“I think you better put it back.”
“This one’s mine.”
“Are you nuts? You could get arrested.”
“They’ve got plenty of other pieces.”
He shakes his head. “I still think you should put it back.”
We trudge up the slope, past smouldering metal and onto the fresh subsoil of the logging road. More vehicles are parked along the edge of the road now and newcomers are taking cases out of a van, conferring, readying cameras and slipping on rubber gloves. Staff from the Chief Medical Examiner’s office, come to collect the remains of Ronny Hess. Rachet is talking to them, briefing them. I wander past, an invisible volunteer.
Hess’s truck, a newer Ford four-wheel drive, is pulled off the road at the edge of the cutblock, its driver-side window spider-webbed with cracks, its front windshield blown in. I hadn’t paid much attention to it up until now but seeing the damaged truck sends a jolt of fear though me and I’m drawn forward, terrified I’ll see a familiar smudge on the window, a stain on the seat.
I step over a thin yellow barrier of flagging.
“Hey — get the hell outa there!”
It takes a moment to realize the shout is directed at me. A uniformed cop is striding toward me,an intent look on his face.“Back away,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.”
I lift my hands as though he might shoot if I make a wrong move, step away from the truck, across the sacred yellow line. He gestures me away. “That’s a crime scene buddy.”
I mumble an apology, retreat to the truck in which I arrived. Most of the Curtain River Search and Rescue team is already there, squatting in the box, awaiting further instructions. A few stragglers come across the slash, and when all are safely stowed, Rachet saunters over, thanks us for our help. I want to stay, follow what happens next, but it’s clearly out of the question. A few minutes later we’re thumping down the road into the valley, holding onto the rail of the truck box.
Ten minutes later, I’m in Carl’s truck and we’re on our way to town.
“How you doing, Porter?”
“Okay,” I mumble automatically. The requisite lie.
“You hungry? I think I’ve got a sandwich left.”
I ignore the offering of this minor miracle and stare out the window. As I watch dense timber slide past, I imagine a shadow slipping silently between the trees — a shadow more myth than reality. A phantom who calls himself Lorax.
5
THE CORRAL IS a small building with a red tin roof, on the far side of the Curtain River. At the edge of town, it sits on a barren gravel lot, next to a collection of rusting culverts and unemployed oil field equipment. The only advantage of this location seems to be its proximity to the highway, offering travellers unfamiliar with the town their first chance for a hamburger and cold beer. From what little I’ve heard about The Corral, it’s where the bikers, transients and rig pigs pick fights with local redneck ranchers and loggers. Carl says he likes the place because it has atmosphere. I think he likes it because it’s built of logs and fits well with his mental clock, which stopped sometime in the last century.
Carl doesn’t like anything new. He doesn’t own a television, computer or cell phone. His Forest Service house is furnished in retro pioneer motif, the furniture unpainted solid wood — no pressboard or plastic. His radio is a restored antique Marconi, as large as a dresser; his phone an old hand-crank contraption I’m not sure even works. Elk and moose hides he’s tanned himself cover cheap, cigarette-burned carpet. Faded black-and-white pictures of early forest rangers, stations and lookout towers line the walls. I’m staying in Carl’s spare bedroom. It’s a little like checking into a museum. But that’s Carl. Tonight, he’s wearing a buckskin jacket with fringes, the same one I remember him wearing in college. Only now it’s grungier, more authentic.
Crystals of broken glass glimmer like stars among the gravel as I park my old Land Rover well back from the building. There are only a half-dozen pickups in front of The Corral this early in the evening, but it’s Friday night and I don’t want to get boxed in. The big knife on my belt stays in the truck, tucked securely out of sight in the coil springs under the seat. We climb worn wooden steps, boards on the veranda creaking under my weight — I should be wearing spurs for the complete auditory effect.
Maybe it’s the high ceiling but The Corral seems bigger on the inside, which isn’t saying much. There’s a dozen crudely finished wooden tables on metal pedestals, a bar without mirrors, whisky bottles lined shoulder-to-shoulder on open shelves. The ceiling and interior walls are rough lumber, unfinished, bark on the edges. Carl was right — the place has atmosphere. Very woodsy. It’s a little like being inside a tree. I take a seat along the wall, on a black leather bench which wobbles under my weight, tips forward and tries to slide me off. By leaning on the table, stability is possible. But the table wobbles too. Carl slides in beside me. I work on my balance.
“So you like the place?” Carl runs a hand through his long hair, smoothes it back.
“It’s nice,” I say. “Sort of like your place.”
Carl smiles, pulls out a cigarette, lights it and glances at me, then towards the bar. He seems nervous, keyed up. I’m just tired, burned out. I haven’t had much sleep in the past few days. All I want is a burger, a beer and a decade of sleep. A lone waitress comes over. She’s wearing an apron with what look like bloodstains on it. Hopefully, that means she’s the cook, not the bouncer — jobs she looks equally capable of filling. I glance at the menu: a hand-printed card in a plastic holder on the table. I can have a clubhouse, buffalo burger or bacon and eggs. I order the buffalo. Carl orders the same and a jug of beer, which I’m hoping he’ll drink most of because the last thing I need now is an anaesthetic. The waitress gives Carl a smile and vanishes into what might be the kitchen.
