One Careless Moment (7 page)

We continue into town. In his crisp dress uniform, Grey looks very official. He's going to visit Brashaw's family. I'd like to be there with him, to answer any of the questions I know they'll have. To apologize. But I can't go there looking like this, covered with soot and grime, so I ask Grey if we could stop somewhere so I can clean up.

“Sure,” he says, distracted. “I'm bringing you to a motel.”

I hesitate. “I'd like to come with you, to see Brashaw's family.”

“Not a chance,” he says, flashing me a startled look.

“I feel a certain obligation —”

“That's a definite negative, Cassel. This is a district responsibility.”

It's clear from his tone there's no room for negotiation and I let it go. Before I head back to Canada, I'll visit Brashaw's family on my own, pass on my condolences. In their shoes, I would expect the same courtesy. Grey pulls the minivan into the Paradise Gateway Motel at the edge of town; it doesn't get more generic than that. At the front desk, it's clear that everything has been arranged.

“How long will Mr. Johnson be staying?” the clerk asks Grey.

Grey gives me a sideways glance. “Put him down for two nights.”

I have a room at the end of the second floor with a splendid view of the parking lot. Grey stands in the doorway, his moustache twitching.

“Okay Cassel. Get yourself cleaned up. Have a rest. There'll be a debriefing here in the conference room at twenty-hundred hours. The whole crew will be there. Until then, if you need anything, call the ranger station, ask for Mark in Fire Ops. He knows the situation.”

I thank Grey and he vanishes. From the window, I watch the green minivan turn onto the highway. My fingers and toes ache from being scorched and there's a line of pain diagonally across my back. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the phone. I want to call my sister Cindy in Edmonton, and Telson. But Cindy is at work and Telson could be anywhere. I stand, look around, feeling a bit lost. There's a black horseshoe on the bed sheets where I was sitting. Grey forgot to pick up my fire clothes for analysis.

In the bathroom, I get a shock when I look in the mirror.

My face is dark grey, streaked with black. Even my teeth are stained with soot, my eyes bloodshot orbs, my hair black and coarse, sticking out like wire. I look like the face of Death, as though I'd clawed my way up through the earth on a moonlit night.

It takes a long time in the shower to wash off the ash. When I shut off the water, I hear someone knocking at the door, and I lean my head against the wet tiles, hoping they'll go away. My fingers and back blaze with pain and I'm in no mood to socialize. The knock comes five or six times, hesitates, then comes again, as persistent as a woodpecker. I take my time toweling off, pull fresh clothes out of my pack, thinking the woodpecker will give up, but the knocking continues. Finally, I throw the bolt and fling open the door.

“Mr. Cassel?”

It's a man in his mid-forties, a full head shorter than me. He's wearing a white shirt and narrow tie. A blue blazer is hung over his arm. He's nearly bald, the top of his head shining like his polished black shoes.

“I'm Cassel.”

“I'm Irving Groves. Sorry to disturb you. I was concerned when you didn't answer.”

“I was in the shower.”

“Yes, of course.” Groves looks a little embarrassed. “I should have given you time to clean up.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Groves?”

Groves extends a pale hand and my first thought is he's a reporter, which would explain his tenacity. “I'm a psychologist,” he says. He's got a firm handshake for a head doctor; probably part of the prescription when dealing with a firefighter. Handshakes aside, we're a world apart and I'm in no mood to bare my soul to this stranger.

“Sorry, but I'm not interested.”

I start to close the door but he reaches forward, holds it open. “I understand your reluctance Mr. Cassel, but it always helps to talk about these things after the event to prevent repression. This would be completely confidential and at no cost to yourself.”

“I'm fine with repression.”

“If you could just give me ten minutes of your time —”

“No thanks.”

Groves yields the door. “I'll be available later, at the session in the conference room.”

The door closes. I throw the bolt, collapse on the bed, and stare at the ceiling.

Eight o'clock comes way too fast.

