Who by Fire (16 page)

“I wish you didn’t have to curse everything.”

“We’ve got dead calves, and you’re correcting my language.”

She wanted away from him. He did not touch her but stood in her way.

“We’ve got to talk about this,” he said. “It’s one thing for newborn pigs to die. They’re like—”

“Canaries in a coal mine. You don’t have to tell me everything a dozen times.”

“But a calf has lungs the size of a child’s.”

Ella could not stop the rush of tears. “Let me go. I’ve got to go to Billy.”

“It doesn’t matter a damn anymore that you were born on this farm. We have to get the hell out of here.”

“All right. Now, please, get out of my way.”

“I know what you’re thinking …”

“You do not know what I’m thinking!”

She shoved his chest and he stepped back. He said something else but she did not listen or care.

Late that night, Tom sat at the kitchen table trying to write. Against a heavy drift of fatigue, he tried over and over to explain their
problems on paper to Ormond Cardwell. The failures lay in little balls around him on the floor.

When Ormond had offered his assistance at Kresge’s lunch counter, Tom had appreciated it but thought he didn’t need him. If Tom had a beef, he’d talk to his own MLA. But writing to Ormond tonight had to do with their childhoods. He needed someone who knew who he was.

“We have been losing half our pig litters. The piglets are barely born and smother. Last night it was stinking and two calves died, twins.” When he read it back, it sounded like a child’s writing.

He wanted Ormond to know, not just about the dead animals, but about how sick Billy got on those nights. How he puked until he was as bent and stiff as a hay hook. How it exhausted him. How his blood was no good.

“A calf’s lungs are the same size as a boy’s lungs.”

Tom’s hand shook as he wrote it. He had begun to fear his son would die.

Things were not getting better. That’s what he had to get across to Ormond. All spring, the smell had been hellish. Every damn thing was worse.

Tom set the pen down. He combed the fingers of both hands back through his hair. There was something else on his mind, something he could not tell Ormond or anyone. A few weeks back, he had gone to the Lower Place to fence. When he was driving home after dark, vehicle lights popped on and off ahead of him at the school. In the flashes he recognized Hughie McGrady’s Ford.

Hughie was an old cowboy from Wyoming who had arrived in the country half a century ago with a wife and brother. Now he was over seventy and alone. Tom stopped and got out. The two men leaned against the fender of Hughie’s truck and smoked. Hughie asked how things were. Tom knew there must be some pressing
reason the old fellow had flagged him, but such were Hughie’s manners he had to hear Tom out first. It was not long after the two litters of pigs had died, so Tom told him that, then about Billy’s illness.

“How is it with you, Hughie? The gas must be bad at your place too.”

The bit of orange light from Hughie’s pipe lit his face and the underside of his floppy hat brim. Tom saw the old fellow’s lips draw back, the teeth clench hard on the pipestem.

“That slough west of my house? I checked that one morning and seen some woollies lying by the dugout. I come closer and by God they were dead—three ewes. I started down and got dizzy as hell. I figured it was gas so I ran back up. My legs turned to punk and I fell down. I was out cold but maybe the wind blew it off. I woke up anyway.”

“Did you phone the plant?”

“Nah. I phoned that buzzard Dietz a couple of times early on. All he ever did was offer to visit. I told him I wasn’t looking for company.”

Tom had begun to understand that the story about the sheep dying was not why Hughie was here waiting.

“You got something on your mind, Hughie?”

“I do, Tom, and it ain’t easy.”

“Go on.”

“You know I rented some Bauer land for pasture?”

“I do.”

“I was riding there, to see if there was enough grass for my woollies. It was afternoon, and I saw your car parked where Bauer’s house used to be. I thought that was strange so I come closer.”

Hughie stopped. Tom told him to keep going.

“I’da said sooner but I couldn’t make up my mind. I saw you go by earlier, and I thought, I got to tell him. Thing is, Tommy, I saw
your wife and she was with that young fella works with Dietz at the plant. It was probably nothing.”

“What were they doing?”

“They were standing. They had hold of each other. I turned my horse and got the hell out. I don’t want to cause trouble, but it didn’t feel right not to say.”

Tom’s cigarette was dead. He plucked it from the corner of his mouth and laid it in the can lid. He pulled another sheet of paper forward, picked up the pen and dipped it.

