by Fred Stenson
“You seem more serious now than you used to be, Billy.”
“Maybe life got less funny.”
“Black Hole,” Johnny said.
At the end of the workday and work week, Bill walked to his parking spot. Ice crystals floated down through the orange light. He pulled the block heater plug and battled the extension cord into roundish loops that he left hanging. The engine kicked off easily but he sat for a while in sympathy for the engine parts, beating in their taffy.
The big engine loosened and began to roar. There was nothing sporty about this sport utility vehicle. It had a truck chassis and weighed a ton, drank gas with abandon through six steel throats. He’d bought it to impress a woman and to give a sign to his daughter and son that their dad was solvent. The woman, the only one he’d dated in Fort McMurray, hated the stiff ride and eventually would not travel in it. His children could not believe their father had invested fifty thousand in something so literally square.
Bill joined the line to the gate. The vehicles ahead were mostly new pickups. Every driver had his foot on the gas, goosing away. Under the accumulated cloud of exhaust fog, some would be drinking, toking, snorting—and all would shortly be entering the river of oil sands traffic that rallied south to Fort Mac. The main drag through the oil sands, Highway 63, was Canada’s most dangerous highway. It had many nicknames that sounded like heavy metal bands—Highway of Death, Suicide 63.
The lineup was mostly stopped. The drivers were on their horns. “What the fuck?” roared the guy ahead, hanging out his window.
In fact, Bill knew what the fuck. The folks running the gate had been told to check each vehicle for contraband. By that they did not mean booze and dope but stolen things like tools and copper. As the cause for the stoppage worked its way back, the horn chorus grew. It was possible upper management did not understand that workers accused of being thieves were more likely to steal; that, if there was stolen gear in these trucks, it would not be where a gatekeeper with a flashlight could find it.
The chaos made Bill think of his own crew. They were in this lineup somewhere and had invited him to come for beers at The Pit in town. The Pit was a bad bar, but Bill had been there many times without incurring blunt force trauma. He’d told them he would think about it.
A shift bus roared past the line. The gatekeeper swung the gate to let the bus through. Four trucks jumped out of line and tried to follow. The keeper ran the gate back and slammed in the post.
Among the odd things about Fort McMurray was how every day was part of someone’s weekend, and, by extension, every night was Friday or Saturday night. Though he felt a hermit’s sadness about entering this frolic, Bill had made up his mind to go to The Pit. The boys, and Marion if she’d been invited, thought of him as a humorous old elf, despite his occasional grumpiness. Going for drinks was a way of assuring them he was still their good boss, someone they could like.
Parting his way through the crowd, Bill met a chesty waitress with a small barbell through her lower lip. She had a tray of drinks balanced on an upturned hand and still managed to throw a hip into him as he squeezed by. “Sit down, grandpa. Before you fall down.”
Bill plunked into a captain’s chair that Henry had swung out for him. Clayton was pouring him a beer from a pitcher. Henry’s mouth was moving but Bill couldn’t hear. Behind the bar, a guy with a face like an open wrench was yelling. A nearby table cheered, and a muscular joker jumped up, fought clear, and duck-walked to the front. He held his paycheque in front of his face, kissing it repeatedly.
This was the normal run of things at The Pit but it felt suddenly false, as if they were in a rehearsal for a Broadway musical. Fort McMurray: The Early Years.
“Where did you park?”
Henry’s voice got through this time. It seemed an irrelevant question, except that Henry never spoke without purpose. He could care less where Bill parked but wanted to know, early on, if he needed to worry about his boss driving home drunk.
“Two blocks east,” Bill told him, and it was a lie. He had taken his truck home and ridden down here in Mr. Khalid’s cab. He was lying to Henry to give himself an excuse for leaving early.
“Be even louder in here soon,” Clayton told Bill. “Band tonight.”
There was a band every night. Bill raised his pint. “Here’s to Friday.”
The golden mugs clashed, some beer fell.
Clayton said, “Sorry, chief, it’s Wednesday.”
