What They Wanted (32 page)

The soup was bubbling on the stove, the cookhouse cleaned and the table readied for breakfast, and they were still out there—Ben laughing now, and Chris cursing, and Push sitting behind the wheel of his truck drinking whisky and snorting his own brand of laughter.

Another truck roared in bearing two of the night crew. I watched through the window as they joined the fracas—“He’s got it, he’s got his boot—the young fuck’s got his boot,” their loud guffaws following each shout. I looked at the clock. It was nearing midnight. Ben staggered into the glare of the headlights, scraping mud off his hands, his jeans, Chris limping behind him like a muddied hound.

The headlights went off and Push and the two men came noisily into the cookhouse, making coffee and pouring themselves bowls of soup, barfing out laughs at Chris and his boot. I stood in the doorway, shrugging helplessly as Ben looked at me, then at his muddied clothing, muddied hands, and the crew taking over the kitchen. He gave me a halfhearted good-night wave and started after Chris, clouting him on the back of his head for his fool thinking.

“Done it once myself,” said Push, “lost a boot in the mud.” He laughed. He caught me looking at him and looked torn for a second between a nod and a grin. He nodded, and I nodded and went to my room.

PERHAPS IT WAS THE ALMOST GRIN
that I acted on the following day when I dragged two bags of garbage to the bin. Push’s trailer was tucked just out of sight behind the cookhouse, the narrow walkway between leading to the bin. The past few shifts he had taken to working mostly nights because he wasn’t trusting the night driller, Ben told me over tea that morning, and he was starting to fall asleep on his feet from working both night and day. His door was opened, and as I neared I heard the light, accomplished pickings of guitar strings. I listened. The occasional tunes the night wind brought me had been Push’s.

The picking ended, then Push’s voice started up with a hesitant singing of an old-time country song. He faltered on the words: “
Let
’
s pretend
—
let
’
s pretend
…
we
’
re together, you and me
—
we
’
re together, all alone
—
we
’
re together
,
you and I
—”

“…
we
’
re together, all alone
,” I finished with a flourish, then looked in through the doorway with a smile. Push was sitting at a small table, a guitar strapped around his neck. He stared out at me with the abrupt look of a youngster caught in an unmentionable act. Rearing to his feet, he kick-shut the door so hard the trailer shook. I jolted sideways, tripped over one of the garbage bags I was lugging, and fell. My forehead hit the side of the cookhouse and my hands squished through mud, one of them scratching across the sharp edge of a rock. I hastily got to my feet and dumped the garbage, hurrying back to the cookhouse.

“Slipped,” I explained my muddied hands to Cook, and sat for a moment on the toilet seat, trembling. It felt as though I too had been caught in an unmentionable act, a wretched, unmentionable act. A truck roared towards the trailer, doors slamming, Ben’s laughter sounding over Chris’s. Another truck, more voices. My hand hurt. I ran cold water over it, over my face, noting a slight scratch from where I’d struck my forehead.

“Where’s your helper?” Chris was demanding spiritedly of Cook. “Got her run off? No good, was she?”

“Ah, she was a lousy waitress too,” chimed Ben. “Bring on the grub, by jeezes, I’m gut-founded. Slide your chair over, make room, Dirty Dan. Cook, what’s happening, my lovely, and where’s your help?”

I dried my hands and let myself out of the washroom, mechanically greeting Ben, who stood before me with a silly grin on his face, along with the rest of the crew, who were crowding noisily around the table, sharing jives with Chris about last night’s escapade. Joining Cook at the sink, I helped scoop the last of the broiled bangers onto the mash, wincing as she drummed the spoon against the pot, signalling a buffet-style lineup for the rest of the food. The crew were unusually feisty, but I took no heart as they heaped their plates with peas and carrots and scoops of green salad. No different than if that boot had been aimed at my face, so unnerved was I by its crudity, its harshness.

Filling the sink with hot water and detergent, I left Cook to do the serving. A cry of mock fright sounded from Ben as Cook put a thick coiled sausage on a plate of mash before him.

