The Good Brother

22

At summer’s end the days stayed hot while night took a jacket. The rivers were low and many creeks had dried to long skinny threads between patches of dusty earth. A series of lightning storms ignited several fires in western Montana. Smoke flowed along the valleys like water. It flooded basins and rose as if in a dam, spilling black air into the next network of open space between the slopes. Daylight was tinted by floating ash. Sunsets gleamed like neon.

Coop, Owen, and Johnny moved into the bunkhouse, leaving Joe alone with Botree. Joe hadn’t shared a bedroom with anyone except his brother, and felt awkward for a couple of weeks. He wasn’t sure who was supposed to turn off the lights at night, or make the bed in the morning. He worried about the protocol of undressing and getting into bed. Botree’s practical approach gradually relaxed him.

Every day after breakfast Botree gave the children school lessons, using mail-order textbooks that came with, guides and schedules. Dallas was performing math problems at a third-grade level, adding and subtracting rapidly in his head. He thought it fanny when Joe told him he still counted on his fingers at times. Botree used a system of phonics to help the boys learn to read.

While the children studied, Joe exercised his leg by walking a little farther each day. He followed the fence line into the woods and found a deer trail that led toward the river. His wounded leg was stronger, although pink scars surrounded his knee like ragged lace. He was slowly beginning to enjoy the open valley. With so much land in sight, there were few surprises. He could see an enemy coming from a long way off. Nothing would take him by ambush.

On an August morning, motion in the underbrush made him stop moving. A hawk stood on a log clutching a pheasant. Satisfied that Joe posed no threat, the hawk spread its wings for balance, opened the pheasant’s chest, and began eating the interior. Small bones cracked and tendons popped. The bird’s severed head lay in the scuffed dirt.

Botree was waiting for him by the corral when he returned. Dust covered her boots like a skin.

“Owen came by,” Botree said.

“What are they living on down there?”

“MREs, mainly.”

“What the heck is that?”

“Meals Ready to Eat. It’s military food. Just open it up and eat.”

“They’re going to regret moving out.”

“It’s their choice,” Botree said. “Owen brought your gold coin and some money. He said you can get work driving a supply truck to the firefighters. The fires are worse and they’re bringing in crews from all over the country. They need lots of drivers. Pays good.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You said you used to work on a truck.”

“They won’t hire me. I don’t have any references around here.”

“Lucy’s cousin is in charge of hiring. He wants to return the favor.”

“I don’t reckon it’ll hurt to talk to him,” he said.

The prospect of a fob excited Joe more than he expected. He had always worked, beginning in grade school when he raked leaves for quarters from his mother. Later he had dug ditches, shoveled manure, and repaired fence. He enjoyed the exhaustion that followed labor, the strain in his limbs, the satisfaction of seeing the result of his work. Hauling supplies to firefighters would be similar to moving garbage — both were necessary and both offered a measure of autonomy. He hoped he wouldn’t work alone.

That night he and Botree lay in the darkness of their bedroom. The house was quiet. The bright points of Orion were visible through the window.

“That guy,” Joe said, “Lucy’s cousin. Is he a Bill?”

“Yes.”

“Are there other Bills working on the fires?”

“Quite a few.”

“Doesn’t working for the government make them hypocrites?”

“The government hires a bunch of different businesses. Trucking is just one. There’s food and medical, too. You’re getting paid by the trucking company, not the government.”

“It’s still federal money.”

“A lot of the land that’s burning is federal, too. That makes it our land. Your land.”

“Then we should work for nothing, right? To protect our property.”

“You’re taking this whole thing a little far, Joe.”

“Me? You all are walking around with enough guns to fight a war, and I’m the one who’s going too far,”

Botree rolled onto a propped elbow, curving the blanket with her hip.

“A lot of people depend on the fires to make a year’s worth of money in four or five months. Next spring, they’ll have work clearing the burn. Some of the people will be Bills.”

