Through his anger, Johnny could smell summer. The distinctive odor of bruised tree bark and underbrush, and the heavy clay churned to mud by forestry equipment, pungent through the open windows of his cab. Though narrow, the access road was well constructed for the heavy logging trucks transporting valuable timber to the sawmill. He completed his turn with casual skill and parked his Peterbilt in the loading area.
The truck’s frame rocked as the brakes locked, dust under the vehicle swirling. Frank skillfully lifted the trailer off Johnny’s truck with the big track loader and, log by log, began building another balanced load. Johnny couldn’t fault the loader operator’s ability and held back from blustering defensively at the thought of their interaction earlier that day.
On the early trip, Frank had asked Johnny to move his truck forward a few meters in the loading area. Johnny had ignored Frank’s terse request over the company radio channel as he was already settling in to complete his log book entry. Minutes later, Johnny had cursed Frank on the radio when the operator bumped the rear stakes due to the uneven ground by the trailer, startling Johnny.
Instead of keying his mic and replying, Frank had stopped his machine, climbed down from the high cab of his loader, and vaulted up smoothly to look in Johnny’s open window. Something in Frank’s manner made Johnny realize he should listen.
“Never speak to me like that. Move your truck forward, and I’ll finish loading.” A line had been drawn. Expectations were clear.
Something in the quiet way Frank spoke, and the ease with which he climbed back up into the loader, and the lack of response on the radio to Johnny’s insult, seemed sinister, unlike anything in Johnny’s previous experience. The others tuned to the Banks Mountain Contracting private radio channel would know something had happened, and Johnny could feel their silent presence.
The big rig shuddered on its axles each time logs were added. Johnny felt somehow diminished. He couldn’t verbalize why, but knew inwardly he would not challenge Frank over the incident or try to make his life miserable in the coming days, as he normally did to coworkers who crossed him.
Johnny was a decent worker, but not as good as he could be, and he knew it. He hadn’t set out to be a trucker, and certainly had no desire to own a logging truck himself and face the constant challenge of keeping it serviceable for the long hours and extreme conditions that could rip axles off frames. The quality of his work had dropped soon after high school, leveling off as adequate.
Work during the week, relax on weekends with friends and sometimes with his wife, depending on how the relational winds were blowing. In short, Johnny worked for the paycheck, thought little about the future, and rationalized his lifestyle choices when his wife pointed out how other guys his age were building their careers, thinking about the future. Johnny Amund was a bystander, not a player; complacency was easier than challenge.
In Johnny’s experience, the guys you worked with were part of the scenery. Like waitresses, or a cashier in a store, or a neighbour a few doors down—they were not part of his life, and he wasn’t involved in theirs.
Friends are important. Johnny thought about this as he chose his track, truck and trailer bumping and swaying heavily on the narrow access lane, the slow part of the trip. Stopping in the pullout before entering the Forest Service Road, he checked his load and lights, and stamped the loaded logs with the heavy marking hammer. Returning the hammer to its blue bucket on the roadside, Johnny powered up his windows while waiting for several loaded trucks to pass. Swinging wide across the gravel road, dust still swirling from the passing trucks, Johnny shifted through the gears. The power of the big engine, and the challenge of putting that power to good use, never got old.
By habit he keyed his microphone and called his kilometers as required for safety on the Forest Service Road. As he acknowledged the passing trucks on the way back to the mill with a nod or raised hand, he realized for the first time that he was passing drivers, not trucks. There was a man who had looked old to Johnny ten years before; here was a woman he recognized from high school; next came an out-of-town contractor he didn’t know. Not friends, but they were certainly part of his life, maybe even important.
The exchange earlier with Frank gnawed at his thoughts. It had been similar to a time years ago he had teased a girl while waiting for the school bus, stepping on her shoelaces, not really thinking. He had not thought of her older brother. The older boy defended his sister, kicking Johnny in the stomach and telling him to “grow up, loser.” The kick had been mostly ineffectual, hadn’t hurt for long, but Johnny understood his intention, and left the girl alone from that time on, even treating her with respect.
