Who by Fire (6 page)

What came out was a binder: cloth cover, red-and-black checks.
The plastic along the spine was crumbling. The zipper tab was spotted with orange. The whole thing emanated an attic smell. He kicked the paper balls and box aside and set the binder softly on the coffee table. It was as fat as a seal and he knew what it was; had an image of his father sitting at his desk, taking things out of it and putting things back in. For a second he had his fingers on the pull-tab, but he made them spring apart.

“No,” he said. “Not so easy.”

Ryder Farm, 1961

TO GET TO THE MEETING
at Hatfield Hall, Tom had taken the Callaghan valley road. A slip of paper stuck in their door jamb had told them to come to the hall for seven that night. Ella had read it out to Tom: “Mr. Clint Comstock of Aladdin Oil and Gas will host the evening. He will welcome your questions about the first weeks of operation at the Aladdin Hatfield gas processing plant.”

It was strange wording for a meeting that was happening because the plant threw a fit every second day; because, when it was upset—their word—it stank and made everyone sick. Even the idea of Comstock
hosting
them in the Hatfield Hall was ridiculous. A man from Houston, Texas, hosting them in their own community hall.

By now, Ella had won Tom over to her view of Clint Comstock. But Tom still believed it was better to hear from someone higher up in the organization than the men who ran the plant. Even on this point, he and Ella argued. “Why look down on Mr. Dietz?” she’d said, while they changed their clothes. “He’s trying to fix things, at least. I doubt Mr. Comstock is bringing a magic wand.”

“Goddamnit, I am not looking down on Dietz. Or up to Comstock.”

The sun had set an hour ago and the valley was full of shadows
and half-seen things. Ella pointed when a deer stepped from a bluff of aspens. Tom had seen it too and was slowing down. He stopped the truck and waited until another half-dozen does crept from the bush. They skittered across the road, white tails wagging, bounced over the fence into some spruce along the frozen river.

“Deer,” said Billy.

“We’re going to be late,” Ella said to Tom.

“Cutting it a little fine,” he admitted. “They’ll probably start late.”

By the time they made the highway turn, the darkness had deepened. A mile more and he could see the lights in the hall windows blooming in the distance. He found a spot in the row of trucks facing its north wall.

Ella had predicted the building would be cold, that whoever was in charge of lighting the furnace would have come too late. She was right; the place wasn’t much warmer than outside, though the furnace rumbled away under the floor. The benches from the side walls had been pulled into rows.

People were leaving their boots on and Tom, Ella, and Billy did the same. Billy tried to pull off his hat but Ella caught his wrist and whispered to leave it.

“I won’t hear,” he said.

“Yes, you will.”

Tom found this funny, this concern of Billy’s that he might miss something. He had told the boy tonight’s meeting would be dry stuff, but that made no difference to Billy. He sensed from his parents that it was important and insisted he be there.

Everybody in the hall was familiar. Most wives had come with their husbands. Everyone who had kids big enough to look after the little ones had left their children at home. Alice Court was there with her baby, and Tom saw Ella frown at this. Ella had heard the
child was sick, an illness caused by the plant. They’d probably brought the sick baby as proof.

Tom was looking for Comstock or Dietz when the two came in at the back. Comstock kicked his boots noisily in the porch, then bowed deeply under the door frame between the boot room and the main hall. He was tall but not tall enough to crack his head. He exaggerated everything.

Dietz came along behind him, and was just the opposite: shambling and dressed in his flannel shirt with the snoose can making a circle in his breast pocket. Tom and Ella had been expecting only these two but a third man came in after them: dark hair slicked back, skinny; not much more than twenty. He held his body like a soldier on guard duty.

As soon as Comstock was in the hall, he made a show of taking charge. He ordered the younger man to put leaflets on a side table, then went to the front and stood there tapping his long chin with one finger. “I think I’ll speak from the floor,” he announced to Alf Dietz, but loud enough for everyone to hear. The stage behind him was used for Christmas plays and dance bands. He would look like a fool talking to them from up there.