Joe regretted having spoken. A job would allow him to buy the kids some toys. He wondered what Botree would like. She wore no jewelry and had little regard for possessions at all. He felt good about lying beside a woman and starting a new job. He leaned to kiss Botree. She kissed him back, then covered his body with hers.

In the morning, Abilene cried when he left. Aircraft droned along the valley, heavy tankers carrying fire retardant, and smaller planes with hotshot crews who parachuted into the fire. The western horizon was brown with smoke. He found Job Service in Missoula, and filled out an application. He was sent to a warehouse where a crowd waited for an interview. They were rough-looking men who appeared as ready to fight each other as the fires. Joe’s name was called quickly, and several people glared at him. He entered a tiny room with a desk and stacks of paper. The interviewer had a burr haircut, steel glasses, and an eagle tattooed on his forearm.

“I already know you got a license,” he said. “Can you drive a big truck?”

“Yes.”

“Narrow roads, mostly dirt.”

“I was raised on them.”

“Start tomorrow. Be at the loading dock at seven for truck assignment.”

“Thanks,” Joe said.

“No,” the man said. “Thank you,”

Joe went to the Wolf for lunch. After eating he stepped inside the poker room. The dealer lifted his eyebrows in recognition and a few players glanced at Joe. A television flickered without sound. The woman in the chip cage was reading a magazine. There was an empty seat but he had no desire to play. Six months before, the game had offered a sense of belonging that he no longer needed.

He wished his brother could see him now, but if Boyd were alive, there would be no Joe, no life in Montana. Virgil would be foreman of the garbage crew, married to Abigail, and their kids would go to the same school he had attended. Every week the family would convene at his mother’s house for Sunday dinner.

The next day, he rose at dawn. The western sky held a smoky darkness that would never fully leave the day. He ate a banana and drank a cup of coffee, the same routine he’d followed for years in Kentucky. He made a sack lunch and strolled to his Jeep. His leg felt fine.

In Missoula he parked at the warehouse and walked to the loading dock, where several men drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. A man with a clipboard stared at him.

“You Tiller?” he said.

Joe nodded.

“You got truck eleven.”

He pointed to two young men sitting on a metal rail. They were skinny, their knees clearly defined within the bent legs of their jeans. They wore western hats and boots, flannel shirts and vests.

“You’re stuck with Gerard and Phil for a crew,” the boss said. “They’ll tell you the procedure. You can’t get rid of them until we get a new driver.”

Joe joined them, aware that the other men were watching him.

“You Tiller?” Gerard said.

“Are you boys sober?” Joe said.

“As the dead.”

“That’s a damn shame. Which one of these rigs is number eleven?”

They led Joe to a three-ton truck with battered fenders. The engine started smoothly, and Joe checked the lights, blinkers, and horn. Satisfied, he climbed into the cab. Gerard directed him to a line of trucks waiting for access to equipment.

“We get new stuff in the morning,” Phil said. “Comes in by plane and we haul it to the fire crews. Me and Gerard do this every year. At Christmas we fill in for the post office when they run out of tracks. Fire season’s better.”

“How come?” Joe said.

“Better pay, no snow, and the girls wear shorts.”

“Plus the dope is better,” Gerard said.

“Do me a favor,” Joe said. “Don’t smoke that shit in the truck.”

The line of trucks moved forward, and when it was their turn, Joe backed to a set of sliding doors on the cement dock. Phil and Gerard began packing crates of supplies into the truck. Joe signed for the load and received a copy of the inventory, which included sleeping bags, purified water, shovels, freeze-dried food, and chainsaws.

They drove west of town and climbed a rough dirt road that reminded Joe of home. The air cooled as they went higher, but the sky turned dark with smoke. They reached the fire camp and passed a commissary trailer, a first-aid tent, and a mobile food court. Portable toilets made of blue plastic stood at crossroads. Parked by the edge of the woods were three bulldozers and a gigantic water truck. Antennae rose from a communications center beside a large trailer with a sign that said “Incident Command Post.” Men walked rapidly about, walkie-talkies on their hips. The crackle of radios blended with the steady hum of generators.

