Who by Fire (25 page)

“The burning pit is still going.”

“Maybe he means it’s going to stop but hasn’t yet,” Ella answered.

“I have trouble believing there will be plants with nothing coming out but hot air.”

“They might get closer, though.”

“I suppose.”

He did not know what to say beyond this. He glanced at Ella to see if she was going to speak, and it seemed not. She was just showing the letter and showing herself showing it. Only Jeannie paid attention. The other two were straining to get away.

“You can go, you two,” Tom said to Billy and Donna. They did so quickly.

“Are you going to answer the letter, Mom?” Jeannie asked, and a flicker of heat passed across Ella’s face.

“No,” she said. “Your father can if he likes.”

Tom felt heat rising in him as well, and he decided it was rude to carry on about this letter when there was Jeannie’s news to talk about. He had only glanced at the newspaper piece but now he read it closely. When she guessed he was reading the smell of money part, Jeannie said again that it was Gerry who’d said that.

Tom laughed.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“It’s the smell of money for us too. The smell of money leaving.”

Jeannie laughed with him. Ella was still standing and had not picked up the letter.

“You going to take your letter?” he asked her.

“It’s not mine. You can do with it what you like.”

After a slice of silence, Ella went to the sink and ran water.

“I’ll put it in the binder,” he said to her back, then folded it and shoved it in its envelope. He pushed his chair back and reached for his tobacco can.

“Nelson,” he said. “That’s not too far away.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Jeannie said, and he was struck by how completely he had her attention in this moment.

“I don’t think I knew you wanted to be a schoolteacher. Was that me not listening?”

“I didn’t know for a while either. Gerry wanted me to go where he’s going. He wants to be an engineer and applied to Calgary and Edmonton.”

“Is it over, then? With him?”

“It’s over. That article was just the final …”

“Straw.”

“Straw. I won’t marry someone who pushes me around. It makes you feel small all the time.”

“I’m glad you decided what you did, then.”

They talked about money. Jeannie had looked into student loans and thought she would live in residence. The amount was considerable, but Tom figured he and Ella could dig that much out of their savings and make it up again. Suddenly, he was thinking of Jeannie in the world: a tall girl with lots of energy. Pretty. He liked the idea of her in a residence, living with a bunch of young people. She made friends easily. If she lived alone, she would get lonesome and have another serious boyfriend too soon. This way, she might have some not too serious ones first, get to know better what she liked. He was
amazed at how many thoughts he had on this subject now that it had arisen and his opinion was asked for.

Ella still had her back to them washing the dishes. Maybe you shouldn’t try to read someone by their back, but he thought hers looked put out. Jeannie suddenly said, “Mom! You should have waited. I would have helped you.”

“That’s okay. You’re having a good talk with your dad.”

He doubted Ella felt that, but it was respectful to say it, in the way that the letter was not respectful. While he talked with Jeannie, he could not help but think of the hundred per cent business, one hundred per cent recovery of sulphur. What was possible would be important if it came to a lawsuit. If the company was doing less than it
could
, that reflected on both Aladdin and the government: one for not trying and the other for not insisting.

Jeannie helped put dishes away, wiped down the counter. Tom went and put the letter in the binder.
Dear Ella. Your friend, Lance
. Jeannie going off to become a teacher. He could not think clearly. He was like a magpie jumping from branch to branch.

A few nights later, over supper, Tom said he didn’t know how he was going to get the haying done without a hired man. Jeannie said she would do the raking. Donna said she would run the mower. Ella said she and Billy would help on the stack.

It happened exactly that way. They did every bit of haying themselves. In the hottest part of each afternoon, the kids went for a swim. They jumped into the old pickup and Jeannie drove them to the swimming hole on the Callaghan. Billy complained at first about sharp rocks in the river, so Ella cut the toes out of an old pair of runners.

By the time Ella and Jeannie were packing her boxes for Nelson, the kids were friends in a way they had never been before. Ella could
not stop herself from crying when they had Jeannie’s boxes and suitcases in the car. Donna and Billy were close to tears as well. Jeannie told them all to cheer up.

“B.C.’s not the end of the world, you know.”

Billy, who’d been practising his sarcasm, said, “Not quite,” and was rewarded with a cuff on the head.