“What’s hard is how it gets to everybody. It’s family that pays. Besides my son being sick, no one in this family gets along like they used to. Not my daughters. Not me and my wife. I don’t even get along with myself. Don’t even recognize myself. I thought I was a good farmer, good trader, good husband, not a bad father. I counted on respect and had it. I don’t know what I’ve got now. Some days it doesn’t feel like much.”

Tom stared at these words and panic took him. He scrunched the sheet, squeezed it into a hard ball. He gathered everything from the floor, lifted the trash burner lid, and dropped the papers in. He stirred the coals until a flame appeared and the paper balls caught.

In a whisper, he said to Ella, “I do know what you’re thinking.”

Waddens Lake

BILL BOLTED OUT OF BED
at Chateau Borealis, skipped breakfast, and drove to the plant. He was working out the details of his trip to Calgary when Henry opened the door.

“Houle wants to see you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Who else is going to be there?”

“Just you, big guy.”

“I can’t phone him?”

“In his office first thing is what he said.”

Bill put his winter gear back on and walked fast through the plant. He could have called someone to drive him, in a quad or truck, but preferred, for the sake of wakefulness, to walk in the cold. He sucked the icy breaths in deep.

It was a poor time to run into Johnny Bertram—but, around a blind corner, there he was: he and Elmo flopping insulation bales off the truck.

“Johnny.”

“Hey, Billy-boy. Where you off to so early?”

“Called on the carpet by my boss.”

“Been screwing the pooch?”

Houle’s secretary was a stylish, sarcastic Native named Paula. In his crossings through this antechamber, Bill had learned to like her even though she reliably did not remember his name. Now she twisted her torso toward him while leaving her eyes glued to the computer screen. It looked like a yoga pose. She offered him a coffee and he accepted.

“Bill Ryder, correct?”

“Correct.”

“I don’t know why I can’t remember. Maybe you don’t look like your name.”

“You can call me Mr. Walker if that helps.”

“Okay, Mr. Walker. You can go in.”

Bill entered Houle’s sanctum. All the other working spaces at the project looked temporary, like trailers, but Houle’s was a reasonable facsimile of a Calgary executive office. Giant desk. Corner windows that framed a few trees.

Theo spun a coaster under Bill’s lowering cup.

“ ’Lo, Bill. How are you this morning?”

“Didn’t sleep. Fine otherwise.”

“You stayed in camp, didn’t you? What did you find to do all night?”

“Usual mid-week bunga-bunga party.”

It wasn’t a good sign that Houle smirked. Ordinarily he was a hearty laugher.

“I’ll cut to the chase here, Bill. I’m sure we’re both busy. I heard something last night at the open house. It was a woman telling a man that you never lie to them. Bill the sulphur man never lies to us, she said. They were Native people.”

“Did I miss a memo? Are we supposed to lie to them?”

“I’m kind of serious here, Bill. It reminded me of something else I heard from a community woman.” Houle picked a sheet off his desk and shot it into a tray. “Something about you saying our tailings pond leaks.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“So you remember saying something. By the way, I’m being less than transparent. It wasn’t two women. It was the same woman twice. Mrs. Calfoux.”

“Right.”

“So when Mrs. Calfoux suggested our pond might leak, you said?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know. Something like that it wasn’t impossible.”

Houle flipped his hands over, a pair of puppies exposing their bellies. “So you did suggest to her that our pond leaks.”

“Theo, look. This happened because Dion told me I should go talk to the woman. I tell Dion whenever he asks that I don’t like talking to locals. I’d rather be left out of that side of things.”

“You appeared to enjoy yourself last night.”

“I went to a corner to eat. Marie Calfoux came to talk.”

“Yes, the woman in question came to talk. Our pond doesn’t leak.”

“When she said tailings ponds, she meant all tailings ponds, not just ours. If the context matters.”

“And you know for a fact that other ponds leak, do you?”

“Come off it, Theo. One project has a moat around their pond to catch leaks and put them back.”

“They do that so the pond doesn’t leak. Obviously.”

Bill sat back and folded his arms.

“It seems to me a matter of loyalty,” said Houle, “to our company and our industry.”

“You know, Theo, I don’t like being told what to say and not say. I don’t like being told who I can talk to either.” He realized he was angry, but it was impossible not to be. Houle was being an asshole.
“If you’re working up to telling me I’m fired, let’s go there. You have the power, get on with it.”

