A Clearing in the Forest

by Gloria Whelan

  Once inside, Wilson was relieved to see Pam Lufton at the reception desk. He had been sure everyone inside the building would be a stranger, but Pam had been a class ahead of him at school and they had been to parties together. Having big brown eyes, straight black hair and high cheekbones, she had been voted the best-looking girl in her class. She was part Indian, and her mother had come to the school to demonstrate how to make boxes from birch bark and porcupine quills. Pam’s mother had worn a deerskin dress, beaded moccasins and a headband with a feather. The rest of the time she worked as a dental hygienist for Dr. Groat and wore a white coat.

  “Hi, Wilson, what can we do for you?” Pam’s tone was offhand, friendly.

  “I want to see someone about working for Ffossco’s.”

  “No sooner said than done.” She pushed the button of the intercom on her desk, and twenty minutes later Wilson had a job.

  7

  Frances, feeling awkward in a skirt instead of her usual slacks, pulled up in front of the store. The last time she’d brought preserves to Elkins’ Market, Elkins had smirked at the way she was dressed and made a point of introducing her to one of the resort people in a rather snide way, as if to say, “Look at this old bird, what a character!”

  Well, she wasn’t going to be the town eccentric. Today she had fixed her hair and put on a dress that looked quite respectable, even though it hung a little loosely on her. Her legs were no more than reeds these days, and she didn’t seem to have a fanny anymore. Instead of the old leather fishing creel she liked to use because it was so roomy, she was carrying a purse, one that had been her mother’s.

  As Frances walked into his store, Elkins had enough sense not to look surprised at her appearance. Perhaps he realized that he had gone too far the week before. Nevertheless, so there would be no question as to who had the upper hand, Frances warned him that she would be asking more money for her blackberry jam in the fall. He replied meekly, “You’re the boss, Mrs. Crawford,” and insisted on carrying the boxes of preserves in from the truck.

  On the way home she pulled into Eric Peterson’s farm to pick up a couple of bushels of manure. Peterson hurried out, trying to signal her away, but she paid no attention. Years of trying to make a living from arid, stony soil had made Peterson frugal and reluctant to see anything carried off his place.

  “Eric, what’s new?”

  “It’s gittin’ harder to make a living every year, Frances. I hope you ain’t come for any manure, because there ain’t none.”

  “What’s that pile over there, Eric? It’s nearly as big as your house.”

  “Well, I’m goin’ to use every bit of that. I certainly can’t afford to go and buy fertilizer.” He looked nervously at the bushel baskets she was lifting off the truck. “I can’t let you have six bushels, Frances. Only three, and that’s a special favor.”

  “Fine, three is all I need, but I can’t lift the baskets down from the truck if they’re more than half-filled.”

  After some haggling, Frances settled on what she owed him. As she was about to leave, Peterson’s wife, Mavis, hurried out with a paper plate of warm doughnuts. “Frances Crawford, you going without saying hello? I just finished a batch of these. Take some home with you.”

  Mavis’s generous nature pained her stingy husband. She was a big, hard-working woman, but however messy the job she tackled, she always managed to look like she was dressed for a wedding, hoeing corn in high heels and feeding hogs in a hat with silk flowers. Today she was wearing iridescent taffeta.

  “Did Eric tell you the news, Frances?” “They’re going to drill for oil on our land.”

  “You have the mineral rights?”

  “Oh, yes, Eric saw to that. He always drives a bargain.”

  “I hope the well’s successful, Mavis,” Frances said. “They’ve been after me for months, but I don’t want to have anything to do with them. I have nightmares every time I think of a well next to the river. But, like most of the people around here, I don’t have the mineral rights. If I did, I wouldn’t put a well there for a million dollars.”

  When Frances got home, she changed gratefully into her old clothes, unloaded the manure, and spread some of it among the rows of squash and melon plants.

