Under Seven-Mile Bridge

It had been a year since the last run. 

A lot happens in a year.

Hope my legs still remember how. One false move and you’re under and you don’t come up. Like Jonesy on Richardson. Jonesy was never coming up.

“We need the extra men, you see Mike,” the crew boss had explained. “Can’t run the whole thing with only twenty poles. Just can’t do it.”

“Sure.”

“You game for it?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be up in the morning to start. Have everything yarded or we’ll never catch Courser.”

Mike cut a notch in the base of a thick pine. There was an empty thud when the ax hit the bark on the first two swings, then a satisfying thwack when it sunk into the meat of the wood on the third. Need to bring this ax to Freddy at lunch. He never finished that story about Montreal last time. Maybe when I get done with this run I’ll take the train up to Montreal. Damn, it’s been a while since I ran the river.  

At lunch he brought the ax to Freddy. The whetstone sang over the blade.

“Always better when the crew boss is gone,” said Mike.  

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s not that he’s bad. Not one bit. He’s a decent guy. It’s just easier without him always looking over your shoulder.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You know what I mean, right?”

“Sure. Can’t get a good rhythm.”

Mike smiled. That was it. Freddy always knew how to put it. Rhythm. That was exactly it. There was a rhythm in the woods, a rhythm with the ax and the sweat and the momentum of each swing and the teams swooshing up the hill with the scoot and the chain clanging in the staple all the way down to the landing. Freddy knew how to say things.

“You know, Mike, someday you should just get yourself a whetstone and let me be.”

“I’d hate to leave you without a job.”

The whetstone rang.

“Hear anything about Courser?” asked Mike.

Freddy set the ax blade in his lap. “Not good. They’ve cleared the whole back side of the grange. Mack says they got the whole thing yarded already. Ready to run it tomorrow or the day after.” He turned the blade over in his hand, feeling the edge with the tough skin of his thumb.

“They got all that yarded in two days?”  

Freddy shrugged. Mike looked down at his boots, glistening with melting snow. Damn Courser.

“Here you go.” Freddy held the ax out.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, Mike.”

“Yeah?”

“If you run it”– Freddy looked up at the hill and squinted –“Look, Mack is saying its higher than usual. His crew lost two guys last week at Seven-Mile.” Freddy put his hands on his knees. “Just keep your head on straight, alright?”  

At dinner that night, Mike went over the run in his head. Out of the landing there’s Hunt’s Bend. Nothing crazy, but a lot of flow going through there this time of year. Then there’s the long flat section with nothing to do. Might as well just walk it. Hop off and take the shore. Then, after you get into the gorge, there’s the rapids underneath that old fishing camp. I remember Phil or Joe or someone – who was that? – talking about fishing out of that camp. I should go up there. That’d be nice. Probably got some amazing views. Maybe after the run. Anyway – after the gorge you’ve got Battiston’s Point to get around. Then you’re good for a while. Until Seven-Mile –  

           “Hey Mikey,” said another man. “You gonna be at Lander’s with us tomorrow night?”

           Mike shrugged. “Why not?”

           The other man squinted at him. “What’s up with you?”

           Mike took his time swallowing. “Thinking about trying that old fishing camp above the gorge tomorrow. Never been up there.”

           “Sure,” said the other man. “Hell, that’d be real nice.” The man squinted at Mike again. “You sure you’re ok? Seems like”– His face suddenly lit and relaxed. “Oh, I know what it is. You’re thinking about a girl, aren’t you? That’s what it is. I knew it. Guys always do that before the run.” He pointed a forefinger at Mike and smiled. “But I get it. The run does that.”

           Mike shrugged. He wasn’t thinking about a girl. He was thinking about the two dead men from Mack’s crew at the bottom of the river under Seven-Mile Bridge. They were looking up at him and their eyes moved with his gaze as he tried to look away.

“Yeah, you got me Sam,” he said. “You guessed it.”

           “I knew it,” said Sam. “But you listen to me – cut it out. It won’t do you any good before the run. You know that.”

