work to do.” I started to walk
away, but stopped when I felt his hand on my arm.
“Look, this isn’t easy, but you should know how sorry I am for what my brother did.”
I glanced over my shoulder at his face, noting the sincerity in his eyes. “I learned
a long time ago not to apologize for other people. You should do the same, Mr. Fox,
because trust me on this, there aren’t enough apologies in the universe to make what
he did okay.” Shrugging off his hand, I walked toward the trailer house and Conaway,
who’d stepped outside and was staring at us in unabashed curiosity.
“Who was that?” she asked as soon as I was close enough.
Watching Cole go to his car, I told her, and she whistled. “Man, talk about awkward.
Was he pissed at you for torching his wacko brother?”
“A little, I think.”
“Can’t blame him, I guess. And I think my brother’s an asswipe. At least he’s not
a pyromaniac murderer.”
We watched Cole drive away and I wondered how a person dealt with something like that.
As angry as I was at Parnell Harkness, I really did feel sorry for Cole, and admit
I thought he was lucky to have a different last name.
…
Over the next few days, we fell into a routine. Cash and Harley traded off hauling
the melted rig out of the fire and working on the clean-up of the location while Robichaud
and I argued about how much nitro we’d need to blow the well when the time came, and
spelled each other digging the water trench around the well. All the trucked in water
constantly shooting into the fire had to go somewhere besides the immediate location.
The resulting mud pit unchecked would make moving our equipment impossible. So we
dug trenches to send the water away from the well, and a large pit where it collected,
was recycled around through the pump, and sprayed back into the fire. We all played
Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide who’d operate the jet cutter. I lost, so I spent half
a day cutting through the damaged wellhead with what amounts to an extreme water gun
mounted at the end of the Athey boom.
In between videotaping us, Conaway cooked a lot, which she didn’t seem to mind and
for which I was grateful. Killing a well fire is hot, dirty, hard work, and the notion
of cooking anything more complicated than a microwave dinner seriously sucks. Conaway
turned out some amazing stuff and we ate every meal as if it was our last.
In the afternoons, A.J. came by to see how we were doing. He avoided me and talked
to Robichaud, which would ordinarily stick in my craw and choke me to death, but since
it was A.J., I was glad. The less I had to look at him and remember what an idiot
I’d been, the better.
Under ordinary circumstances, we’d have had a full crew working around the clock to
kill the fire, enough men to work in shifts. As it was, with so many fires and some
of our staff in Indonesia, we were too short-handed. I was in charge and no way did
I want any mistakes made because of exhaustion. We knocked off about eight o’clock
every evening, ate dinner, then broke out the whiskey and the cards.
I think I lost somewhere close to two hundred bucks that week, most of it to Robichaud,
but Conaway also managed to nail me for a good chunk of change. While we played, I
thought a lot about Deke, and got choked up even as we reminisced and laughed about
things he’d said and done.
Along about ten, we’d hit the sack in the trailer, me in one of the tiny bedrooms,
Conaway in the other and the men on inflatable mattresses on the floor of the living
area. Showers were quick and basic. No washing hair or shaving legs. Pretty much a
fast spit, a towel, and a lotta deodorant. Also unable to shave, the men grew the
beginnings of beards. Needless to say, by the end of the sixth day on the site we
were pretty unpleasant.
Except for Robichaud. I swear, sweat and grime and a dark beard only made him hotter.
In all the years I’d
away, but stopped when I felt his hand on my arm.
“Look, this isn’t easy, but you should know how sorry I am for what my brother did.”
I glanced over my shoulder at his face, noting the sincerity in his eyes. “I learned
a long time ago not to apologize for other people. You should do the same, Mr. Fox,
because trust me on this, there aren’t enough apologies in the universe to make what
he did okay.” Shrugging off his hand, I walked toward the trailer house and Conaway,
who’d stepped outside and was staring at us in unabashed curiosity.
“Who was that?” she asked as soon as I was close enough.
Watching Cole go to his car, I told her, and she whistled. “Man, talk about awkward.
Was he pissed at you for torching his wacko brother?”
“A little, I think.”
“Can’t blame him, I guess. And I think my brother’s an asswipe. At least he’s not
a pyromaniac murderer.”
We watched Cole drive away and I wondered how a person dealt with something like that.
As angry as I was at Parnell Harkness, I really did feel sorry for Cole, and admit
I thought he was lucky to have a different last name.
…
Over the next few days, we fell into a routine. Cash and Harley traded off hauling
the melted rig out of the fire and working on the clean-up of the location while Robichaud
and I argued about how much nitro we’d need to blow the well when the time came, and
spelled each other digging the water trench around the well. All the trucked in water
constantly shooting into the fire had to go somewhere besides the immediate location.
The resulting mud pit unchecked would make moving our equipment impossible. So we
dug trenches to send the water away from the well, and a large pit where it collected,
was recycled around through the pump, and sprayed back into the fire. We all played
Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide who’d operate the jet cutter. I lost, so I spent half
a day cutting through the damaged wellhead with what amounts to an extreme water gun
mounted at the end of the Athey boom.
In between videotaping us, Conaway cooked a lot, which she didn’t seem to mind and
for which I was grateful. Killing a well fire is hot, dirty, hard work, and the notion
of cooking anything more complicated than a microwave dinner seriously sucks. Conaway
turned out some amazing stuff and we ate every meal as if it was our last.
In the afternoons, A.J. came by to see how we were doing. He avoided me and talked
to Robichaud, which would ordinarily stick in my craw and choke me to death, but since
it was A.J., I was glad. The less I had to look at him and remember what an idiot
I’d been, the better.
Under ordinary circumstances, we’d have had a full crew working around the clock to
kill the fire, enough men to work in shifts. As it was, with so many fires and some
of our staff in Indonesia, we were too short-handed. I was in charge and no way did
I want any mistakes made because of exhaustion. We knocked off about eight o’clock
every evening, ate dinner, then broke out the whiskey and the cards.
I think I lost somewhere close to two hundred bucks that week, most of it to Robichaud,
but Conaway also managed to nail me for a good chunk of change. While we played, I
thought a lot about Deke, and got choked up even as we reminisced and laughed about
things he’d said and done.
Along about ten, we’d hit the sack in the trailer, me in one of the tiny bedrooms,
Conaway in the other and the men on inflatable mattresses on the floor of the living
area. Showers were quick and basic. No washing hair or shaving legs. Pretty much a
fast spit, a towel, and a lotta deodorant. Also unable to shave, the men grew the
beginnings of beards. Needless to say, by the end of the sixth day on the site we
were pretty unpleasant.
Except for Robichaud. I swear, sweat and grime and a dark beard only made him hotter.
In all the years I’d
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