  At the river, where she went to fill her watering can, she saw a brown branch floating upstream. Impossible! The branch began to undulate: a water snake. She sat down to watch it, arm and back muscles grateful for the rest. Her hair was damp with sweat and her shirt stuck to her back. She took off her shoes and socks and waded along the shallow edge of the stream toward a green island of watercress, hungry for its fresh peppery taste.

  Little pebbles rolled along the bottom of the stream. You could tell how fast a river flowed by the size of the stones on the riverbed. If the current was rapid enough, it would sweep even the fair-sized stones along with it. She could feel the current’s strength against the backs of her legs. It was no more than a nudge, but it warned her that the river was not always gentle. It could sweep you off your feet and carry you into its deep holes. It didn’t do to close your eyes to the cruel things in nature.

  She knew places in the woods where you could almost feel the presence of evil. No wonder people breathed such a sigh of relief when forests were hacked down and stumps yanked out of the ground to make a farm, or when the fields and copses of farmland were turned into orderly neighborhoods. It was not just a primitive fear of lurking beasts, but something more that frightened people. They wanted to visit the woods, but they wanted to walk through them on well marked trails, and at the end of the trail they expected clean rest rooms with flush toilets.

  “Mrs. Crawford, what are you doing in wading at your age?” A tall young man stood on the bank, scratching the dog’s head. He wore a sheriff’s uniform. “Come on out here, I got something for you you’re not going to like.” He reached out to give her a hand onto the bank.

  “You don’t look more than twelve years old, David. They must be hard up if they have to take boys like you in the sheriff’s office.” She rubbed her feet dry with a handkerchief and put on her shoes. “If you’re here to pester me about a license for the dog, you can just take him away. He isn’t worth the three dollars.”

  “I’d like to see the man that could take that dog away from you. The county’s got better things to do with my time than send me out to check on dog licenses. I’ve got some sort of a legal paper here. What have you been up to?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “Come on in the house and have a cup of coffee with me. I’m chilled right through from the water.”

  “You’ll have to give me a rain check. I’ve got to see about a B & E report at one of the cottages down the river. Took a little booze and messed things up. Probably a couple looking for a place to make out. Woods are still too cold at night for lovebirds.” He held out a long official-looking envelope.

  “I don’t see how you can do the oil people’s dirty business for them.”

  “They got their rights like anybody else. There are some around here that would say they’ve brought a lot of business to the county.”

  “Tell me what the paper says. I haven’t got my glasses. And don’t bother with all the legal mumbo jumbo.”

  He opened up the paper and read it out to her, nervous as a schoolboy giving his first report to the class. He knew all about Mrs. Crawford’s temper. “It sounds like its an injunction. The company that tests for oil wants to gain access to your property for the purposes of ‘exploration.’ I guess you don’t want them here. I don’t blame you. It’s just about the only unspoiled spot left on the river. I’m sorry it was me that had to deliver this thing.” He waited for the explosion, but Frances took the envelope from him without a word.

  “The Greeks used to slay the messenger that brought bad news,” she said. “I never did think that made much sense. I could give you a beer, David, instead of coffee.”

  “You twisted my arm.” He followed her into the cabin, hurrying a little to keep up with her
.

  8

  Young enough to believe that the exciting things in life happened at night, Wilson was pleased to be working the late shift. Tomorrow morning if his dad didn’t get him up to help him work on a car, there would be the luxury of turning over in bed and going back to sleep. Afternoons he could hunt for rock specimens and fish down at Mrs. Crawford’s or just hang around enjoying the way summer days stretched out even beyond your expectations.

  The drive to the state forest where the well site was located took about twenty minutes. His father had reluctantly accepted his working on the rig and had even allowed him to use a car they had recently brought back to life. His mom was keeping a tight-lipped silence, and lately none of his favorite dishes had appeared on the table.