“I thought you liked your job.”

“I do, and you know it.”

“It sounds like you’re ready to walk.”

“A long time ago, someone told me never make a deal unless you’re willing to walk away.”

“This isn’t a deal—it’s a job. And a damn good one.”

“A job is a deal of sorts.”

Something in Houle’s demeanour changed. “Let’s not get carried away,” he said. “I’m not questioning your ability. All I want is for you to be more circumspect about what you say to the people you talk to around here.”

“That sounds like what I said I don’t like.”

“Is it my job, really, to give you everything you like?”

“My job is running your sulphur plant. Why don’t I go do that?”

“You’re pretty cocky today.”

“How would you like me to be?”

The frozen air soon cooled him off and left him feeling stupid. Marie was relaying to his boss things that he said. It probably meant she had no interest in him beyond that; she’d been playing him like a harp. It was also true that she had told him she wasn’t trying to snag him, and had called him sad and unattractive. If he kept on thinking she was romantically interested, who was to blame?

Bill forgot to avoid the place where Johnny Bertram was working. Johnny downed his tools.

“You don’t look so good, Billy. They didn’t fire you, did they?”

Bill groped for a witty remark. Johnny grew more serious.

“Jump in the truck.” Inside the cab, he fiddled with the dials on his dash, made heat pour. “Did I make a bad joke?”

“Pretty good one, actually. I think I came pretty close to being on the job market.”

“What did you do? Your plant hasn’t blown up. You haven’t killed any neighbours. I doubt you steal.” He thumped the dash with his big mitt. “Poontang! Has to be poontang.”

The antique word made Bill laugh. “Sort of correct,” he said. “Though, for the record, no sex was asked for or received.”

“That’s good. I’d hate to think anyone got laid up here.”

They sat for another minute.

“Harassment would fit,” Johnny said philosophically. “No result. But you can still get fired for it.”

“I didn’t get fired.”

“Maybe that’s why you look so sad. Just about had the big severance package in your hands, and they said you have to stay.”

“Thanks for the warm-up.”

“It’s something about the woman in the village, isn’t it? You can hire Indians, just not sleep with them. Pretty good rule, actually.”

“See you later, Johnny.”

Back in his office, he realized he hadn’t told Houle he was going to Calgary. Fuck him. Bill got his crew sorted and left.

Between Fort Mac and Edmonton, clouds hung low, and the snow kept moving out of the trees and across the lanes. Semis ripped the drifts into whiteouts. Patches of black ice felt like the earth opening. Still the maniacs sped. If Bill needed further intimations of mortality, there were plenty in the ditches. White crosses stuck out of the snow, some hung with plastic wreaths. Stuffed animals, booze bottles.

It wasn’t the best time for thinking, but he did anyway. A woman gives him tea twice, they share a few laughs, and what? And nothing. It was a simple enough thing. He should be able to stuff it in his
bulging live-and-learn file and move on. But here he was, full of boyish sorrow—and humiliation. It had been so easy for her to get him to talk about the plant, to say things that she could then quote back to his boss—and anyone else she pleased. What kind of simpleton had he become?

On a two-lane section, a truck coming from the south swerved into his lane. He hit his brakes and started to slide. Then the truck was past him and in the ditch.

Bill drove onto the shoulder, clicked on his flashers, walked back. The truck was mired in the snow at the edge of a little patch of spruce trees, but it was right side up. The door swung and the driver jumped out. He did not limp or appear to bleed as he walked to his truck’s front end, where a tree had pushed a dent in his hood. The guy flailed his arms, kicked the tree; his shouts pared down by wind sounded like a bee in a can. The absence of gratitude made Bill want to deliver the blow that fate had spared him. But the guy was large and the hurt would be on Bill. He went back to his truck and kept driving.

It fell dark where the boreal started changing to farmland. Enough sky cleared for the moon to light the snow in the fields, the cross-hatch of animal tracks. His thoughts were finally off Marie, but they’d gone to the equally sad topic of whether Houle meant to fire him. Story was that many engineers had been laid off in Alberta during the economic disaster a few years back, and that they were shipping their resumés by the bushel to places like Waddens. Maybe old Theo was sending feelers back to see if any of these young geniuses wanted to be a sulphur boss.