“No such thing,” Bill said, and Henry laughed.
The talk turned to Dennis Whitcomb: a top-ten of his screw-ups of the week. Dennis had been hired during the last big boom, then laid off in the 2008–09 bust. Recently, when the oil economy was showing signs of revival, he had been rehired. No one could figure out why he was back, since they regarded him as too dumb to operate. Clayton tried to hang it on Bill.
“I don’t hire people, Clayton. Consultants hire people.”
“That’s fucked,” Clayton offered.
“Was Dion Elliott around this week?” Bill asked, pushing the topic elsewhere.
Everyone agreed they had not seen him.
“Then it was a good week,” Bill said.
Too late, he saw a look of grievance spreading across Huge Boschuk’s face.
“I like Dion,” Huge said. Boschuk always looked to Bill as though he was about to cry. His face was fleshy and immature—the face of a giant baby.
“Dion’s fine,” said Bill. “Just seems to signify trouble when he’s around.”
“You call him a PR man. He doesn’t like that.”
“I have trouble keeping track of current lingo.”
“The work he does in the community is important.”
The other two were staring at Huge, a seldom-talker. By Boschuk’s standards, this was more than rebellion; it was mutiny with bloodshed.
Bill looked into the sorrowful eyes. “I’m sorry, Huge. I tell you what. I’ll stop complaining about Dion if you—all of you—give Dennis a rest.”
After a couple of beers, Bill lost interest in what his crew was saying. He tuned in conversations from other tables. The talk was about money and the courses needed to make more money. “Ten grand clear, a guy told me.”
“Yeah, but that’s with your B Pressure.”
“First Aid, H2S, CPR.”
“To be a lease-hand?”
“PST, CSE …”
“Fuck’s that?”
“Confined Space Entry.”
From another table came a yarn about a guy who’d bought a ’70s hearse, brought it up to McMurray, and was now renting it to people as accommodation. Making two grand a week.
“I can’t believe those fucking tree-huggers. I’d like to see those assholes do my job.”
This came from closer at hand: from Clayton. He was drinking like a pig and had turned bright red. Already his eyelids were lined with tiny sandbags. No one seemed to agree or disagree with him. Henry was looking at something under the table.
“I’m telling you, if one of those pricks was here right now, I’d cold-cock the sucker. I heard a guy on radio saying Indians are getting screwed up here. They should go down to the casino and see those dumb fucks playing machines. Can’t piss it away fast enough. My fault, I suppose.”
Bill began to plan his escape.
Clayton continued to rail. “Fucking casino. Might as well take your money and burn it. I’m glad I wasn’t born stupid.”
Bill rested his eyes on Henry. While appearing to do nothing, Henry would be assessing the distance to each Native in the room. He would have also considered how the casino comments were going down with the people slugging money into VLTs beyond the bar.
But the one who got between Clayton and his rant this time was Huge. Without anyone’s noticing, Huge had acquired the bill. The waitress was pushing the chip end of his credit card into the machine.
“What doing, Huge?” said Henry.
“It’s done.”
“We’ll give you money.”
&
nbsp; “Pay at the next place.”
“I’m not going on,” said Bill. “You better take mine now.”
“What’s the matter, Bill? You don’t like our company?”
“First rule, Clayton. Don’t run with the young bucks.”
“But what are you going to do, Bill?” Huge asked, from his sad concerned face.
“Tie a dry fly. Listen to some Pavarotti. Read an existential novel.”
On the street outside, the air was so cold it breathed like metal. They said their farewells and walked in opposite directions. The block was surrounded by trucks going nowhere. The frozen air was thick with exhaust. Out of sight of the others, Bill stopped.
Four hours later, Mr. Khalid’s cab pulled into the pool of street light outside the condo complex. Bill’s fingers shook when he tried to navigate his wallet. He was having trouble distinguishing the colours. Mr. Khalid showed no impatience, just stared through his prayer beads at the windshield.