“I think she likes you.”
“I’m a regular,” he says. “She smiles at all the regulars. We keep her in business.”
There’s a quiet stretch while we wait for the food. I keep thinking of Hess’s truck, dented, the windows shattered. The piece of Hess I found in the cutblock. Already, these events seem distant, as though they happened a week ago and not this afternoon — the same feeling I get at the tail end of a big fire, with the flames long gone and nothing left to do but wander endlessly through the black remains, searching for that last hot spot. At least with a fire, once it’s out, it’s over. Carl clears his throat, as if he’s going to say something, but remains silent, puffing on his smoke.
The door opens and Casey Fredricks comes in, still in Gortex despite the afternoon heat. Maybe he thinks it’s a reducing suit — just melts off the pounds. He sees us and grins, comes over, followed by several more Search and Rescue members. “How’re you guys doing?” he asks. They stand around our table, making me claustrophobic.
“Fine,” Carl sighs. “You guys?”
“Good.” Fredricks is sweating; big droplets cling to his cheeks. “Bitch of a day, huh?”
Carl nods, but his gaze wanders. Fredricks takes the hint and his crew search out a table, rescue a few chairs. Our beer and burgers arrive and suddenly I’m famished. Buffalo never smelled so good. By the time I’m finished the big burger, a heap of fries and two glasses of draft I feel bloated but better. I lean back and look around. The place has filled up while I was eating.
A rough crowd mostly, with one exception. A woman sits by herself at a corner table. She has long, curly, light brown hair, pulled back into a sort of a mane; she’s wearing a simple but appealing dress that reveals white skin, bare shoulders and subtly muscled arms. In her hand is a glass of dark red wine, which she swirls as she gazes out the window next to her table. Maybe it’s the wine, or the contrast between her dress and the heavy metal bars over the window, but she seems out of place. Attractively out of place. I look away, conscious of my slept-in clothes, my tangled hair, and concentrate on the other patrons. I see cowboy hats, jackets coated with sawdust, stern faces and weathered skin, but my gaze drifts back to the woman. She looks at me suddenly and smiles. I’m not used to being smiled at by strange women and look away, stare into my beer and feel 13 years old.
Carl sighs. “Yeah, bitch of a day,” he says, as though continuing the conversation Frederick’s started a half-hour ago. He’s leaned forward, playing with his lighter — an ancient kerosene version that could double as a small stove. He snaps it shut and slumps back against the log wall, stares at the ceiling. I’m still distracted, trying hard to look like I’m not blushing, when Carl says something, so softly I barely catch it.
“You must be pissed at me.”
I look at him, wondering why he would think that. “What?”
“Hell of a thing to go through again,” he says slowly, shaking his head. “If I would have known that someone got killed, I wouldn’t have called you.” He looks strained, on the verge of tears. I’ve only seen him like this once before. “I was just wondering how you’re holding out.”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“Good,” he says. “I don’t know if I’d get through it a second time.”
“Well, we both are.”
“Yeah.” He smiles ruefully. “You wanna get out of here?”
I glance sideways, toward the woman. She’s looking out the window again. There’s the trace of a smile on her lips.
“Let’s get another jug,” I say. “I owe you a round.”
Carl slumps into his seat, resigned. “Okay, one more.”
I go to the washroom, via a route that takes me past the woman’s table. She glances at me as I walk past, smiles again — her smile would melt icicles on a winter morning. I doubt my own smile looks as appealing. But I get an A for effort.
In the washroom, there’s a big handwritten sign at eye level as I recycle the beer. The management would appreciate it if I didn’t eat the large blue mint in the urinal. I wonder if that’s a problem around here. I wash my hands serenaded by the rhythm of someone throwing up in a stall.
Back at the table, the beer comes and I wonder if I’m being overly ambitious — I can barely keep my eyes open. And I usually cut myself off about now. But I fill both glasses and talk with Carl about people we know, where they are, what they’re doing. Many of them have moved on to more profitable careers. I sip my beer, only half listening, my gaze wandering toward the corner table. Maybe it’s because she has long hair like Nina. Maybe it’s just been three long years.
“— always a target,” says Carl.
“Right,” I say automatically. Somewhere, he switched gears and I make an effort to listen better. The bar is packed now, far beyond the limit on the fire code notice posted by the bathroom door; the jukebox is wailing the only type of music available in places like these, country and western.
“Sorry Carl, what were you saying?”
“The public — they always blame the government guy.”
Carl is slumped in his seat, using a pocket knife to carve hedonistic little designs into the edge of the wooden table. The rest of the table has pretty much been spoken for — some day an archaeologist is going to have a field day trying to translate the cryptic gouges and doodles. Carl goes on about the usual Forest Service beefs. Public criticism. Low pay. It’s enough to drive you to drink.
“And when you slap a penalty on some company,” he says, flicking wood chips off his jeans, “the District Manager kiboshes it. We’re supposed to get out of the face of industry. That’s the buzz phrase these days. Personally, I think they’re just trying to phase us out.”