“I’d rather keep yours—where it is,” said Cook as he reamed his hands down the front of his pants. “I expect it works better there. I suppose,” she added through a bout of snickers and laughs from the men.

Frederick tapped Trapp’s plate with his fork. “Back east specialty, isn’t it—bologna sausage,” he asked loudly.

“Ye-es, my son,” said Trapp, “good hunting too, hunting balonies, hey, Ben.”

“Ye-es, my son,” replied Ben, “hard to catch though, when they gets going.”

“That why you Newfs are crowding us out—too stun to catch a baloney?” asked Skin.

“You got her,” said Ben, “thought we’d do better hunting gophers, right Chris?”

“Naw, Ben’s just teasing,” said Chris, “not hard catching balonies, hey, Trapp?”

“Naw, stun as the gnat balonies are—like some rig pigs I know, ha ha.”

“Pass the butter, Dan,” said Ben. “Dirty Dan—helluva name, where’d you get that one, bud?”

“Called after me pa,” said Dirty Dan. “So, how do you skin a baloney beast?”

“
Skim!
” said Ben. “You don’t
skin
balonies, you
skims
them.”

“How do you
skim
them, then?”

“Don’t know, never watches. Squeamish when it comes to skimming. How about you, Pabs—ever skim a baloney?”

“Draws your blade across the belly and watches the skin skim back,” said Chris.

Dirty Dan sniggered. “Favourite barb-b-q, is it—baloney steak?”

“Never eats it,” said Chris. “Was born full of it—like Ben, there. You too, I’m thinking.”

I lifted my eyes at the hoots of laughter and looked at Chris, his elbows sprawled across the table, his mannerisms slow and easy like Ben’s, his T-shirt frayed at the neck and a thatch of hair, stiffened with dust, crowding his forehead. Aside from his boyish grin and the excitement glistening his eyes, he was looking no different than the seasoned rig workers he was sharing dinner with.

A heavy thud sounded on the cookhouse steps, and I stood riveted as the knob rattled, the catch unhooked, and the door opened. Push stepped inside, his flat face darkened with anger, the whites of his eyes reddened with either fatigue or booze, most likely both. The crew fell into a resigned silence as he bore down on them, snarling, “You gawd-damned pansies enjoying your tea? Where the fuck are we down that hole?”he hurled at the squinty-eyed geologist. “Them gawd-damn shakers are stinking of carbon, what the fuck have you been doing, powder-puffing that snout again?”This last he aimed at Frederick, the only man still eating.

“Nature of a borehole to stink of carbon,” replied Frederick. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he forked mashed potato into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. Push’s face twisted contemptuously and for a second it appeared he would jam Frederick’s face into his plate. Instead he threw a fiendish look at Trapp.

“Got the shit outta your eyes yet, shitface?” he growled. “You been getting any pressure on them gauges?”

“None I never told you about.”Trapp leaned back on his chair legs, grinning stealthier than a mouse creeping alongside baseboards as Push looked at him blankly. “Wha’sa matter, Pushie, don’t remember our chat? You need more sleep, my man.”

Push faltered, his face taking on that pursed look of one trying to dredge forward last night’s dream. Finding nothing to catch hold of, he rolled a fist towards Trapp. “Screw with me, you turd.” He swerved the same massive fist towards Frederick who was assiduously examining a hunk of sausage before chomping a piece inside his mouth. With a snort of disgust Push turned away from the table. Frederick raised his head and I was jolted by the hatred in his eyes, by the hatred in Trapp’s ha ha ha’s pinging off Push’s back as he stomped out of the cookhouse. Trapp and Frederick faced each other and then looked away, as though embarrassed by the intimacy of their combined hatred.

Swallowing hastily, the geologist scraped back his chair. “Better go keep the lid on,” he muttered, hurrying after Push.

“Whose lid—the well, or Push’s?” Frederick called after him, pushing at his glasses again. His shoulders shaking with mirth, he clamped his square white teeth through another bite of sausage.

Skin was looking through his greasy overhang at Trapp. “Did we or didn’t we get a fuckin’ kick in pressure?”

“The old boy’s blood pressure,” replied Frederick. “That’s the only pressure kicking out there.” He rose, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Enjoy your desserts, good fellows. I’ll go tuck cocky in.”