When at last Bill had himself sorted, Mr. Khalid took the money with slim fingers, doubled it, and slid it inside his jacket. “Thank you,” he said with a nod. Bill nodded back. Old-timers in a town of wild kids, silent commiserators. It was also possible that Mr. Khalid found Bill disgusting, an older man who drank alcohol and stayed out half the night. Mr. Khalid was excellent at concealing his feelings, which was another reason for calling him.
The building’s entrance had two doors for weather and security. In the chamber between, Bill dug under his parka for keys. A cardboard box, swathed in tape, was pushed against the wall below the intercom. He got the door open, held it with his foot, and contorted himself until he could see the writing on the box. His name. His sister’s large, emphatic printing.
After more buttons, keys, and struggles, he was inside his condo and able to drop the box on the floor. What passed for silence ticked and hummed through the apartment. In the dark living room, the message light on the phone was blinking red. He went to the light in fear. That he’d been out all night doing foolish things provoked a sense that something awful must have happened, to one of his children, to one of his sisters.
The first message was too garbled to understand. It sounded like Lance Evert’s voice, but was so broken up he could not tell for sure, though he rolled it back and listened several times. This bothered him because he almost never heard from Lance; also because Lance was extra precise, even for an engineer. Not the kind of guy to make a mess of leaving a message.
The only other message was from his sister Jeannie.
“I sent you something. The courier said it would be there today. It belonged to Dad and I think you should have it. Call me.”
He sat down at the kitchen table and tried to slow his breathing. He closed his eyes but it was worse in there: a robotic dance of things rolling and falling into place. He stood, and when he had his balance, went around flicking on the lights.
Something belonging to his father. Something he should have.
But why should he have it? And why would Lance, if he screwed up the first message, not call again?
He reached for the TV remote but paused and considered the time of night. Beast heads bursting from people’s chests. Serial killers in goalie masks. And creepier still: Texas Hold’em tournaments.
He had an urge to throw up, but understood that it had nothing to do with food or drink or illness. What he wanted to throw up was the experience of the last few hours. Before he knew it, he had been to the kitchen and returned with the butcher knife. He jerked the blinds closed and chopped at the endless tape Jeannie had wound around the box. Inside was a filling of newspaper balls into which he plunged his hands.
What came out was a binder: cloth cover, red-and-black checks. The plastic along the spine was crumbling. The zipper tab was spotted with orange. The whole thing emanated an attic smell. He kicked the paper balls and box aside and set the binder softly on the coffee table. It was as fat as a seal and he knew what it was; had an image of his father sitting at his desk, taking things out of it and putting things back in. For a second he had his fingers on the pull-tab, but he made them spring apart.
“No,” he said. “Not so easy.”
3
Ryder Farm, 1961
TO GET TO THE MEETING at Hatfield Hall, Tom had taken the Callaghan valley road. A slip of paper stuck in their door jamb had told them to come to the hall for seven that night. Ella had read it out to Tom: “Mr. Clint Comstock of Aladdin Oil and Gas will host the evening. He will welcome your questions about the first weeks of operation at the Aladdin Hatfield gas processing plant.”
It was strange wording for a meeting that was happening because the plant threw a fit every second day; because, when it was upset—their word—it stank and made everyone sick. Even the idea of Comstock hosting them in the Hatfield Hall was ridiculous. A man from Houston, Texas, hosting them in their own community hall.
By now, Ella had won Tom over to her view of Clint Comstock. But Tom still believed it was better to hear from someone higher up in the organization than the men who ran the plant. Even on this point, he and Ella argued. “Why look down on Mr. Dietz?” she’d said, while they changed their clothes. “He’s trying to fix things, at least. I doubt Mr. Comstock is bringing a magic wand.”
“Goddamnit, I am not looking down on Dietz. Or up to Comstock.”
The sun had set an hour ago and the valley was full of shadows and half-seen things. Ella pointed when a deer stepped from a bluff of aspens. Tom had seen it too and was slowing down. He stopped the truck and waited until another half-dozen does crept from the bush. They skittered across the road, white tails wagging, bounced over the fence into some spruce along the frozen river.