Waddens Lake

A KNOCK CAME
on the office door. Clayton entered. “Marion, Huge, and me were wondering if you’d come to The Pit for a beer tonight.”

Clayton had his chest stuck out and his bottom lip pushed over the top one. The suggested group was strange. Bill was never asked for drinks unless Henry Shields was involved. Henry would be working tomorrow so would not be drinking tonight. As for Marion, she was never invited to The Pit if Clayton was going, as Clayton disapproved of drinking with women. He preferred them naked and wrapped around a pole.

“You want to talk to me about something. And that something would be Dennis.”

Clayton’s brass neck fell loose. Bill enjoyed the response.

“We’re really pissed about him,” Clayton said.

“I know that. And what are you wanting me to do?”

“Fire him.”

“First off, I won’t be coming to The Pit. That’s not the place to discuss Dennis. I’ll discuss him with you right now.”

“All of us agree it’s unsafe to work with Dennis. It’s not right to expose us to a guy that’s screwing up all the time. He could get us killed.”

“Dennis isn’t going to get fired. Theo Houle and I have already
talked about it. In my opinion, Dennis is no more likely to cause a four-alarm catastrophe than anyone else, including you.”

“That’s complete bullshit!”

“Fact is, Dennis probably became a much better operator when he hit the deck the other day. You also don’t get to pick who you work with, in this business or in any other, unless you own it. If you see him do something questionable, I suggest you tell him. He can learn. We all can.”

“You’re pretty holier-than-thou for someone I couldn’t get ahold of when Fuckwit had his accident.”

“You’re right. I should have been easier to contact.”

“You say I cause problems just like Dennis. Name one thing I’ve done wrong.”

“It’s what you might do that concerns me.”

“I’m not satisfied with this. Not one bit.”

“Okay by me. I don’t really care if you get so hot you catch fire. Could you ask Marion to come in when you leave?”

Marion stuck to her guns for a while, until Bill pointed out she was only being asked to The Pit to up the numbers trying to get Dennis fired. At that, she wilted.

“You earn respect by doing a good job,” he told her, “which you already do. As for Dennis, he knows he’s getting a break. He’ll repeat his safety training. He’ll be listening this time.”

When Huge came in, Bill gave him the same spiel. The big man seemed incapable of reply. It was possible he longed to say it wasn’t his idea, that Clayton had bullied him, but he did the dignified thing and stayed quiet.

Why not head for Edmonton? That casino on the north side? Remember that machine? The one with the Irish jig music? You had those leprechauns dancing
.

All the way to Fort Mac, the Voice droned on. Bill knew a mighty tussle lay ahead.

At the other end, in the condo, he did as he had promised himself. He put a steak in the microwave to thaw. He opened a GSM from the Barossa Valley, swished the black wine around the bell of the glass; sipped. He remembered the forest of lights over the casino entrance as he had passed it. The Voice was at its most incessant then. But he had made it by; he had made it home. Now he was settled in and drinking. He got up and put some music on: the big rumbling piano of Chucho Valdés.

The only problem with alcohol was that between the first drink and oblivion came actual drunkenness. While drunk, the part of Bill that fought the Voice lost power. It could get mushy and uncertain—or, worse yet, playful. Next thing, Bill would be inside Mr. Khalid’s sweet-smelling taxi with the Muslim prayer beads swinging from the rear-view, the ninety-nine names of Allah. One look at Bill, the shape he was in, and Mr. Khalid would start for the casino without being told.

Talk as much as you like, he challenged the Voice. You prattle, and I’ll make a nice dinner and watch some hockey. After that I’ll read a book. The Voice stayed silent, saving its energy.

Bill took his time with everything. He made a marinade and got the thawed meat into it. He drew out his biggest cutting board and sliced and chopped vegetables until they were several little hills around the wood. He pretended that the ball of desire building and rubberizing in his chest was not there. More wine.

In what seemed like no time, the cooking and eating were done. The dishes were in the sink. He carried the wine’s sad remnant to the living room, set the bottle and glass on coasters. It was the second intermission of the hockey game. His success at watching it was such that he did not know the score.

Sitting here by yourself? Drinking alone? Is that any kind of answer?