“Ha ha ha. Bar the coopie door, man. Muffle that squawking.” Trapp turned his humourless laugh onto Skin, who was holding a steak knife in one hand and a fork in the other, staring at him.

“Did we get a fucking kick?” demanded Skin.

“Ha ha, like cocky said, it’s my balls hanging over that hole, sonny, and they don’t like swinging.”

“Your balls.”Skin snorted. “Two fucking wet tea bags.”

Trapp cupped his hands before his mouth, making a grotesque gesture with his tongue. Skin dropped his fork and sprang to his feet, holding his steak knife threateningly. Just as quickly Trapp was up on his feet, fisting a knife in one hand, his fork in the other.

“Hey! Sit down, sit the fuck down!” roared Ben. He was on his feet too now, his face contorting with disgust as Trapp and Skin faced each other like two hissing cats. Stabbing his knife into the table, Skin kicked back his chair and lunged for the door, shaking the cookhouse as he slammed it behind him.

“Sit down, for fuck’s sake, sit down,” Ben shouted at Trapp.

Trapp sat slowly, his eyes still slewed towards the door.

Ben let out a grunt of exasperation and dropped into his seat. “Did we get a kick?”he asked angrily.

“Naw, we didn’t get a kick,” said Trapp. He tried for an easy laugh, but Ben was madder than hell.

“I don’t trust that four-eyed fuck of an engineer,” he shot at Trapp. “You listen to Push, you don’t listen to that stun, four-eyed fuck.”

Trapp gave a dry laugh. He shot a glance at Cook, who was cleaning down the sink without any apparent concern. “Hey, Cookie—nettles in that soup? Rings burning our arses this evening.”

Cook wheezed something unintelligible. I stood guardedly by the window, watching Ben drink deep from a glass of water Chris slid towards him. I watched the rest of the crew peck at their food and one by one filter out of the cookhouse. I watched as each of them paused for a moment outside the door, looking towards their truck, their bunkhouse, as though unsure of which way to go. Trapp was the last to leave. He too stood undecided before heading resignedly towards the bunkhouse. Men without comfort, I thought, dropping their unsettled heads onto whichever pillow would bear them and with nothing of themselves to unpack—no thoughts, no song, no commitment or loyalty—like the houses back in Cooney Arm, emptied shells, awaiting the souls that once were to come back and inhabit them. Small wonder they kept trekking into such unredeeming circumstances.

I looked from the window back to Ben, the same uncertain look playing itself over his face as he sat without moving, his eyes buried into the cold bangers and mash on his plate. Feeling my eyes turning onto him, Chris picked up his fork, feigning hunger over the cold grub. Begging off to bed with a throbbing head and her bottle of brandy, Cook closed her room door, leaving Chris and Ben staring dully at the table of dirty dishes and me standing by the window watching them.

“Come on, let’s give Sis a break,” said Ben.

I watched indifferently as they got to their feet, scraping plates, gathering cutlery, bungling their hands over the same spoons.

“I can’t stay here,” I said.

“Tomorrow I’ll take you somewhere,” said Ben. “Somewhere nice. Where I always go.”

“When you’re threatened by knives?”

He dropped the one he was holding and looked at me. “It was a bad show, Sylvie,” he said humbly. He leaned against the table, his face taking on a stupefied look. “Dumb fuck,” he muttered. “Stupid dumb fucks. It’s not been this bad. Look, I wouldn’t have brought you here—either of you,” he said to Chris.

“So let’s clear out,” I said.

Ben fixed his attention on the cutlery, slowly gathering it into a pile. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

“It’s all right, buddy,” said Chris. “Whatever the hell, we’ll get past it.”

“No. It’s not all right,” I said, my voice trembling. “There’s nothing all right about this place—what the hell, Ben—what does Trapp have on you?”

“I owe him. I can’t leave him here. And he’s not ready to leave yet.”

“Will he ever be? What do you owe him your life or something?”

Chris gave a blow of impatience. “You always jumps to the worst.”

“And you’re acting like there is no worst—”