“Deer,” said Billy.
“We’re going to be late,” Ella said to Tom.
“Cutting it a little fine,” he admitted. “They’ll probably start late.”
By the time they made the highway turn, the darkness had deepened. A mile more and he could see the lights in the hall windows blooming in the distance. He found a spot in the row of trucks facing its north wall.
Ella had predicted the building would be cold, that whoever was in charge of lighting the furnace would have come too late. She was right; the place wasn’t much warmer than outside, though the furnace rumbled away under the floor. The benches from the side walls had been pulled into rows.
People were leaving their boots on and Tom, Ella, and Billy did the same. Billy tried to pull off his hat but Ella caught his wrist and whispered to leave it.
“I won’t hear,” he said.
“Yes, you will.”
Tom found this funny, this concern of Billy’s that he might miss something. He had told the boy tonight’s meeting would be dry stuff, but that made no difference to Billy. He sensed from his parents that it was important and insisted he be there.
Everybody in the hall was familiar. Most wives had come with their husbands. Everyone who had kids big enough to look after the little ones had left their children at home. Alice Court was there with her baby, and Tom saw Ella frown at this. Ella had heard the child was sick, an illness caused by the plant. They’d probably brought the sick baby as proof.
Tom was looking for Comstock or Dietz when the two came in at the back. Comstock kicked his boots noisily in the porch, then bowed deeply under the door frame between the boot room and the main hall. He was tall but not tall enough to crack his head. He exaggerated everything.
Dietz came along behind him, and was just the opposite: shambling and dressed in his flannel shirt with the snoose can making a circle in his breast pocket. Tom and Ella had been expecting only these two but a third man came in after them: dark hair slicked back, skinny; not much more than twenty. He held his body like a soldier on guard duty.
As soon as Comstock was in the hall, he made a show of taking charge. He ordered the younger man to put leaflets on a side table, then went to the front and stood there tapping his long chin with one finger. “I think I’ll speak from the
floor,” he announced to Alf Dietz, but loud enough for everyone to hear. The stage behind him was used for Christmas plays and dance bands. He would look like a fool talking to them from up there.
Comstock began marching back and forth at the front, while the audience went to the benches and sat. Dietz and the young fellow sat in the first row. Ella led Billy and Tom to a bench two rows back.
Tom studied the American while the rest of the people found places. Comstock was pretending to be comfortable in the cold room in just a sports jacket. The jacket was the colour of a tanned deerskin and matched his cowboy boots. He had the fingers of both hands poked in the pockets of his jeans. The western get-up was meant to make them comfortable, Tom supposed. But no local man wore clothes like that.
Comstock started to talk.
“Aladdin has been producing gas for fifty-three years—in all parts of America where petroleum is found. Based on that knowledge and experience, we built this plant. There are new factors here, things we must respond to as they show themselves. That’s how the history of this business is written: you apply what has done well for you in the past. You adjust to the conditions of the present. That’s how we get to the future.”
The Court baby started to cough. A ripping sound for a creature so small. Alice stood up with the baby tucked inside the opening of her parka and bounced. Then she went behind the last row and walked with a jogging step.
“In visits with you—and my apologies to any I missed—I explained sour gas, explained how we take this very poisonous gas and render it mostly harmless by removing the elemental sulphur. That is happening at the plant today and every day. To start up this plant we hired the very best men we could find.” He opened a hand toward the front bench. “Mr. Alf Dietz, one of the most experienced men in sour gas processing in North America. To Mr. Dietz’s right, Lance Evert, a sharp young engineer from Saskatchewan. Lance graduated top of his class from your University of Alberta.”
Comstock made himself more solemn. “I am aware there have been difficulties here. Plant start-ups are difficult. Such problems are regrettable but not unusual. And yes, some of these are different problems than we normally see—the kinds of things you can’t turn a valve or two and fix. Now, I think that’s enough of an introduction. I want to hear from you. Let’s hear your questions.”