated how he sharpened the teeth. I gave it a shot and then asked for approval.

  “Nope, not sharp enough.”

  Soon I’d discover that Joe had a knack for saw chain sharpening, one that most of us, including me, would never master.

  After running the saw for hours, I anticipated sore muscles in the morning—but I woke up without pain. Well, heck, I must be in great shape! The day after, though, my right forearm hurt like a truck had run over it. Boy, did that ever deflate my ego.

  EARLY ONE MORNING I woke burning with a high fever. No way could I make it to work. I stayed in bed, sweaty and miserable. Joe came by to check on me. “What can I do?”

  “Make it go away,” I said, letting out a moan.

  Minutes later he placed a cool washcloth on my forehead. I fell asleep, and when I woke, there he sat, still by my side. How sweet.

  “I bought you something,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

  For me? I sat up.

  He presented me with a tiny velvet box.

  I took in a sharp breath. A diamond ring? I’d no interest in getting married, or even having a serious relationship. Tentative, I lifted the lid to find a beautiful, delicate heart-shaped diamond pendant. Relieved, but feeling both guilty and afraid to accept such an extravagant gift, I thought not only did I not deserve this, but if I accepted it, did this mean we were a couple? Were these feelings for him “love?” For sure I found him sexually attractive. But it wasn’t right to mislead him.

  Gently, I returned the box. “It’s lovely, but I can’t accept this.”

  “Why not?” He sounded deeply wounded.

  Chicken that I was, I didn’t say what I was thinking. Instead, I said, “It must have cost a fortune.”

  The look on his face pierced my heart. Without wasting a second, I told him I loved it and let him fasten it around my neck.

  EIGHT

  “YOU GOING TO the big bash tonight?” Jodi asked me in the morning.

  Still feeling sick wasn’t the only reason I hesitated. Two days prior, against my protests, Mark had confessed all to his wife. Guilt tortured, I wondered what to do. I thought I loved Mark, but he moved way too fast. My God, we barely knew each other. Only six weeks! If he left his wife, did this mean he expected us to marry? I didn’t want to marry him either. If I went to the party, his wife might confront me. Just thinking about it made my stomach squirm. But stupid me, I went anyway, getting what I thought I deserved—icy stares from her that made me want to crawl under a rock and die.

  I’d recovered enough by the next day to return to post cutting. This time, all of the saws refused to run. Stupid temperamental things. Joe removed the cover plate of a Homelite. I shadowed him for a while to learn whatever I could.

  Jodi plopped down next to us. She fingered a blade of grass. “I’m bored. I want to chop down a tree.”

  Sounded good to me. The rest of the crew thought we’d lost our minds. They settled under pinyon-pines for a nap.

  “Timber!” Jodi yelled as her tree hit the ground with a swoosh.

  This was much harder than I thought it would be; a good swing chipped out a miniscule wedge. Another swing, another t
iny chip. Paul Bunyan had one up on me. Last cut, and down it went. Like Jodi, I yelled, “Timber!” Okay, goofy, but satisfying.

  Joe finally got the saws up and running, and soon we had many posts ready to load. A good day, I thought on the way back. Cut five myself.

  By week three, it took longer to find the right trees; we’d cut all the ones close by. This project had long ago reached the tedious stage. Right after lunch, here came Tom and Texas John in their tanker. They parked, barreled out, and went about starting up the pumper motor and unrolling a length of hose.

  Jodi and I exchanged puzzled expressions. What the heck?

  Tom, grinning widely, opened the nozzle and soaked Pete from head to toe. Pete stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, water dripping from the end of his nose. Water fight declared!

  At first, I stayed out of the fray, afraid I’d look silly—until Tom blasted me hard. While he turned to get Joe, I filled my hardhat with water, and snuck up behind him. “Hey, Tom?”

  Tom turned, and I threw the water in his face. Shrieking, I ran from him as he chased me around the tanker, until he caught me around the waist. I squirmed and giggled until he let me go. Drenched, exhilarated, and cooled off, we sat down in the shade of oaks to dry.

  Tom glanced at his watch. “Look at the time! We need to head back.”

  No sooner had we parked in front of the fire cache than Joe froze. His head snapped to look at me. “Where’s the radio?”

  My stomach tied into a massive knot. I’d carried the two-way radio on my belt, but removed it when the water fight began and set it on the bumper of the truck. I’d left it there.

  “Too late now to go back and search,” Joe said. “We’ll have to wait until morning.”

  I’d be in so much trouble when Glenn found out. My stomach hurt just thinking about what he’d say.

  All night long I lay awake. A lost radio. Glenn would be so disappointed in me. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Great. Now it’s probably getting wet. Joe said I wouldn’t be liable because he’d signed it out. Guilt ridden, I didn’t want him to be liable either. Who knew how much those things cost. Would the government make us pay for it? Would we lose our jobs?