My legs are a little shaky when I arrive at the conference room. A page ripped from a notebook is taped to the door, the message written in black felt pen: Incident Debriefing. I hear voices and the shuffling of chairs, and hesitate — behind these doors are all the firefighters I let down.

There were maybe forty firefighters on the Holder fire, but the room is packed with close to a hundred people. Chrome and plastic stacking chairs form ragged rows, rearranged by groups wanting to talk together. In one huddle are a dozen members of the Carson Lake Hotshots, their bright red T-shirts emblazoned with a cartoon logo of a superhero brandishing a Pulaski and shovel. Others stand in groups of three and four, talking quietly. I barely recognize Galloway without her hard hat and gear, long hair spilling over her shoulders. She sees me looking and glances away.

“How you holding up, Cassel?”

It's Aslund, wearing a ball cap and canvas shirt with too many pockets. I tell him I'm doing okay, all things considered. Grey is on a dais at the front of the room, talking to Groves. Grey has reverted to field gear, wearing jeans, a fire shirt, and fire boots. Groves is wearing a navy blazer and tie. They're at opposite ends of the fashion spectrum. This may not be the only divergence here; I think about Groves's pitch to me earlier, hoping he has something a little more practical for the masses. Grey hollers for order and the chatter dies off. He waits, stern and commanding, while the crowd takes their seats.

“For anyone doesn't know me, I'm Herb Grey, chief ranger of the Carson Lake District. Thanks for coming. I know you're all a bit stressed out, so we thought it would be a good idea to have a little session and get things into the open. Mr. Groves here is a clinical psychologist and he'll guide us through the process.” Grey looks over at Groves. “They're all yours.”

Groves surveys the room, nervously smoothes his tie. He's got a flip chart next to him. A hundred firefighters and support workers watch as Groves turns to his flip chart, and carefully flips up the blank first page. The next page is a flow chart, vivid orange letters against an azure background.

“There are five discernable stages to the grief cycle,” says Groves, pointing to the chart. “We'll look at all five stages in more detail but, as an overview, this is how they flow. The traumatic event initially sparks denial, a natural defensive mechanism allowing one to immediately cope with the situation. This is followed by rage, bargaining, depression, and, finally, by acceptance, or resolution.”

A professional pause as Groves flips the chart. There's a single word: DENIAL.

Groves drones on as though giving a lecture — Psychology 101 — oblivious to the impatient shiftings of his audience. We learn about the value of denial, the difference between short- and long-term repression. When he's done with denial, he flips over another glossy page. The single word — RAGE — is accompanied by a line drawing of a man with spiked hair and little puffs of steam coming from his ears. Rage, we're told, follows the collapse of denial.

“This is horseshit,” someone mutters, loud enough to be heard across the room.

Another loud whisper: “Where'd they get this guy?”

“Isn't this supposed to be a debriefing?” says a smokejumper.

Groves smoothes down imaginary hair, takes a moment to assess the changing mood of his audience. Chairs scrape the floor as firefighters turn to talk to one another. Grey sits with his arms crossed, waiting. Groves glares at the crowd, but no one pays him any attention. He clears his throat conspicuously.“If we could just continue —”

“Just a minute, Sigmund,” says Cooper, standing and looking around.

“If you'll just be so kind as to take a seat —”

“What I want to know,” says Cooper, “is why someone had to get killed before our fire became a priority. If we'd had a helicopter, we could have plucked those guys off the ridge.”

“And what about the bombers?” says a firefighter in front of me.

“They were on another fire,” someone shouts. “Protecting buildings.”

“Buildings!” Cooper roars. “We're more important than some damn structures.”

There's a murmur of angry support; they've skipped denial and moved right along to rage. Groves tries once more to bring his lecture back on course, but it's clear the crowd was expecting something different. They want to talk about the fire. They want answers.

“Look,” Groves says loudly, “I wasn't brought here to discuss that. If we could just —”

But he's drowned out by more shouting.

“They never should have been up there —”

“What about the arson? Are there any leads?”