I like my own company.

Tell me another one. You need decibels, man. Lights. I give you one more hour before you’re thinking about the Native woman and your ex-wives. Whimpering about your kids and your dad
.

If Bill could work one thirty-day stretch, spending all his nights in the Chateau Borealis, he was pretty sure he could beat this thing, but that was not a discussion Theo Houle would entertain. Back when Bill was new and had asked to spend nights in camp, Theo had argued against it. Why on earth would he want to, when he had a nice condo in Fort Mac? Bill said he didn’t enjoy the drive. Next, Theo argued that the company was cracking down on expenses and would find Bill’s stays in camp unacceptable. New Aladdin had just accepted delivery of a vessel from an Ontario fabricator, two months late and a million over budget. Bill had allowed himself to laugh.

But he did understand Theo’s objection. It was not the expense but that Bill was turning down relative luxury. If the oil sands made sense at all, it was the sense of money and economic privilege. If someone did not obey those laws, the whole thing swayed in the muskeg.

“I’m single” was what Bill told Houle finally. “Besides, isn’t it a benefit to have an engineer in camp at night? Five minutes away as opposed to an hour and a half?”

Bill won that round, but a thirty-day shift in camp would still be out of the question. It was the sort of thing that would pop up like the devil’s prick in an accident investigation: Bill’s weird love of endless work could void their insurance.

He drank off the wine, checked his watch. It was not yet nine. He got his computer out of his briefcase, booted up, and induced a gambling-addiction site to appear.

“If you stop gambling, that is of course a wonderful sign.
Terrific progress! Good for you!
But if the problem gambler feels he or she has
conquered the addiction, look out! Real lasting progress can seldom be made alone. Progress begins with the admission that you are an addict and always will be.”

Bill went to the extra bedroom. Every wall except the one with the bed against it was lined with books. He searched and searched for something to read, but found nothing that would hold his attention tonight. He got a bottle of single malt from the cupboard and sloshed some amber into his wine glass. But alcohol would also not be enough.

He thought of the binder. It was in his truck, where he’d left it after the failed attempt to go to Jeannie’s. He went to his storage cupboard and rooted in the boxes, came back to the living room with a few photo albums. He needed to look at Ella. She had always given him, not strength exactly, but a modest backbone. Loving but unfooled was the look he remembered, a look with the power of a crutch. It held him up but never let him forget he was crippled.

Ella was not in the first two-thirds of the childhood album because she was the one taking pictures. Gangly Jeannie curled around baby Billy on a blanket in the yard. Billy and his sisters squinting into the crazy noonday sun. Jeannie and Donna modelling white dresses: Jeannie’s confirmation and Donna’s First Communion. He flipped the pages quickly, and he and his siblings grew like animated rhubarb. Fattening, thinning, pimpling; acquiring and losing period hairdos.

When Jeannie mastered the Brownie, Ella appeared. Bill’s favourite was a picture of himself at six. His mother stood behind him, her dark summer forearms on either side of his head and her hands flat down his chest. He could still feel her hands if he tried hard.

As he leafed through, he was trying not to see his father. If pictures of Ella beefed him up, pictures of Tom sapped him. Though camera shy, Tom had not totally avoided being photographed. In the
picture of Billy and Ella, Tom was on the edge, cut in half, grinning with his missing tooth on display.

Bill closed the album and stared at the wall, still unsatisfied, still squeezed. He turned to the first of the newer albums, and was soon looking at himself standing next to Ginny, his tall, thrillingly beautiful first wife. Their children appeared and sprouted.

The pictures of Martha and Will always hurt him—more even than the last image of Tom before he died, or the pictures to come of Ella as she got old and ill. To look at himself holding a tiny bundle of baby, then leaning down to lead his children by their gummy hands. Though the children didn’t know it and he didn’t either, he was about to leave them. The pictures after the leaving hurt him too, the barbs set at different angles. Always a fair woman, Ginny sent him photos of the birthday parties he missed, and the Christmas he spent in a blinding desert in Kuwait. While he’d worked in that open-air plant, dizzy with heat, he’d chanted a mantra about money: the stupid sum the American company was paying him to be there. The sun blazed off the steel, and his loneliness made a sound like warping tin.