           “Yeah.” Mike turned back to his plate and the dead men looked at him again.

           Sam offered a cigar.

           “Sure, thanks.”

           “These are good ones, you know.”

           “From where?”

           “Chicago.”

           “Really?”

           “Yup. Jack says they’re the best ones. Straight from Cuba.”

           “I don’t trust Jack.”

           “Not my problem.”

           Mike puffed on the cigar. It was good.

           “Ever been to Cuba?”

           Mike shook his head.

           . . .

           “You’re an odd one, you know that, Mikey?”

           “Really?”

           “It’s cause you’re always hanging around Freddy.”

           Mike raised his eyebrows.

           “Freddy’s a peach.”

           “Mm-hmm.”

           “The boss is a peach.”

           Mike choked on his cigar.

           “I’m serious,” said Sam, laughing. “You’re joking but I’m serious.” Sam poured beer from a pitcher on the table into his glass. The foam boiled over the golden liquid. “He doesn’t beat around the bush. Gets to the point. I like that. It’s one of my values, you know.”

           “Values?”

           “Yup. Gotta have values in life, right?” Sam leaned across the table.

Mike shrugged.

           “Go to hell.” Sam scowled.  

           “Oh, come on. I didn’t even say anything.”

           Sam glared.  

           “Relax. Come on, relax. Just take it easy and drink your beer. I like this cigar, OK? It’s good. Real good.”

           Sam jammed a cigar between his lips and puffed on it. Mike watched him decompress with each puff like a teakettle in reverse.

           “Didn’t mean any harm, Sam. You have a lot of values, you know.”

           “So what if I do?”

           “So nothing. No harm to me.” He poured himself beer. He didn’t want beer. He wanted wine, but there was no wine. There was no wine in the whole North Country. But wine would be good. Wine with a cigar. There had been wine in Prague. Prague, where he had sat in the dingy third-story apartment and sipped cheap wine and watched tourists strolling down to the river to eat at the little restaurant on the wharf.

           “You like the cigar, huh?” asked Sam. He leaned on his elbows on the table.

           Mike nodded. “Would be great with some whiskey.”

           . . .

           “Did you hear about Jonesy last week?”

           “Let’s not talk about that.”

           “Alright.” Sam looked around. The mess hall was empty.

Sam pushed himself off the table and went out into the cold. Mike stayed in the mess hall and thought about Prague. Mack’s dead men watched him from under the bridge and he avoided their eyes.

           They had the logs afloat by eight o’clock the next morning. Mike let the other runners get out on the float first to see how much jumping they were going to be doing. It wasn’t that bad. The float was tight. I’ve seen worse. He stepped out onto the water.

            They slid past the logging camp. The men moved across the float easily, sometimes stepping onto dry land and hopping back on a few minutes later. Jams happened often and they had plenty to do. Hunt’s Bend came and went with no surprises. The float stayed tight. Then they were in the long slow section where the water slid heavy and dark toward the gorge. A loon dove in front of them and the sun rose in the sky.

One of the men pointed toward the shore. “Freddy’s there! On the bank!”

           They moved across the float in unison. A car was parked on the riverbank. Freddy was sitting on the snow with two large bags. Sam, rushing, lost his balance and plunged a leg into the river.

They sat on the sunny bank and ate sandwiches and watched the logs slide by like a glacier on glass. The loon resurfaced in front of them.

           “Water nice and warm, eh Sam?” 

“Boiling,” said Sam.

“Sandwiches are nice, Freddy. Real nice,” said Mike. Murmurs of approval. The loon dove.  

“Some whiskey’d be nice right about now,” said Sam. He must be thinking about it after our conversation last night, thought Mike.

“Not before the gorge,” said Freddy.

“True.”

The loon resurfaced.

“You boys seeing that loon?” said Freddy.

“Anyone hear from the mill?” asked Sam.

“Nope,” said Mike.

“We won’t, will we?”

“Why would we?”

“I guess.”

“No use thinking about it.”

“True.”

“Think about whiskey.”

“You and your whiskey.”

“Another sandwich?” asked Freddy.