  The shadowy treetops swept past the car like black clouds. Twice the headlights illuminated yellow eyes; the first time they belonged to a white cat, the second time to a fox carrying a small animal in his mouth. The fox had been in no hurry, standing at the side of the road and staring at the car, his prey hanging limply from his mouth, dead or paralyzed with fear.

  It was a shock to turn from the dark road onto the well site, where a cold white glare from the fluorescent lights flooded the three-acre clearing, giving it the look of a gigantic operating room. In the center of the site stood the derrick, reaching up a hundred and forty feet, a row of red lights on its tower to alert low-flying planes. Two-thirds of the way up the derrick was a platform. Last week when he had visited the well site where Ron worked and had watched him climb up to a similar platform, it had given him a funny feeling—like a rug had been pulled out from under his feet. The racket coming from all sides was ear-splitting; he wondered if he would get used to it. Diesel engines rattled away. Gears meshed and brakes screeched as enormous trailers carrying lengths of casing pulled in and out of the rutted driveway.

  Two house trailers had been set up on the edge of the location. The trailer where the geologist worked was marked “analytical.” Outside its door was a little heap of tagged bags containing cuttings from the well. The cuttings were cores of soil and rock reamed out of the ground by a special drill and shipped by the geologist all the way to Texas. There they were examined by computers and a determination was made as to the likelihood of finding oil.

  Wilson hoped that later on there would be a chance to talk to the geologist and find out what you had to do to get a job like his. Wilson was carrying some fossils in his pocket just in case the subject came up, though he didn’t see how it would. Hell, the man would think he was flaky!

  Wishing he hadn’t worn his good boots, he waded through soft mud to a trailer marked “office” and knocked on the door. He was worried about the lie he’d told the company about substituting on Ron’s rig. Looking around the location, he realized how unprepared he was. If they told him to do something, he would stand there like a dummy, not knowing which way to turn.

  The trailer door was opened by a slim man with a blond beard and a weary expression. “You Catchner? Wipe your feet good and come on in.”

  Inside the trailer Wilson saw that the proper location for everything was designated by neatly labeled plastic strips of the kind you punched on a tape. There was a pegboard on the wall, hung with tools. A hammer rested beneath its label; pliers, screwdrivers—everything was in its place. Over the stove was a label that read “potholder” and another that said “measuring cup.” Both were where they should be. He looked around to see labels on drawers and boxes, on the door into the toilet, next to the light switches. Stealing a look at the man who had seated himself behind a table, Wilson had a crazy notion he might see labels all over his face: “eyes,” “nose,” “ears.”

  “My name’s Pete.” The man yawned deeply, his whole face turning into mouth. “I got your papers here somewheres.” He handled a folder, but didn’t open it. “They say you had some experience? You don’t look like you had much experience of any kind.” He gave Wilson a gloomy smile.

  “I helped my brother-in-law out some. He’s with the rig over on Sandy Lake Road.” Since the man didn’t seem to care too much one way or the other, Wilson felt relieved to be edging nearer to the truth.

  “I hear they went down 7,000 feet over there and got themselves a real stink hole. You can smell the sour gas a couple miles away. They’re going to get plenty of heat from the people around them, have to burn it off, probably.” The man put his head in his hands and seemed to fall asleep for a few seconds. He stretched and rubbed his eyes.

  “Well, let’s get down to business. I’m going to tell you in no uncertain terms we stick to the rules here. My crew has a good safety record and I want to keep it that way. This ain’t no playground. Hard hats stay on when you’re on the rig and I mean all the time. Another thing, if I see a cigarette out there, the guy whose smoking it gets run off on the spot. I got five more months in this God-forsaken country before I get transferred and I don’t want nothing going wrong before I get away.”

  “Pete?” Wilson had been thinking about something since the day he had watched Ron climb up the derrick and had experienced a funny feeling in his stomach. “I don’t know if it makes any difference to you, but I worked a lot around diesels.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, my dad, he’s got a lot of old cars and trucks and we do repairs, rebuild the cars and trucks …” He wanted to tell Pete what he could do, but he didn’t want to sound like a smartass.” I just like to work around engines,” he finished off.