Comstock began marching back and forth at the front, while the audience went to the benches and sat. Dietz and the young fellow sat in the first row. Ella led Billy and Tom to a bench two rows back.

Tom studied the American while the rest of the people found places. Comstock was pretending to be comfortable in the cold room in just a sports jacket. The jacket was the colour of a tanned deerskin and matched his cowboy boots. He had the fingers of both hands poked in the pockets of his jeans. The western get-up was meant to make them comfortable, Tom supposed. But no local man wore clothes like that.

Comstock started to talk.

“Aladdin has been producing gas for fifty-three years—in all parts of America where petroleum is found. Based on that knowledge and experience, we built this plant. There are new factors here, things we must respond to as they show themselves. That’s how the history of this business is written: you apply what has done well for you in the past. You adjust to the conditions of the present. That’s how we get to the future.”

The Court baby started to cough. A ripping sound for a creature so small. Alice stood up with the baby tucked inside the opening of her parka and bounced. Then she went behind the last row and walked with a jogging step.

“In visits with you—and my apologies to any I missed—I explained sour gas, explained how we take this very poisonous gas and render it mostly harmless by removing the elemental sulphur. That is happening at the plant today and every day. To start up this plant we hired the very best men we could find.” He opened a hand toward the front bench. “Mr. Alf Dietz, one of the most experienced men in sour gas processing in North America. To Mr. Dietz’s right, Lance Evert, a sharp young engineer from Saskatchewan. Lance graduated top of his class from your University of Alberta.”

Comstock made himself more solemn. “I am aware there have been difficulties here. Plant start-ups are difficult. Such problems are regrettable but not unusual. And yes, some of these are different problems than we normally see—the kinds of things you can’t turn a valve or two and fix. Now, I think that’s enough of an introduction. I want to hear from you. Let’s hear your questions.”

For a while it seemed no one had a question, and Tom could feel Ella grow tense beside him. They could see other wives looking at their husbands, some whispering at them to speak up. Ella was not urging Tom. His cursing embarrassed her, and it was true he probably
could not get through a question about the plant without some bad language.

Finally it was Ernie Dewart who rose, and Tom was glad. Ernie had fought in the war, and Tom hoped he’d mention that.
I fought for this country in France and Germany. I didn’t go there to come home and have a gas plant drive me off my place
. That would be good.

Ernie fiddled briefly with the knot on his cowboy scarf. “My family live a couple miles east of the plant,” he said. “We can’t see it because of the hill, but we’re getting plenty of gas. Every one of us has been sick. What I want to know is how much longer it’s going to continue.” He sat down.

Clint Comstock thanked Ernie. Then he paused as if in thought. Standing straighter and looking over their heads, he said, “Twenty-five years.”

Chairs scraped. People made various kinds of noises. A few even laughed.

“Nope, I’m absolutely serious,” said Comstock. “Twenty-five years is the answer. The life expectancy of the gas plant. I didn’t come all the way from Texas to lie to you. For as long as it’s a sulphur plant, Aladdin Hatfield will smell like a sulphur plant. However, the intent of this gentleman’s question is, I believe, how long will the odour be a problem. The answer to that is different. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to turn this over to Alf Dietz, the plant superintendent, who can speak to the details.”

Dietz rose slowly. He looked dead tired. He had a cornered look on his riven face, like a live-trapped animal.

“There’s smell and then there’s smell,” he said sadly. “I think that’s what Mr. Comstock means.” He wrestled in search of something and did not find it. “Keep calling me. I’ll keep working with the plant and trying to get a handle on things, on the wind and inversions and whatnot.”

He returned to his chair heavily. He looked at the south window, though it was just a frame full of darkness.

Comstock started up again and now he had a bunch of energy and all the answers. Showing off, Tom thought, pumping himself up at the expense of Dietz. It was poor strategy because it would be Dietz, not Comstock, who’d have to deal with their problems—like Ella said.

Tom looked down at his son. Billy’s interest had faded. He’d been looking over his shoulder at the crying baby, and now he turned all the way around on the bench so he could see more easily. Ella twisted him back and spoke to him sternly. Soon he was kicking his boots so the heels hit the board.