“It’s like a town up here,” Joe said.

“Hell, yes,” Phil said. “Got everything but girls and bars.”

Joe stopped the truck for a line of exhausted men who were trudging across the road toward tents. Their clothes were dirty, their faces smeared with dirt and ash.

“Great,” said Phil. “We’re just in time for shift change.”

“Is there a fire close?” Joe said.

“No, the helicopter drops them off. They got a landing zone down the road. A truck brings them here.”

“That’s the job you want,” Gerard said. “Transporting a crew. Nothing to it.”

At the supply area, Joe stood in the back of the truck and moved boxes to the edge, while Phil and Gerard stacked them on the ground. They finished, drove off the mountain, and ate lunch in the afternoon sun. Phil and Gerard passed a joint. Wind had temporarily cleared the smoke, and Joe lay on his back. The sky was dark blue overhead, like looking into water from the middle of a lake. He felt grateful for the patterns of work — rising early, performing a task, being an equal among men who worked. He appreciated the clear hierarchy of command and duty, the shared sense of responsibility. His presence was needed.

He returned to the ranch tired and happy. The children met him at the door, yelling his name, trying to climb his legs.

“How was it?” Botree said.

“A truck’s a truck,” Joe said. “I can drive anything.”

“You seem different already,”

“I like working. It makes me feel worth something.”

Joe felt lucky but was afraid to say it and risk hexing what little he had. After supper he lay in bed and read to Dallas and Abilene. He woke disoriented, with Abilene’s foot against his face, and a pile of books on his stomach. Botree was asleep. He undressed, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of peace.

For the next two weeks, Joe transported provisions to various camps in the mountains. Thousands of acres were burning daily. Crude camps were hastily arranged, with men sleeping outside in government-issue yellow bags. Fire crews were arriving from around the country. The main camp became so vast that a plywood billboard was erected with, information for the firefighters — maps to the sites, lists of crews and their home, newspaper articles from hometown papers of many states.

One morning Johnny was waiting for Joe by the Jeep. He looked tired and skinny. He asked if he could ride with Joe to work.

“How’s the bunkhouse?” Joe said.

“It stinks. Cold at night and hot in the day. The pump’s broke so there’s no water. You wouldn’t believe what Owen calls food.”

“Botree told me. How’s Sally?”

Johnny slumped in his seat and stared through the window for several miles. The western sky held a haze of smoke. An eagle flew along the river as if it were a road.

“I got to get out of there,” Johnny said.

“How come?”

Johnny shrugged. He rolled the window down and the smell of smoke entered the cab.

“Look,” Joe said. “Come back and live in the house.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“Can you get me on with the fires?” Johnny said.

“Driving?”

“I don’t have a damn license. But I’ll do anything else.”

“I’ll try.”

“I’m not going back to the bunkhouse.”

Johnny signed with a crew digging fire break, using a shovel twelve hours a day and sleeping at a camp in the mountains. Joe began a daylong trip to a fire camp near the Idaho border. The fires had spread to Canada and were continuing to jump east into Montana. Gerard and Phil packed socks in the cab to sell to the firefighters at a profit.

“You think that’s right?” Joe said.

“Why not?” Gerard said. “That’s what they need the most and the concessionaire runs out every week.”

“I mean making money off it.”

“You are, too,” Phil said. “We all are. Those guys can afford it. They get the best wage except for pilots.”

Joe recalled a government project in Kentucky known as the Happy Pappy program that was designed to employ fathers. One of the jobs was fighting forest fires. Joe knew several men who’d set fires in the woods, then waited near the government office to be hired.