He shook his head and cursed, face flushed with embarrassment at both past and present. Was he doing the same thing as an adult? Johnny thought of himself as a good worker, and a capable man, but started to think about what it meant to be strong. He wore a reality television-inspired beard—though he would never admit it—and chose his work clothes intentionally. Brands were as important as function: this is how a trucker needs to look.
Johnny swore under his breath, and for the first time in his adult life, faced the fact that he was not as successful as he wanted to be. Was he a big, dumb bully? He wasn’t a fighter but would react quickly when he didn’t like something. At least he responded to a person’s face, not behind their back. He had learned that from his uncles, a personal code he had not neglected. And being big helped.
Driving on, Johnny knew he could be proud of the good choices he made daily on the road. He liked being a log truck driver and understood that his job was important in the BC economy. So why was he frustrated? Why did he feel so hollow?
The day had started poorly.
“Johnny, your alarm is going. It’s already after four o’clock, get up!” Mary’s voice was strained, sleepy. “You want to be late again?”
Johnny’s wife normally got up several hours after Johnny, before leaving for her job. When Johnny went to bed early, she normally spent several hours working with her horses, and planned for extra sleep in the morning.
“Seriously, Johnny, come on! She pushed herself out of bed, stretching. “I can’t sleep when I know you might be late, and I don’t need to get up yet.” She opened the roller blind before heading to the kitchen in the small house Johnny had inherited.
The sun had not yet risen in the northeastern horizon, but the cool air was liquid, thick with gold and purple light filtered through the low line of cloud. Mary had hurried to make Johnny a lunch so he would not be late. She forced open the sticky aluminum-framed kitchen window to hear the robins and other songbirds as they insistently welcomed the day. The scent of new leaves and wild rose blooms in the cool air, clear and full of promise, had captured Mary’s attention, softening her disappointment.
Johnny had expected harsh words when he appeared in the kitchen, but the only sounds came from the coffee pot dripping and snorting on the counter. He joined Mary, standing in the open door. Johnny inhaled the serenity, grateful when Mary slipped her arm around him for a moment, before returning to the kitchen to fill his thermos and lunch box in her efficient way.
Hours later, as Johnny set the brakes on the company’s Peterbilt in the last pullout before the highway, stretching as he circled the truck to check his load, he was thinking of Mary standing on the porch with a cup of coffee when he left home that morning. She deserved more. Much more than he was giving.
She had left him briefly several years before but came back when he agreed to cut back on his antisocial behavior and solo drinking, basically begging her to come home. He was immensely relieved when she returned, although he couldn’t express it.
“I know you mean well, Johnny, and I love you, but I don’t want to be your mother. I want to know you can take care of me, too, and maybe be a good dad someday.”
These words had been echoed in many conversations ever since.
Like traffic laws and fishing regulations, they seemed logical but vague, like t
here were more pages he couldn’t read. He didn’t want to push Mary away, even though he didn’t feel like changing. He knew she was right; he enjoyed her attention, although he hated to think of it as mothering.
Yes, he did take advantage of Mary, and the way she couldn’t stop herself from helping him. Her mother, a woman whose nagging Johnny had come to despise, called this “enabling.” She said it like it was some sort of a special word, a word made to be used on guys like Johnny. Johnny often couldn’t or didn’t define his feelings, but he knew he hated hearing his mother-in-law’s criticisms regarding his character—especially when he knew she was correct.
Nearing the sawmill, downshifting smoothly, Johnny was still thinking. Why had he mouthed off to Frank about a problem that he’d created himself? And Frank wasn’t afraid to confront him. Frank was probably sick of his behavior. This was a new thought. Was he always rude to Frank? Did the other guys think so, too? Red-faced, alone in his cab, Johnny thought.
Chapter 2
Johnny Amund and the others at Banks Mountain Contracting worked steadily throughout the early summer, taking advantage of good conditions, watching the sawmill log yards begin to fill. The summer paychecks were welcome after six weeks of spring breakup when the truck was parked.
