Irene Radford - Thistle Down

He hoped they were enough.

The driver in the bright yellow hard hat with a discreet F painted on the front, to indicate he was the foreman, glared at him. He kept coming, aiming his CAT for the first line of trees at the edge of the park. He drove over the lawns, heedless of the small circles of shrubs and flowers in his way.

Three uniformed officers held back the five other timbermen bearing chain saws and climbing hooks, by the simple expedient of placing hands on their holstered weapons.

The CAT kept coming.

The camera followed every move, captured every facial expression.

Chase gulped but didn’t move.

With a tine of the loading fork on either side of him, the CAT finally stopped a hand’s breath from Chase’s chest.

“Get out of the way!” the driver yelled over the noise of the diesel engine. A note of desperation crept into his voice.

“I have a court order for you to pack up your gear and vacate the premises for a minimum of two weeks or until the conclusion of the investigation into the illegal sale of this timber,” Chase recited in his deepest, most authoritative voice.

With profound determination he kept his hand away from his weapon. He really didn’t want this confrontation to turn violent.

“No one said anything about cutting wood being illegal,” the foreman returned. He idled the engine down so he could be heard over it, but he didn’t turn it off.

Maybe he was hoping the camera couldn’t make sense of his words.

“Cutting this wood is illegal until determined by the City Council, the DA, and a judge,” Chase kept his voice firm. He hadn’t realized how powerful the little CAT machine was, or how big “little” was. He hated to think about facing down a full-sized bulldozer.

“I’ve got a properly signed work order,” the driver insisted.

“This court order supersedes that.” Chase waved the papers again.

“You’re taking bread out of the mouths of our children!” The foreman yelled that directly toward the cameraman.

“Sorry about that. Times are hard for a lot of people. Jobs are scarce. I understand that. This parkland is more valuable than just the price of the timber. It benefits the entire town, not just a couple of politicians and developers.”

“Fuck you! I’m calling my boss.” The foreman flung off his seat belt harness and jumped clear of the machine.

Had he set the brake? Sweat popped out on Chase’s brow, more than the heat could account for.

“Go right ahead. But I need you and your crew to clear off and take all your equipment with you by five o’clock. That’s thirty minutes.”

“We’re supposed to finish the survey tonight and start cutting at eight AM tomorrow. If we take everything off site, we’ll be hours late starting, and my work order says I lose dollars for every hour of delay.”

“My court order says this park is to be cleared and returned to pre-work order condition by five.” Chase looked pointedly at the CAT tracks gouged in the grass and the broken rhododendrons.

A crowd gathered from the neighborhood, milling around, coming closer. The cameras added them to their growing mass of footage.

The afternoon heat intensified. Chase’s temper rose closer to the surface. He struggled to keep it in check.

The crowd grew noisier, nerves frayed by tension, uncertainty, and the damned heat.

Sweat coated Chase’s back, like an extra clammy skin.

“Ain’t fair to tempt a man with work and a good paycheck and then yank it out from under him!” one of the crew called, stepping forward and brandishing his chain saw. Dense perspiration stains showed on his shirt beneath his safety vest.

An officer moved to block his path, weapon half out of the holster. He looked as nervous and frayed as the rest of them.

Please don’t draw that , Chase silently pleaded with his patrolman. Do you know how much paperwork has to be filed if the muzzle clears the holster ? How many people get involved in reviewing that paperwork?

How many thousands would watch it on the evening news?

“I can’t afford to not cut this timber,” the foreman said, stepping around the CAT to face Chase.

“I’m sorry about that. I do understand. My men and I each took a twelve percent pay cut so we didn’t have to lay anyone off or have him go part time and lose his benefits. But the order to cut this timber came through illegal channels. It has to be investigated.”

“Who defines illegal?” the crewman with the chain saw shouted. He pulled the rip cord.

A gun fired. The man went down. His chain saw spun across the pavement. Bystanders yelped and jumped back, knocking into others.

More shouts and shoves.

The foreman’s fist flew at Chase’s jaw. He ducked and slammed an elbow in the man’s gut.

People cried out in pain and anger. Fists smacked and thudded. The chain saw continued to spin and roar.

The cameras rolled.

“I have had enough of this,” Chase ground out. He grabbed the foreman’s arm and twisted it up and back. With his other hand he reached for his cuffs. “You are under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law. You have the right to remain silent.”

“I got the right to work, dammit!”

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

The foreman twisted and squirmed.

“Excessive force!” he screamed and dropped to his knees.

Just then, Dusty appeared across the lawn with Joe hovering behind her shoulder.

All the blaring noise faded from Chase’s awareness. He clearly heard Joe say, “Can you call a man that violent a friend? Can you trust him not to turn on you next time he loses his temper?” He took Dusty by the elbow and led her back inside the museum.

“Do you have anything to say for our viewers at home?” A reporter shoved a microphone beneath Chase’s nose.

Fuck off!

“No comment.”

THE HOT AND HUMID NIGHT AIR pressed upon Dusty like a thick wet blanket, robbing her of breath and will. Few would sleep tonight in this uncomfortable, swampy air. She fought to take a deep breath before kneeling beside the broken rhododendron.

With all the timbermen in jail after this afternoon’s brawl, she had little hope of them restoring the damage their machines had caused. Someone had to fix as much as possible.

At least she’d gotten her park back for the Ball.

Carefully, she trimmed a bent branch, then sat back on her heels to see if she’d cut enough or too much.

The shrub seemed to bounce back and shiver, almost as if it felt a relief with the amputation.

“Wish I could recover so quickly,” she murmured.

“Why can’t you?” Thistle asked from behind her. Dusty didn’t bother to turn around. She couldn’t face her friend with tears streaking her cheeks and turning her eyes a miserable red. “Violence has never been a part of my life. It defines Chase’s job. Joe made me think about having to get used to that,” she admitted.

Thistle sat cross-legged on the grass on the other side of the rhodie. She trimmed the ragged end of a branch that had broken off. “Since Pixies set up marriage treaties and made the Patriarch Oak neutral ground, we haven’t seen much violence either.”

“But now Alder has closed off the Patriarch,” Dusty said. “A war could develop if he doesn’t come to his senses soon.”

“Yeah. He’s stupid. A great lover, but stupid, untrustworthy, a liar, and a cheat. Unless… Maybe he has a motive he’s keeping secret.” Thistle bent her head, hiding her face behind her hair.