Tom returned his attention to the front. Comstock was spouting statistics: all to do with how much gas the plant would produce after the expansion, how much sulphur that would translate into. Tom’s eyes had started to itch. He had been up since before six, had worked hard all day, and now sleep was coming for him.

He turned to Ella to see how she was faring and saw that she was looking forward but not at Comstock. Her black eyes were sparking. He followed the line of her eyes to the young man who had come in with Comstock and Dietz. He was turned halfway and looking back at them. Just as Tom was trying to make sense of this, the fellow turned away and watched Comstock.

Tom nudged Ella. “What?” he said. She shook her head.

Comstock asked for more questions and there were two more not very good ones. The steam had gone out of the meeting. The “twenty-five years” statement hung above their heads, and nothing else could match it. People were tired and thinking about their kids at home or some chore that needed doing before bed.

Comstock got the point and thanked them for coming. The women with children got them ready for the out-of-doors. Tom went directly to Comstock.

“Evening, Tom,” the Texan said. “Glad to see you in the crowd.”

He was playing up the host business again, and Tom had an urge to say, “You’re the stranger here, not me.” But he had something to ask.

“I been thinking about pig litters and calves. In your experience, what will happen when piglets and calves have to breathe the stuff from your plant?”

“That’s a bit like asking how big a fish is.”

“Then how big is the fish?”

“How about this? If I was representing a train company, and I said there were sparks from trains and sometimes those sparks caught grass on fire, would you ask me if that train could burn your house down?”

“In other words, the young pigs and calves could die.”

“I didn’t say that, but I’ve told you that hydrogen sulphide can kill. Then again, if our men can work inside the plant and stay alive, the creatures that live downwind should be able to handle it.”

None of this was satisfying. Comstock said something about the long drive to Calgary and an airplane to Houston in the morning. Tom turned to look for Ella and found her talking to the young man from the plant. The fellow was playing a game with Billy. The boy would dodge behind his mother’s coat then stick his head out. The plant man would jump as if surprised.

Tom came up. Ella introduced them. Tom shook Lance Evert’s hand.

“Should I warm up the truck?”

“Let’s just go,” she said.

They travelled in silence until the engine warmed enough to get the heater working. “You had quite the face on you during Comstock’s talk.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were looking at that Lance like you do at me when you’re good and mad.”

“He was staring at me. I suppose he was just lost in thought but it made me mad. Gaping like that.”

“You were chummy afterwards.”

“He came to apologize. He seemed all right. Young and awkward. Billy liked him.”

“He’s not the one I’d worry about, that’s for sure.”

“What?”

“Out of those three. Evert’s not the one that concerns me. Comstock’s the problem, just like you said.” Tom glanced sideways, and, though Ella gave no sign of being interested, he spoke more. “I didn’t learn one goddamn useful thing tonight. He didn’t say whether the stink would get better or worse. No instructions about what to do when the gas gets bad. And as far as when the plant gets bigger, he didn’t say if the stink would be over by then or would be worse. Jesus Christ. If the bastard gets us all out on a winter night, he should have something to say.”

“You should have asked those questions when you had the chance.” Ella’s voice was drowsy and irritated. She hadn’t asked any questions either, but he kept himself from saying that. He wanted to tell her about his talk with Comstock about piglets and calves, but he didn’t say that either.

“Lance Evert,” she said, near sleep.

“What?”

“That’s his name.”

Then she was asleep, and Billy was asleep, and so almost was Tom as he climbed up the hill out of the Callaghan. When the road fell level, the lights and fires of the plant rose into view, more lights than a town, and so much smoke and steam. The smell was there
too, the spunky fume from the deeps, the stuff that knocks birds off the perch at a coal face.

Though it had been Tom who started the note-taking, Ella took charge soon after. This morning, after breakfast, she wrote: “February 10: Gas strong in the night. Billy sick again. Nosebleed. Vomited once. Hired man, Kees, with us for 18 months, quit this morning.”