The radiator on his truck had needed replacing, and Johnny volunteered to help the mechanics, surprising everyone. Johnny had helped his uncles many hours on the farm and was secretly pleased when the mechanics appreciated his abilities. Old Pete had commented, “I knew there was still a farm boy in there somewhere,” his vague statement taken as a compliment. Johnny spent a few more evenings in the shop, as well as a few Saturday mornings when the work piled up, helping the mechanics get more of a weekend.
July was hot and windy, and when the fire hazard increased, Banks Mountain Contracting and a dozen other logging shows were forced to stop active logging. The mechanics, glad for Johnny’s help, quickly did any high-priority maintenance on equipment that was likely to be enlisted by the Ministry of Forests for firefighting.
Following an afternoon thunderstorm, a dozen wildfires were soon raging in the Vanderhoof forest area, whipped up by the strong winds, devouring hectares of forest by the hundred. Johnny’s truck was not needed for fire duty, and he had some free time on his hands.
When Mary suggested visiting her father for several days, Johnny didn’t respond well. “But Johnny, it would be fun, and I can take a week off if I want! Dad has a house on the lake, and we’ve never been there, they would love if we came for a visit.”
Johnny couldn’t verbalize his reluctance of facing the unknown, and his angry and illogical response embarrassed him. He escaped by storming out in a childish huff to spend the rest of the day on a nearby lake with a six-pack of warm beer; the ice, worms, and other supplies forgotten in his haste to escape. He returned home later, sunburned and sheepish, with only two small trout for his trouble.
Mary had spent all day fuelling her anger, but the sight of her husband standing in their driveway by his dusty 4x4, staring down at the forgotten items, melted something inside her. She met him at the door and they both stumbled for words.
“Mary, I’m such a loser. I’m sorry I got so mad.” He held his breath, blowing it out slowly.
She looked at him, hoping he would talk, and hoping she wouldn’t.
“I was too pushy, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to go.” She had walked with him to the pickup to unload his gear.
He stopped her, turning her to face him. “Mary, listen.” He paused, absently rubbing his sunburned forearms. “I know you want to go visit your dad, and I want to go with you. I, …” He stopped talking, unsure how to describe what he was feeling; the dread of meeting new people, of being in an unfamiliar place, the lack of preparation for the unknown. Was this fear? Was he actually afraid of going on a trip with Mary?
He had dragged the small aluminum boat to its rack behind the shed, while she brought his fishing pole and an empty potato chip bag from the bed of the truck.
“You must be starving! This is all you ate?”
He lifted the boat to its rack, grinning at her. “I could eat.”
“Where is the motor?” The old outboard had not been in the truck. “You didn’t!”
She looked up at him. Johnny had threatened to throw the ancient and unreliable relic overboard many times. Had he finally done it?
He grinned again, ruefully.
“I forgot to tighten the clamps when I put it on the boat. The second time I yanked the cord, well, over she went. Hey, where are the worms?”
They opened the cooler and shared the forgotten sandwiches at the picnic table behind the house, Mary laughing at Johnny’s description of himself peering at the bubbles rising from the lost outboard, and Johnny relieved that Mary had released the worms into the flowerbed.
After the unfortunate beginning, they were surprised when they had a fantastic trip together, enjoying the time with Mary’s dad, boating and fishing and soaking up some sun, extending their stay by a few days.
Al and his partner Joanne loved sharing their lake house, and though it took several days for Johnny to warm up to the evening barbeques and boating parties with guests coming and going, he soon began to enjoy himself. Mary was pleased when Johnny accepted Al’s invitation to stay a few more days, and though he didn’t comment, he didn’t resist.
Johnny and Mary had not spent this much leisure time together in years. At home their time away from jobs did not usually coincide, and they usually spent their free time together working on the house and property, without meaningful communication. Arguments were common, and when Mary resorted to silence, Johnny responded by working longer hours.