“I’m good, thanks,” said Mike.

“You know what, Sam?” said Freddy. “You ought to join the Anti-Prohibition League. You’d be a stump preacher. Preacher for hard liquor.”

“And I’d be a great one, too,” said Sam.

“My old man was a preacher,” said Mike.

“What kind?” asked Freddy.

“What do you mean, what kind?”

“Was he a good one?”

“I thought so.”

“Fire n’ brimstone?”

“More philosopher-type.”

“I bet he was a good one.” Freddy smiled and leaned back on his elbows.

Mike shrugged. “After he died the whole thing went to pieces.” And as he said the word “died,” he saw Mack’s dead men under the bridge. The loon surfaced a few yards in front of him and suddenly the dead men rose toward him through the water. He shook his head and focused on the loon’s red eyes. Maybe this is what those war novels talk about. The man who is going to die is the one who constantly thinks about dying. Can’t keep thinking like this. They’re dead and you’re on the float and that’s the way it is.

           The other men were walking back out onto the float. Mike stood up. “You coming?” he asked Sam.

“In a bit. Gotta dry my pant leg off.”

“You’re just going to get wet again.”

“True.”

“So–”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Mike laughed. “Values yesterday, principles today.”

           The float entered the gorge an hour later. Mike looked up and saw the old fishing camp perched on top of the ledge. The rock wall was high. He looked upriver and saw Sam working out a jam in an eddy at the top of the gorge. His pant leg was soaked. This was a stupid idea, thought Mike. Running the river like this before the drop. Damn Courser. Damn the crew boss. Damn the river.

           After the gorge it was slow for a few hours. The afternoon sun waned and Mike shivered as the trees cast a cold shadow over the river. Damn this cold. And those trees. It wasn’t this cold in Prague.

           He heard the bridge before he saw it.

A mist appeared at the bend and he heard the flow planing down through the timbers. Freddy stood on the bridge peering upriver through the mist. Mike felt his legs quiver. Not now. Not now, of all times. My legs were fine all day. Not now. The flow became a roar. For a second, Mike thought it was smaller than usual. It dropped off earlier than he remembered and the dip seemed shallow. His legs steadied.

The float neared the bridge. He tried to locate the pylons under the timbers and realized they were underwater. He saw Freddy, ashen-faced, sprint toward the far shore, jump off the road, and rummage frantically in the undergrowth. He emerged with one of the long jam-poles from last spring, ran down to the water’s edge, and motioned for Mike to work his way toward the bank. Mike glanced at the flow and knew he wouldn’t make it across in time. He shook his head. They looked at each other as Mike slid toward the bridge.

He pictured the barges on the Vltava, silent and graceful, gliding their way through Prague’s watery center. Damn Prague. Now the flow appeared in front of him and it was bigger than he had ever seen it before, savage, streaking under the bridge, furious, deep and dark and glassy and thick. The logs began to bind underneath him, crunching and grinding on the pylons, jerking up and down as the layers of timber multiplied below the water’s surface. Damn the crew boss. He instinctively reached out for a bridge post, but he was too far away. Were they there? Are they here? Damn Courser.

The mist closed around him and for an eternal moment he hovered over the drop. He saw the ghastly, dead shape of the wooden pylon leer up out of the terrifying darkness, empty and menacing, like a tombstone. Under the water, they were there – it was far too deep to see them, right? Cigars and whiskey and Prague can go to hell. The logs behind him bound with vicious speed and whipped up so that their ends pointed at the sky. Somewhere under the water there was a jam. Mack wouldn’t have left them, or would he? Left them there, under the bridge, the pylon as their eulogy – Logs screeched against the ledge, piling with furious, pounding speed against the bridge posts. They can see me, even if I can’t see them. Damn the river. Looking at me, through me. Values today, principles tomorrow. Mike shot under the bridge and a gaping space of black water opened up behind him, followed by a tremendous crack. Damn the bridge. Looking at me with their dead eyes, their dead pylon tombstone eyes. Dead men under a bridge, three dead men under a bridge.

With a crash, the bridge gave way.