What They Wanted (24 page)

“Why don’t I come back later,” said Ben.

“Finish your beer,” said Chris. “We’re leaving together. Not a big deal, Sis.” He relaxed into his seat. “I came to work and I’m going to work—
and
, I’m figuring my own path. Look— buddy the bartender is glaring—you’re getting fired.”

“Why didn’t you tell me—why didn’t you tell me you had things planned—”

“Because I’d done enough fighting with Mother. Because some things can’t be talked about with you.” He motioned towards Ben with the slightest of nods, and I flushed, whisking away to tend to other tables. Yet my eyes kept darting to Chris, to Ben. They were sitting back from each other, casting sombre looks my way.

Emptying a tray of smutted ashtrays into a bin, I made my way back to their table. “Why didn’t you tell Mother?”I asked accusingly. “How come you let her think I talked you into this?”

Chris shoved back his chair, snatching his jacket off the back. “Not arguing with you, Sis—same as arguing with Mother; neither one of you listens, you’re just alike.”

“Oh, bull.”

“Look, you’re gonna get fired, buddy the bartender is shooting daggers.”

“Wait, you just wait,” I ordered as he headed towards the door. “Chris! Ohh!” I turned on Ben as Chris vanished outside.

“Come with us,” said Ben, abruptly. “To the rig. Really,” he added to my blank look. “Cook’s always needing a helper—the camp’s a bit rough, they keep quitting. But—” he glanced around the bar, “handle this crowd, you can handle anything.”

“Yeah sure, just give me a minute I changes aprons. Ben, go get him back, please.”

“I’m serious. We’ve had two quit in the past six weeks, and Cook’s desperate. You’ll be hired in two seconds. Hell, you’re hired now, if you want it. Think about it—when was the last time you up and done something spontaneous—think about it, will you think about it?” he asked.

He smiled that old tender smile.

My pulse remained flat, the blood pooling like still water in my veins. “What’s he going to do, he’s got no work clothes or nothing—he can’t just go off to a camp.” I moved away from him, straightening chairs, hustling tables, removing empties. Ben hopped by my side, tossing in a word when he could.

“I’ll take him shopping, I’ll take him with me to Peace River this evening, be back in the morning, think about the offer—Sylvie.” He gripped my arm, facing me. “I won’t take him if you’re not agreeing. I’ll bring him back here tomorrow, see how you feel. Got that?”

“Sure, I got that.” I waved Ben aside, clearing a load of empties off the cigarette machine, dropping a handful of quarters inside for a pack of smokes for one of the patrons, silently muttering, “Bloody hell you’ll talk him out of it, not when he’s riding that stubborn streak of his.”

I swerved around the tables, staring more openly now at the multitude of rig workers, their scarred hands and fingers missing, their bruised and scratched skin, their wearied, overworked eyes. The accident stat I’d thrown at Ben hadn’t come from thin air; I’d read it in
Maclean’s
whilst waiting on laundry a week ago—dated, perhaps, but only by two years, and from what I’d been reading in the papers, it still applied. Roughnecks, lean and tough, the equivalent of yesterday’s cowboy (the article went on to say), were daily wrestling hundreds of tons of steel pipe miles into the earth in search of oil … death and mutilation are simply part of the risk … thirty-nine dead in the past three years, eleven dead in the past ten months … some crushed under tons of steel, others hit by whiffs of poison gas, food wolfed down in between one-minute pipe changes, lotsa money and lotsa cost of flesh and blood, inexperience, insufficient training, fatigue, twelve-hour shifts, fourteen days on, seven days off, work fast, make money, get out, safety issues resisted by governments and roughnecks alike—trying to force a roughneck into more respectable hours like telling a cowboy to trade in his horse for a Jeep.

The afternoon dragged on square wheels. Before going home that evening, I called Gran from the bar. She was just back from the hospital with Kyle and was having a cup of tea now before bed.

“Be another couple of days before he’s home,” said Gran. “He’s done damage, but he was walking the hallways this evening.”

“And Mom?”

Gran paused. “Your mother’s fine, don’t go worrying, Dolly. See to things out there, and she’ll be fine.”

“But how is she, Gran—do she still think I talked Chris into leaving?”

“She knows Chris well enough for that. And she’s too busy with your father to worry about much else. Do he have a job yet, Dolly?”

My turn to pause. “Actually, yeah, he does, already. Guess what, Gran, he’s going to start with Ben in the camps. Tomorrow morning. Tell her that, will you—that might make her feel better, that he’s working with Ben. Ben will take good care of him.”

“My, that is good, then. Yes, I’ll tell her that, I’ll tell her that this evening. For sure, she probably already knows—Suze is down with her tonight, and probably Suze knows.”

“Yes, probably she does. You don’t go worrying now, Gran.”

“Nor you either. And so, you’re getting on, then?”

“Your tea’s cold by now, you still like it cold—”

“I’ll add a drop of hot water. Kyle, put a drop of hot water in Gran’s tea.” Her voice faded as she spoke aside to Kyle, and I could hear the aged tremor in her tone.

“You got your lamp lit?” I asked, feeling a twinge of homesickness. “Let me talk to Kyle. Ky? How are you, got Gran’s lamp lit for her?”

His voice was small, too young for the worries just now put onto him, but he spoke well. “He looks better by the day,” he said of Father. “Mother’s the one who’s depressed, doctor said it’s supposed to be Dad, but it’s she instead.”

“Don’t go telling your sister that,” I heard Gran grumbling in the background, “she’ll be worrying for nothing, and stop chewing your fingers, you’ll be down to stumps by morning.”