“I used to know a boy back home,” Joe said. “He wanted to go fishing, but didn’t have no bait. Went up to his cousin’s house and asked did he have any. His cousin said no, but he told him where to dig for fishing worms. That boy, he dug all day long. Worked hisself like a borrowed mule. Never did get a worm. At dark he said to hell with it and went to the house. Next day, his cousin went outside and planted a garden where he’d dug.”

“Sounds like a bait fisherman,” Phil said.

“I can just see you two charging him good money for digging.”

“If he was a friend of yours,” Gerard said, “we might give him a break.”

The smoke became thicker as they neared the fire zone. By midafternoon, the air was dark as dusk. They passed a freshly bulldozed landing strip where several air tankers were being serviced, their huge tanks refilled with fire retardant. The base commander was a Blackfeet man with a powerful body. Joe knew him from other camps. He worked harder than men half his age, and never appeared to have had much sleep. He was always calm.

He dispatched two men to help Gerard and Phil unload the truck.

“Getting worse, ain’t it,” Joe said.

“We lost two men last night and I got four more burned in the hospital.”

“How come this year is so bad?”

“You want the official answer, or mine?”

“Yours.”

“Putting out too many little fires.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of people move out here and build in the woods. They start crying when it catches on fire, and we get sent to put them out. Used to, we let those little fires burn. The brush builds up in the timber and there’s more to bum when it ignites. That kept a big one like this from happening. But the new people got the money and the juice.”

“That’s the way it always is, ain’t it.”

“No real Montanan builds a fancy house in the woods. I got two men died trying to save million-dollar homes.”

He turned to spit and the desiccated earth sucked the moisture like a sponge.

After three eighteen-hour days, Joe took a day off. The next morning, he and Botree drank coffee in sunlight the color of sweet corn.

“Got a visit from Owen,” Botree said. “He wanted us to be ready to mobilize.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know exactly. Frank might have to move his camp because of the fires.”

“It’s not my fight.”

“He said he’s just keeping us informed.”

The boys ran around the house, their boots raising a trail of dust. Abilene grabbed Joe’s leg, Dallas pushed his brother, then took Joe’s hand.

“Why are mountains so close together?” Dallas said.

“That’s just how they grow, I guess,” Joe said.

“I know,” Dallas said. “The seeds were close together when they got planted.”

“That makes sense.”

“And rocks are seeds.”

The boys began hunting rocks to plant.

“You’re good for them,” Botree said.

“You know what Dallas said the other day? Said he had two heads — his forehead and his main head.”

“Sounds like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s you that’s here now,” Botree said. “And there’s the other you that drifts away sometimes. Makes me wonder if we can ever have a normal life.”

“What do you call normal?” Joe said. “Your kids don’t go to school. Your neighbors think freedom of religion means picking which Christian church to go to. The main thing your family is worried about is keeping their guns, and they got enough to start a war already.”

“What about me?”

“You’re normal enough.”

“My mother taught me to shoot and my father taught me to cook.”

Joe watched the boys dig for a rock embedded in the hard dirt. Boyd had taught him more than his parents had.

Abilene was yelling for the stick Dallas was using to dig. Dallas pushed him, and Abilene hit his brother.

“You all shouldn’t fight,” Joe said. “Know what me and my brother did when we had to share?”

The boys shook their heads.

“We flipped for it. Got a penny?”

The boys shook their heads.

“Neither did we.”

Joe stooped for a flat rock. He spat on one side and smeared it with his thumb.

“Now you have to call it in the air. Dry or wet.”

He flipped the rock high. Dallas yelled “Wet,” and the rock landed with the dry side up, Joe found each of them a stone and returned to Botree. She looked at him carefully.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” she said.

Joe turned away. The mountains were spiked with trees that would remain green throughout the fall. He missed the brilliant foliage of home. Autumn had been Boyd’s favorite season. Long after he’d quit hunting deer, he’d still tracked them every year, hoping to touch one in the woods.