“This is fucking pointless —”

Groves's attempt at bargaining has failed and he's slipping into depression. Grey walks onto the dais and stands silently, arms crossed, staring at the crowd. Despite his stubby stature, he has a foreboding presence. The arguing and cross-talk dies down.

“Sit down, Cooper.”

Cooper sits.“Sir,” he says.“With all due respect, what is this horseshit?”

There's a murmur of support. Grey holds up a hand, turns to Groves.

“Is the rest of your presentation like this?”

Groves looks offended. “It's on the grief cycle. It seemed appropriate.”

“I'm sure it is,” says Grey, looking at the crowd of restless firefighters. “In university.”

There's a ripple of relieved laughter. Groves scowls; he's having trouble with acceptance.

Grey addresses the crowd. “As ineffective as it may seem, this stress debriefing was intended for your benefit. But it is completely optional and I won't hold it against any of you if you choose to diffuse your stress by other, more conventional means.”

“Thank God,” says Cooper, standing. The rest of Brashaw's crew stands with him and they troop out, quickly followed by the smoke-jumpers and most of the support staff. Groves watches them go, clearly distressed at his inability to soothe their anguish.

“If anyone has need of further counselling,” he shouts. “I'm in Room 223.”

The counselling session continues in the Pine Room — a bar in the motel with knotty pine wainscotting and a wall covered with video gambling machines. Chairs are pulled around small circular tables, quickly covered with glasses of draft, rum, and whisky. Cooper, the centre of gravity for Brashaw's crew, sits at one end of the room. He sees me looking, motions me over.

“Have a drink, Cassel,” he says aggressively. “Have a fucking drink.”

The bar reeks with the scent of smoke and sweat; these boys have come straight from the fire. Cooper's tanned face is streaked with black like a weary commando. I motion that I'm going to the bar for a drink but a waitress swings past, her tray loaded, delivering another bomber drop of alcohol. Cooper grabs a glass and thrusts a rye and Coke at me. “Pull up a stump,” he says.

I look around, drink in hand, searching for a chair.

“Get the fuck up,” Cooper hollers at one of his men. “Make a hole for this survivor.”

Three firefighters stand and offer their chairs. I hesitate, then take one. I was expecting recriminations and accusations from the men on Brashaw's crew. But they're friendly in a belligerent sort of way, and crowd around, jostling and talking. Cooper holds up a hand for attention, leans forward and looks at me. “So tell us, what happened up there?”

Talk around me dies down but it's still deafening in here; the room vibrates with country music, shouting, and the chime of gambling. Young, stubbled faces watch me expectantly, as if I might have some answer that will make everything clear. I don't want to disappoint them but all I have to offer are details I'd rather forget: the fire roaring through the trees, the mad scramble up the hill. I drain my glass of whisky — it burns inside, like the scorch across my back. Another whisky is slid in my direction. I pick up the cool glass, hold it without drinking, wonder where to start.

“We needed to get to the ridge,” I say slowly. “To look over the fire.”

I pause, expecting someone to challenge me, to say this was my fault, that I never should have dragged Brashaw up there with me. But if they have doubts, they don't show it. I was the incident commander and my decision is not questioned. I relax a little, begin to relate the sequence of events starting from the drive up the old trail behind the ridge. Once again, I avoid mention of Brashaw's preoccupation with the canyon's curse, reluctant to shift blame to an old superstition. When I pause to sip my drink, I notice the crowd around me has deepened; the entire bar has come to hear my story. Even the waitress stands listening, her tray held at her side.

“After the call, we both stood there, hypnotized by the flames. They were something to see, like a snake rising over the hill, and for a few seconds, we couldn't move. Then we made a run for the truck, down through the trees, until BB twisted his ankle.”

Around me, the faces of his men cringe, no doubt imagining themselves in our position. Someone takes the empty glass from my hand, gives me another.

“What'd you do?” asks Bickenham.