“What’re you chewing your fingers for,” I chided Kyle, “stop that worrying, and now listen to me. I’m transferring money into Mother’s bank account. I want you to talk with one of our uncles—Uncle Manny, perhaps—and tell him to start looking for a boat for Dad, like the one he lost. You don’t tell Dad this, or Mother, not even Gran, just do it, all right? Tell Uncle Manny not to say nothing till he’s got a boat. It’ll be another couple of weeks before I get the rest of the money, but he can start looking.”

I thrived on the relief in Kyle’s voice. “I can do that, I can look too, I knows where to look, I’ll stop by Deer Lake on the way to the hospital tomorrow, me and Gran, she’ll like that.”

“But hold on now, I don’t have all the money yet, it’s gonna take a few more weeks.”

“Yes, I know, I’ll just look.” His voice grew eager, and I felt in him that sense of strength that comes with taking things back from fate. Leastways, some things. So much depended on Father’s health now, and how much of it he’d get back. Reassuring Kyle had brought a lift to my heart too, and after assuring him and Gran for the thousandth time that things would be fine, I left work and hurried to catch the bank before closing time.

I thought of Chris, the sense of purpose, the excitement on his face when he had entered the bar, and felt a stab of guilt that I’d trodden over what must’ve felt a great accomplishment, securing a high-paying job overnight, working alongside his bud Ben. Worriers all of us, I chided myself, driving back to the camp. Probably a gift from God, Ben’s calling home and Chris getting a job so fast. Five months down the road, and with both our wages plus overtime for Chris and tips for me, we could have a boat bought and ten or fifteen thousand dollars sent home—what Father probably made in a year in the woods. And perhaps by Christmas we could all be home, gathering around the table, gifts galore for everybody.

I
’
D NEARLY
talked myself happy by the time I returned to the bar the following morning. It had felt like a fast night, jet lag from the trip across the country making for a deep pillow. A couple of circles around the bar, staring back into the wearied eyes of all those rig and service hands, and I was back to worrying again, looking expectantly to the door, watching for Chris and Ben.

“Well, how-dee-do, she said nothing about bringing back her sisters,” said Cork. I glanced up as three assorted brunettes entered, rib-hugging tube tops clinging to their nipples and jeans tight as skin dipping beneath their bellies. They moved into the dimly lit bar, their flowery scents wafting behind like a meadow’s breeze. Choosing a table closest to the men’s washroom, they sat, bracelets and neck chains tinkling, and turned inviting smiles to the room.

“Know what I like about them sisters,” said Cork, eyes digging inside their well-rounded tube tops, “everything’s up front with them babes. And what’s not is a billfold away—yeah, that’s right, Skinny, everything’s got a price. Go do your rounds,” he cackled over my grunt of disgust. “Every cocksucker here is bulging to treat them ladies.”

“No argument there,” I muttered, scratching orders from the sudden rash of fingers snapping for my attention.

Swerving about the tables, I laid down jugs and glasses, counting out my pay from the mound of bills constantly being replenished in the centre of each and every table. One of the things that had astounded me my first day on the job was the pile of tens and twenties the men tossed indiscriminately on their tables, and how it never went down, no matter how many rounds I served. It was these piles of bills the three women were openly eyeing as they lit up cigarettes and casually chatted while surveying the room.

“Couple more whiskies, Cork.” I rested my tray on the table, sorting through the handful of coin I’d just earned.

“See over there, you see over there,” Cork commanded, pointing with a whisky bottle towards the hookers. A young fellow had seated himself at their table and was walking away now amidst jeers and laughter. Taking his place was an oldish fat man, his sleeves pushed up around massive arms, his cap stuck in his back pocket. “Know what you’re seeing there? Proper ways of women is what you’re seeing there— turning away young bucks for fat-ass piggy banks. Learn from them—always chuck what you want for what you need.”

“Chrissakes!”

“Just helping you along—”

“Chuck it, Cork.”

“Watch them knickers, Skinny, they’re starting to knot.”

AFTER ANOTHER HOUR
there came a lull. “Can I make a quick call, Cork? Check on my father.”

He rasped his consent, shoving a pile of coin from the bar towards me, nodding towards the pay phone in the small alcove by the washroom doors. I had the number to the hospital in my jeans pocket and dialed it quickly, feeding coins into the slot. Partway through the first ring Mother answered. Her tone sounded tired upon saying hello, and then turned crotchety as she recognized my voice asking how she was doing. “My, I thought you were Suze at first,” she said, trying to cover her terseness, “she’s calling every half hour, I don’t know what she thinks, that I’m suddenly going to up and die.”

“She’s—probably worrying more about you than Dad.”

“Your father’s doing just fine. Washed and dressed himself this morning. He’s sleeping now—tired him out talking with Chris.”

“Chris called?”

Slight pause. “So it’s true, then—he’s with Ben?” A subtle tone of relief in her voice.

“Does that make you feel better?” I asked with a kick of anger.

“I’m just asking, Sylvie, what do I know what you’ve got cooked up—especially now the two of you are together.”

“What do you mean, cooked up?”

“Suze brought down the mail,” she replied. “All them brochures for Chris. Should I keep them here, or perhaps—” I could hear her striving to keep the edge out of her tone— “perhaps he won’t be coming home before he moves to Halifax?”

I rested my head against the cool metal of the phone. “Next time he calls, ask him,” I said quietly.

“Your father’s awake. Here, he wants to speak to you.”

His voice sounded groggy and confused in my ear. “It’s Sylvie,” I heard Mother say, and hated that she’d put the phone to his ear, that he was straining to wake his self up.

“No need to say nothing,” I cut in, “just checking on you, is all.”