One Careless Moment Page 6

  “Nothing,” he says. He’s young, maybe nineteen, and looks terribly guilty.

  “I saw something,” I say. “Come on, empty your pockets.”

  He looks at Cooper. “I’d rather not, sir.”

  There’s a tense moment, then Cooper waves him off. “Do it.”

  Slowly, with great trepidation, the eyes of his co-workers on him, the young firefighter reaches into his pocket and, blushing deeply, pulls out a wad of pink. He holds it up reluctantly. It’s a rumpled pair of lacy pink panties. There’s a ripple of laughter and he crams them quickly back into his pocket.

  “What the hell you got them for?” asks one of his buddies.

  “I hope those aren’t yours, Bickenham,” says another.

  Blushing even harder, Bickenham says, “They’re for luck.”

  “What kind of luck might that be?” someone hollers over the chuckling.

  Bickenham’s lip quivers and he stares furiously at the ground. Aslund finally reins them in.

  “Okay guys, sorry for the inconvenience. Put everything back in your pockets.”

  Teary-eyed and still chuckling, the firefighters pocket their goods, punching each other on the shoulder, slapping Bickenham on the back. If nothing else, they’re in a better mood.

  “Hey,” says one firefighter. “What about those guys?”

  The three members of the local volunteer fire department stand by one of their red pumpers, looking at the crowd of rowdy, jostling firefighters. Aslund shakes his head.

  “Oh, come on,” says Cooper. “You made us do it.”

  “Yeah,” says Phil. “Who knows what they might have in their pockets.”

  More laughter. Aslund hesitates and, grimacing, waves them over.

  Hutton and his two workers smile cautiously, like men who aren’t sure if they’re going to be let in on a joke, or if they are the joke. “What can I do for you?” asks Hutton.

  “Well, umm ...” Aslund stammers.

  “Empty your pockets,” hollers one of the firefighters.

  Hutton frowns. “What?”

  It’s Aslund’s turn to blush. “We’re conducting a check. To see what’s in your pockets.”

  Hutton squints at him. “This is a joke, right?”

  Something in Hutton’s voice makes it not so funny anymore. The laughter dies down.

  “You know you need a search warrant to do that,” says Hutton.

  There’s a silence — as quiet as it gets at an active staging area anyway. Hutton stares at Aslund and me, looks over at the firefighters. He looks disgusted, disdainful. “You let them do this?”

  “What’s the matter?” says Cooper. “You got something to hide?”

  Hutton reaches into his pockets, pulls out the lining. They’re empty. His two men do the same.

  “Have a nice day,” he says, and stalks away.

  “You happy?” says Aslund, under his breath.

  “There you are, Cassel.”

  Herb Grey strides along the road, his belt radio slapping against his stubby legs. Aslund and I have parted ways and I’m sitting in the shade of a service truck, watching the staging area. The new crews are out on the line, working with the dozers and engines. The air is filled with the whine of pumps, the crash of trees, the buzz of chainsaws. Everyone is busy except me — I have nothing to do but wait and think, neither of which I’m keen on at the moment. Hard physical work is what I need right now to blot out the memories.

  “Aslund all done with you?” says Grey, puffing as he nears the service truck.

  “For the time being.”

  “Good. We’re headed out of here.”

  I’m suddenly aware that I’ll never be back. I’ve squandered valuable time.

  “Do you mind waiting a few minutes? There’s something I want to check.”

  “Negative.” Grey shakes his head, still catching his breath. “We’ve got to get rolling.”

  I look into the burn, where I think the fire crossed the line. “I’ll be quick.”

  Grey gives me an intent look. “What’s so goddamn important all of a sudden?”

  “I just want to look at where the fire jumped the line.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “I’m not sure. I just need to see it.”

  Grey’s stern, commanding expression softens just a bit.“Don’t blame yourself.”

  “It was my fire,” I say quietly. “I was responsible for Brashaw and his men.”

  “Shit happens, Cassel. Fires are not entirely predictable.”

  Despite Grey’s reassurance, we both know there’ll be plenty of scrutiny later and we share a moment of silence. I’d like to have a look at where the runaway fire started. Maybe I just need to know it was inevitable. Maybe I’m just a sucker for punishment. Grey frowns, his patience at an end.

  “Come on,” he says. “You’re out of here and I’m your ride.”

  Still, I hesitate. Grey sighs heavily, uses a sooty hand to massage his forehead.