Away from the normal routines and habits of home, Johnny watched Mary and found with growing dismay how terribly he had been taking her for granted. He saw how her father respected her, and how she quickly won Joanne’s friendship.
Mary was beautiful and he appreciated the way she could light up a room and carry a conversation. Observing her now as she interacted with unfamiliar people, her bright personality and people skills were startling. Johnny realized that without Mary, he would not be making new friends or be enjoying the holiday so much. His feelings for her deepened, and she sensed the change, responding to his unpracticed compliments and the way his eyes followed her.
Mary was an honest person, and her feelings were usually easy to read, She didn’t expect life to be free of pain or struggle, and intentionally practiced what she learned. While it was sometimes difficult to hold her tongue or keep from expressing disappointment in her husband, she had observed her own mother drive her father away and wanted desperately to avoid the same pattern. Johnny had been a strong teen, a quiet and responsible boy everyone looked up to. She had felt privileged to meet him, and thrilled when he asked her to marry him. But early in their relationship, circumstances beyond his control had changed him, compounding with earlier hurts she didn’t fully understand.
Now, relaxing together away from the familiarity of home, the hope welling up inside her was almost more than she could bear. Mary was certain she could feel him changing, and the way he looked at her left her a little shaky. She loved her husband and welcomed Johnny’s attention knowing it came from deep inside.
There was no doubt Johnny was changing, and she was responding. Even her father had commented on the fact that she was glowing. Al had grinned, “I think my little girl is in love.”
At one evening party, Johnny and Al had come up from docking the boat, and he saw Mary standing with a group of people, lit by the glow of the low evening sun. Mary had looked away from the laughter-punctuated conversation, lifting her hand to shade her eyes with a graceful movement. Seeing Johnny, she smiled, excusing herself from the group. The evening light, stained red by forest fire smoke, smoldered in her dark hair, and painted her bare shoulders as she came lightly down the steps. Her arms were cool as she embraced him, momentarily leaning her upraised head against his chest, the
n led him up the steps by the hand.
The group had watched her leave, conversation stalling. Johnny felt as if something inside him would burst. The feeling of being singled out by a beautiful woman—the woman he loved—was breathtaking.
Hand in hand he followed her up the stairs, throat tight with emotion. He felt pride; both of his wife as a person, and that she was his. He felt shy—this was his own wife, and he didn’t yet know her. He felt disappointment and regret for ignoring the love Mary had offered freely for years. He knew that he needed to give more, be more.
Johnny stopped their ascent on the landing just below the group, and lifted Mary, hugging her to himself. He turned them in a slow, easy circle; her hands cool on his cheeks, eyes glowing, looking into his. Setting her down smoothly, he leaned and whispered in her ear. Her dark eyes widened, bright with unshed tears, and she leaned into him. “I love you, too,” she whispered back.
Then, taking his hand, she led him up the last steps to the terrace and introduced him to people he would later have no recollection of meeting.
Johnny was almost disappointed when he got the call that he would be back to work in several days – rain was in the forecast. Each minute with Mary seemed precious, and his reluctance to try new things was shrinking as a result.
“Johnny, Dad and Joanne are going to a Sunday service tomorrow morning, it’s in a vineyard near here. Come with us?”
“Sure, sounds good to me.” The simple words earned a quiet smile and a sigh, “Oh, Johnny, I am so happy.”
The vineyard was hot, morning breeze scented with pine as well as unfamiliar desert smells. From the back of the crowd, Johnny enjoyed the music played by a live band, leaving his folding chair to look at the vines. Far below, boats left white wakes on the water, a contrast to the tan desert hills and their groves of dark coniferous trees across the lake.
The pastor was Joe, the guy with the wakeboard boat who had been at Al and Joanne’s place a couple of times during the week. The sermon, if that what it was called outdoors, was short. Joe read a passage in the Bible about people being branches growing out from Jesus, and how the healthy branches grew more grapes. The simple explanation of growth and pruning made sense, but Johnny knew he didn’t really understand the message, but felt connected to something solid.
Always a Brother Page 2