“The fire was coming up the hill pretty fast and I wasn't sure how far away the truck was. So we went back upslope, to deploy in the open, away from the fuel. It was a bitch of a climb though, with his bad ankle. He's not someone you can just pick up and carry.”

“That takes guts,” says a firefighter, slapping me on the back. “Not abandoning him.”

Someone punches my shoulder. “You're a fuckin' hero.”

There's a roar of approval and I wince. “I'm no hero.”

“Sure you are,” says Phil, the squad boss. “Anyone who has the balls to —”

“No — goddamn it! It was my fault we were up there to start with.”

There's an uncomfortable silence. Men stare into their drinks.

“Fuck that,” says Cooper. “You did what you had to.”

“No —”

I feel like an idiot, don't want to explain what seems so obvious to me, set aside my drink and stand. Reeling. Hands support me on all sides but I shake them off. Everyone watches but no more questions are asked. They clap me on the shoulder, tell me to hang in there. I'm overcome by a deep, embarrassing gratitude for their support. The waitress, slim and dark-haired, offers me a drink on the house. I thank her, switch to beer, which has a higher LD50. There's a pay phone near the washroom and I take my beer with me. I know it's not a real good time, but I gotta make a call.

I dial Cindy's number. Breathlessly, she accepts the charges.

“Porter, God almighty. Are you okay?”

“I'm okay, Cin. The guy I was with didn't do so good though.”

“I know. It's all over the news. It must've been terrible.”

I tell her some of what happened, leave out the gruesome details. I'm starting to slur. Cindy listens and offers friendly support. Her voice makes me intensely homesick. I want to be playing cards with her, watching a movie with the kids.

“You really okay, Porter? You sound a little depressed.”

I assure her I'm hanging in there, tell her I'll be home soon. The bar seems a little louder, a little more alien, when I hang up. I finish my beer, start another. I'm past the point of caring how much this will hurt tomorrow. Past the point of caring that I vowed never to do this again. Someone buys me a blue shooter. It looks like Windex but goes down easy enough. So does the next drink.

Someone slaps me on the back. It's Grey. “You okay, Cassel?”

I nod, my head bobbing to the music. I know I'm drunk when I enjoy Willie Nelson.

“That's good,” he says. “Get this out of your system.”

I nod and he moves on, consoling the troops. There's a bit of a ruckus and I turn to see Cooper standing unsteadily on his chair. He steps onto a small round table, knocking over glasses of beer and whisky. Bleary-eyed, he gazes across the room and raises his drink.

“Draw nigh, ye drunkards!” he hollers over the music. “Ye cowards, ye dissolute men.”

Cooper sways, his face glistening with sweat. Glass crunches under the thick soles of his boots.

“— ye are sots. Ye bear the mark of the beast on your foreheads —”

It takes me a minute to place what he's saying. Dostoevsky, from Crime and Punishment. At the moment, it seems oddly appropriate. He staggers again, nearly falling; hands reach up to steady him. He grins down at them, anointing his faithful with spilled beer. Looking solemn, he tries to continue, but he's lost his train of thought. He raises his empty glass once again.

“Here's to Bert Brashaw — the King!”

There's a thunder of approval. Boots stomp. Tables are thumped. Cooper, smiling in a bemused fashion, is about to say something more when the table begins to wobble. For a few seconds he keeps his balance, but is defeated by gravity and alcohol, and returns to earth with an undignified crash, landing partway on his companions, partway on the table. Cooper, with minor wounds, is laid on the floor, where he commences snoring.

The waitress comes around and I fumble in my pockets for money.

“Don't worry,” she says, smiling. “They're charging it all to Room 223.”

“Yeah,” shouts a smokejumper. “Further counselling.”

I don't quite make it to Cooper's level of therapy. One by one, Grey leads us out of the bar and to our rooms. I'm dimly aware that I'm leaning on him as I stagger up the stairs. At my door, I feel I have to say something, although I don't know what, and make frustrated mumblings.

“I know, Cassel,” he says. “I know.”