  “We’ve got to get going, Cassel. I have to break the news to Brashaw’s family.”

  Brashaw’s family — I have a sudden anxious clench in my gut, thinking about BB’s children. They’d be grown by now, with children of their own. I’d never thought of BB as a grandfather, and somehow this makes it worse. I take a deep, unsteady breath. Let it out slowly.

  “You all right, Cassel?”

  “Fine,” I say numbly. “I was the lucky one.”

  Grey shakes his head. “No one was lucky today.”

  4

  •

  WE DRIVE BACK in a green minivan, Grey at the wheel. Considering how rutted and steep the trail is, I’m not sure how they got the damn thing up here. Grey hugs the side of the trail, riding the ridges. He hits a cross-rut and the minivan thumps down hard, its suspension scraping. At the bottom of the hill, Grey unsnaps his belt radio, calls the new incident commander who flew in. “It’s Grey again,” he barks into the radio. “You might want to send one of those dozers down the road, smooth things out before someone breaks an axle and cuts off your ground access.”

  We ride in silence the rest of the way down the narrow trail to the Blood Creek Road, Grey no doubt wondering how he’ll break the news to Brashaw’s family.

  “Were there any other injuries?” I ask Grey.

  He shakes his head. “What about you? Any burns?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  “You did get burned?”

  He looks concerned but my burns are minor. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? I could drop you at the hospital.”

  “No, thanks.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Any injuries, even minor ones, are to be reported and given appropriate first aid, but the last thing I need is a nurse fussing over me while Brashaw lies dead on the ridge. I ignore Grey’s searching look, stare out a side window, watch trees and ranchland slide past. We’re on the highway now and the minivan is quiet, like riding in a vacuum tube. My thoughts seem loud, self-evident. The first commandment of firefighting is to fight fire aggressively but provide for safety first. I could have waited until the next day for an aerial view of the fire, but by then it would have been lost. The ridge appeared safe, so I took what I thought was a minor risk for a strategic advantage. Somewhere though, I missed a clue, and now Brashaw is dead. Grey’s belt radio crackles to life, catching a clear line of transmission from the fire, and we both flinch. He reaches down and shuts it off. Carson Lake comes into view, long and narrow below the highway. Grey shifts in his seat, clears his throat.

  “Cassel, I want you to know how sorry I am you had to go through this. God knows this is a hard enough business as it is. No one should have to lose their life fighting a fire. No one should have to go through what you went through.”

  He’s looking at me with the sad, tired eyes of a disappointed father and I suddenly feel weak.

  “What happens next?”

  “Well, there’s going to be an entrapment investigation. The investigators wi
ll look at every aspect of the fire, try to learn exactly what happened. They’ll look at weather records, dispatch logs, talk to those who were on the fire when it blew up. They’ll examine personal protective equipment — which reminds me, I’ll need yours. Then, after a lot of meetings and discussion, they’ll make some recommendations so this won’t happen again.”

  He’s tactfully avoided any reference to my role, my possible mistakes.

  “What about the arson?”

  Grey smoothes his moustache, frowning thoughtfully. “That’s a bit more complicated. Arson in a national forest is usually a Forest Service matter, but this fire had a fatality, which makes the arson a crime against a person. You see, when someone lights a fire intentionally, they can be held accountable for anything that occurs as a result of the fire. So, at a minimum, it’ll be involuntary manslaughter. Most of the investigation will be handled by the Sheriff ’s Department.”

  “Will the Forest Service still have a role?”

  “I’m sure we’ll have some of our people on it.”

  “Aslund?”

  Grey gives me a wry smile. “No, he’s just local. Something this big, they’ll bring in the boys from Washington.” He shifts in his seat again, frowns slightly. “Used to be, we did our own investigating, but that’s handled by a separate branch within the Forest Service now. Strictly law enforcement people. Supposed to get around local politics.”

  We pull into the Carson Lake Ranger Station, a sprawling shake-roofed wooden building overlooking the lake, and Grey tells me to grab my overnight bag. While he vanishes inside, I walk around back to where several wall tents have been erected on a grassy slope. I grab my pack and bedroll from one of the tents, spend a few minutes watching boats roar back and forth on the lake, pulling kids on tire tubes. Grey sticks his head out the back door, hollers at me. He’s changed into his dress uniform. You know something serious has happened when a forest ranger wears a suit.

  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.