Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

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.