  “Yeah? Are you giving me the straight stuff? How about welding?”

  Wilson nodded.

  “I guess we can try you out, but first off you go up to the platform where T. K.’s working on the pipe and tell him you’re starting out and don’t know nothing and he’s to show you around up there. Then see the motor man, name’s Ferrelli, and tell him you’re a big engine man and for the time being you can run around there with an oil can. And remember to keep track of the tools. Anything that’s missing comes out of my pocket.”

  Wilson understood the labels.

  “Coffee break’s in here, follow the guys in,” Pete continued. “Coffee only, you hear? If I find so much as a drop of booze within a mile of this rig, the man who’s got it gets his bottom kicked by me personally. Now get going.” He pushed the plate of cookies toward Wilson to show him the speech was a formality, but Wilson was thinking of other things and missed the friendly gesture.

  The mud sucked at Wilson’s feet as he walked toward the derrick. A narrow ladder ran up along the scaffolding to the tower. The first few rungs didn’t bother him because he was too busy watching the big yellow block that held the drill shaft. The block was at least twenty feet high. Everything there seemed outsized. Looking down, he thought he recognized Lyle Barch. He had heard Lyle was working on one of the rigs and was sorry it was this one.

  Wilson’s hands were getting sweaty and he was having trouble getting his breath. Heights always made him queasy. The only way he could bring himself to continue up the ladder was to stare hard at the rung right in front of his eyes, study all the shades of gray and brown and black in the metal, really look at it as though it were a painting or something he had to memorize. If he looked up toward the top of the tower or down to the receding ground, he got panicky.

  When he finally pulled himself onto the platform, he was horrified to see the floor was nothing more than a strip of metal grating. You could look down between the slats a hundred feet to the ground.

  “Welcome to the ‘Top of the Rig,’ gourmet lunches and dinners, bar always open.” T. K. reached into his back pocket, took out a bottle of Jack Daniels, tipped it, and swallowed. He offered it to Wilson, who hastily shook his head, looking over his shoulder as if Pete might be floating around in the air up there watching them.

  “What can I do for you, buddy?” He shifted the last piece of pipe out of its slot and looked like he was getting ready to start down.

  He was tall—six-feet-four or-five. Wilson felt like Jack climbi
ng the beanstalk and meeting the giant. Would he leave him here alone? Wilson grabbed the railing and managed to answer the man. “Pete told me to report to you, then go right down and work with Ferrelli.” The lighting up here was strange; the red glow from lights along the side of the derrick gave everything an unearthly look.

  “Ferrelli? Hell, we could use a man with us. Well, since you’re up here, I’ll give you the five-dollar tour. Next time be sure you wear a safety belt. Heard the score on the baseball game?”

  Wilson looked dumbly at him, too frightened to hear anything, but T. K. didn’t seem to notice and went right on talking in a friendly way. “That crazy pitcher the Tigers got—the Bird—I’d give a lot to get down to Detroit and see him. Working this shift, I don’t even get to see him on TV.”

  Shouting over the noise, T. K. started to explain what he was doing. Wilson kept nodding, but he wasn’t listening. He was so scared standing way up there on the platform that he wished he were dead.

  Finally T. K. shut up. Thank heaven he was going down first, so there would be something between Wilson and the ground. But when Wilson tried to follow, he couldn’t make himself put his foot on the first rung. Then he saw the space between himself and T. K. grow greater and fear of making the trip down by himself got him started. Once they reached the ground, T. K. said he’d see Wilson later and took off toward a pile of casing. Wilson stood there shaking, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans.

  Lyle Barch approached Wilson. “How ya like it up there?” His smile was derisive. “Wait till you get up there on the block.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when we got to get up there in a hurry, we just hang on to the block and ride it right up to the top of the tower, like an elevator.”