“Head out toward the airport,” she said, settling back in the seat with a slightly queasy feeling. “We’ll make one stop, but it’s on the way. I’m leaving the dog at a kennel.”
Sasquatch put his front feet on the seat and looked out the window, while Benita ruffled the fur of his neck, taking a certain comfort from the solidity of him. She and the kids had named him Sasquatch. He’d never been away from home, anymore than she had. Except for the few times she had run to the shelter when the children were little, she had never in her whole life taken off like this. Even when Angelica had begged her to come visit them in California last winter, Bert hadn’t wanted to go, and she hadn’t wanted to go for fear … for fear of what?
Simple, really. If she’d gone to visit the kids last winter, she wouldn’t have come back. At that time, she hadn’t been ready to do anything final. Donkey-like, she’d been waiting for the stick to hit her. Well, the house arrest and the foreclosure had been two good whacks, one right after the other. The extraterrestrials and the money were more in the nature of a carrot. Take a bite. Go on, it’s delicious!
Stick behind, carrot before, there was no point in waiting for anything. Besides, she’d given her word. She’d claimed to be a person of respect, and she’d given her word. It sounded stupid as all get-out, even to her, but it would just have to do.
Incidents—SUNDAY
On Pacific time, Rog Wooley’s alarm went off, though softly, at four AM, and he reacted almost at once to stop it before it woke Susan. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately, none of the lumbermen’s families had, and if she woke at this hour of the morning, she would only mess up his routine with her doubts and worries. His clothes were in the bathroom, and he dressed there, taking care with his socks and the warm layers of shirts and sweaters, being sure everything lay smooth against his body. Climbing a few hundred feet into the air lugging a heavy saw was enough to tire a man without adding socks or clothing that bunched and bound. By the time he’d topped the first tree, he’d be sopping wet and it would be warm enough to take off a few layers.
Outside, the world was dark and chill, with wisps of fog moving around like ghosts. He had backed the car up the driveway and parked outside the garage door, so he could release the brake and roll half a block before he started the engine. His climbing irons were in the car, along with his lunch. He’d fixed that last night after Susan went to bed. He checked his watch. The van would be at the edge of town by five, and it wouldn’t wait for late arrivals.
He was on time, one more sleepy, aggravated timber cutter, trying to get to the work site on Sunday, when the damned tree-huggers wouldn’t expect them. Later this morning, they would be there to block the road as they had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Every time one judge signed an order to disperse, some other judge overrode it. Meantime, nobody was making any money, jobs were on the line, and rent payments were coming due. He stared out the window of the van, half dozing, as the jagged skyline emerged from the dark and the sky lightened in the east.
They joined up with several other vans as they crossed the bridge, and the convoy drove the last eight miles in absolute silence. The tree-huggers could be camped out there, and nobody wanted any more confrontations. The bosses were afraid somebody was going to get killed, the toppers and fellers were ready to do the killing, and meanwhile the trees just sat there, benefiting nobody! So they were old growth! That’s why they were valuable! Why couldn’t the idiot environmentalists see that? Trees that size had to be cut while they were still healthy. They wouldn’t do the human race any good if they were left to rot!