“Can’t win,” I agree, glancing toward the corner table. A cowboy is hitting on the woman, a big guy who looks to be about 50,maybe older. She’s smiling up at him, nodding. She keeps that up, there’ll be a line right into the parking lot. I can’t believe I’m jealous.
“Nope.” Carl raises his glass of draft. “But at least we’re not working in the city.”
“Amen.” We clink glasses.
The pitcher is empty again and I hail the waitress. Yes, another one please. And send a drink over to the lovely lady at the corner table. The waitress nods and smiles. Already, I’m a regular. Carl says something I don’t quite catch. Or didn’t hear right.
“What?”
“Sometimes I think the Lorax accomplishes more than the Forest Service.”
It must be the beer. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Carl.”
“Think about it. Who’s making a bigger impact?”
“The Lorax is a fucking psychopath, Carl.”
We’re yelling at each other, just to be heard. Carl stares at me for a moment, looks puzzled, as if he can’t remember what he’d said to cause me to yell at him like that. Then he grins, leans over and claps me on the back. “Glad you came, Porter.” His face is shiny, his eyes glassy. Mine must be too. Better get along, little dogie, or you’ll be hurtin’ tomorrow. Gotta finish the jug first though. Out here, wasting beer is a hangin’ offence.
“— wanted to thank you for the drink.”
I turn and there she is, next to the table, the glass of red wine in her hand. She’s shorter than I’d anticipated, in a delicate sort of way, and much closer. For a few seconds I’m confused, then I remember buying her the drink, and with stunning bravery, tell her it was nothing and offer her a seat. To my surprise, she accepts and suddenly she’s right there, next to me, smelling of flowers and showing more skin than I’m used to unless I’m in the shower. I can’t think of much to say, but what I do seems immensely funny.
“What do you do?” she says.
“I’m a forest ranger. Me and my buddy, Carl, here. Twig pigs.”
“Really?” She looks intrigued. “That sounds like a fascinating job. Do you sit in lookout towers and watch for fires?”
It’s the same idiotic question I’ve heard a thousand times. Everyone thinks a forest ranger spends his day with a pair of binoculars vigilantly scanning the forest. Or wrestling grizzlies and saving imperilled deer. But it’s been a few years and tonight I don’t mind. I’m ready to impress. “Yeah, that and there’s the tree counting.”
“Tree counting?” she says, a look of mild perplexity on her lovely face.
“Yes.” I pour another glass of draft for Carl and myself, allow the suspense to build. “We have to take care of the trees right? So, we gotta know how many we’ve got in inventory.”
She nods, following right along.
“So we count them.” I point to the other patrons. “One, two, three ...”
“You don’t count each individual tree, do you?”
“No.” I try to look serious. “We used to, but now we stick bar codes on them, just scan them as we walk past. Makes it easier to tell which ones are missing.”
She smiles — she’s onto me. “You don’t do that.”
“Well ... not really. We do something called timber cruising. Use statistics.”
Based on reality, the conversation flounders. I sip my beer, try to look jovial. But I’m remembering the last time I tried to show someone what I really did at work — when I really did the work. It’s not doing wonders for my mood and I attempt to compensate by drinking faster. Fredricks has been watching the strange and desirable lady seated beside me and drifts over, sticks a chubby hand across the table at her, introduces himself.
“Casey,” he says in his most debonair fashion. “Just call me Case.”
“Christina Telson,” she replies, batting her eyelashes at him.
I’m jealous. I didn’t properly introduce myself or ask her name and I frown at Fredricks, who’s purposefully oblivious. Under the table, I slide my hand onto her thigh but she gently sets it aside and for the next few minutes I sit still, feeling guilty and rejected. The tiny table is so loaded with drinks the wood is no longer visible and I retaliate by drinking a whisky I think belongs to Fredricks.
Someone leans over the table and shoves me. “Hey! I’m talking to you, shit head.”
It’s a Neanderthal — short, squat and unshaven. His face is sunburned and dirty. His hair, the colour of oily steel wool, appears to be attempting mutiny and his eyes are filled with a hostile anticipation. I’ve forgotten the cardinal rule of bar survival — never point — and despite the numbing effects of too much alcohol and too little sleep, I get a nervous clench in my gut. I’m too far gone to defend myself.
“What?” I say innocently. The faces around the table are pensive, waiting.
“You heard me, shit head. You’re too goddamn stupid to sit with a woman like that.”
I want to point out the hypocrisy of his statement but the Neanderthal is suddenly jerked out of my personal space. I get one quick back glance of Brotsky’s face as he tows the intruder to dry dock. “What the hell was that about?” asks Fredricks. I shrug and we watch from across the crowded bar. Brotsky and the stranger stand in a corner by the washroom door. The stranger keeps pointing toward our table, his gestures emphatic. Brotsky meets my gaze and frowns, pulls the Neanderthal into the washroom. I’m half tempted to follow them in, sort this out, but a primitive part of my brain dedicated to self-preservation prevails. Instead, I turn to the woman beside me, determined to redeem myself for neglecting proper introductions. I offer a hand.