We’re five people on the side of the road. Our message is sound but the context kills it.
We were sick of it, Susan and Erik and Val and Ray Fife and I, we were sick to death of meeting up and making signs and organizing carpools and standing on the side of the road trying to shout without looking too deranged. Ray Fife said that unfortunately appearances matter. If you manage to get the news folks out to report on you, he said, they’re gonna take your picture and slap it on the paper and we’re all gonna look like god damn fools if we’ve got our teeth bared and our blood vessels popping out of our foreheads. Last time, Susan, the light caught the spit coming out of your mouth and the camera caught the light and you looked like a rabid dog, we can’t be out there looking like rabid dogs.
Well I felt like a rabid dog, Susan said, and I see no reason to hide that. I’m not going to stand there and smile like I’m happy about it. She demonstrated her fake grin. The corners of her mouth pushed the rest of her face upwards until it was smushed into itself like a deflating basketball.
But it was easy for Ray Fife to talk about appearances. Ray Fife had the kind of face that put pictures in your head of things you’d long forgotten, even things you’d never seen. Long, rectangular, smooth, almost wooden; a wood flute, maybe, like the one I’d seen at the museum in Michigan all those years ago, Ojibwe, carved to resemble the head of a crane; sandhill cranes in courtship, wings outstretched, twirling like ballerinas, croaking like frogs; a flycatcher limp in the mouth of a toad, feathers wet with water, saliva, blood. If Ray Fife’s face took on a deranged expression, you would find it contagious; you would be compelled to feel what he felt.
It’s not like this is getting us anywhere anyway, Erik said. I feel like talking to people at the feed store about the pasture is doing more good than these protests. I don’t think it matters what’s on our faces. We’re five people on the side of the road. Our message is sound but the context kills it.
Val snorted. You’ve got a captive audience at the feed store, though. Not like they can leave while you’re ringing them up.
We were all drinking, looking for clarity through the bottoms of our brown bottles. Erik had a cigarette in one hand and a joint in the other, the burning tubes like vestigial fingers.
Then Ray Fife had an idea, one that I’d had too but never vocalized, and the way he lit up when we lit up told me that I had been right to keep it to myself. Ray Fife, ego fed, electric with inspiration—well he could’ve laid claim to everything I’d ever said and I’d gladly have forgotten my own name.
As I set the cage down on the grass I sang to him under my breath: You can’t start a fire worryin’ ‘bout your little world fallin’ apart…
I had to drive past the Vaughns’ new land on my way from the clinic to Ray Fife’s house in Arroyo Seco. Five-hundred twenty three acres in six parcels, according to Val, who was good at digging up those sorts of things. The land, thick with native grasses and dotted with blue flax and juniper trees, backed up a quarter mile from the road to the Rio Hondo. Willows along the banks muffled the sound of the river, as if the landscape had been designed to let us be heard as we stood along the road with our signs and called out to passing cars: Nature Not Pasture, This Land Is Already Lived In, Vaughns Begone.
For every honk of support we’d get, another 20 cars would pass as if we weren’t there. And when a Vaughn vehicle pulled up, Ray Fife would tell us to yell louder, move closer; but my muscles would lock up and I’d shrink back, and the Vaughn Ranch guys would either ignore us or laugh at us. And, for all my attempts to reason otherwise, it would feel like all of it was aimed at me alone—a feeling that returned every time I drove by and that stuck around until I was two bottles deep in Ray Fife’s garage.
I had a patient with me this time, though, a pyrrhuloxia, and I found that having him with me as I passed the land kept my nerves quiet. What he was doing this far north, I had no idea—driven up by the fires, maybe, or perhaps he was a first-year trying to find territory and he overshot it—but he had flown into a window in Seco a couple of weeks ago and come in with neurological symptoms. He could still fly, the lady who found him said, but only in clockwise circles, and he didn’t even react when you picked him up. There’s not much you can do for birds with brain damage other than keep them contained, hydrated, and fed. Sometimes the brain fixes itself; most of the time it doesn’t. But this one had been lucky. He started improving almost immediately and, after a week in the flight enclosure, was cleared for release. He was in a little cage in my backseat, a towel draped over to keep him relaxed. We had talked about having someone drive him south, maybe to Bosque del Apache, but nothing panned out. I was going to set him free in the woods behind Ray Fife’s house.
Springsteen on the radio, duetting with me, You can’t start a fire sitting ‘round cryin’ over a broken heart, the words coming out a coo, the calmest birdlike noise I could configure, hoping the pyrrhuloxia found the sound peaceful. I barely noticed when the Vaughns’ land, still whole for today, left my rearview mirror.
Ray Fife was already waiting in front of his garage when I reached the summit of his steep driveway. We shook hands as we always did and he asked to see the bird. I peeled a corner of the towel back and he leaned into the car to look.
Weird-looking up close, he said. Little beady eyes. He stuck his fingers into the cage and the bird recoiled, raising his crest to a feathery point, his message of warning lost in interspecies translation.
Please don’t do that, I said. It’s scaring him.
Ray Fife withdrew from the car, hands up as if I had him at gunpoint.
I don’t mean to be rude, I said, scooping the cage up into my arms as smoothly as I could. It’s just that we try to minimize contact with them. They need to remain distrustful of people.
Well they’ve got a great role model, Ray Fife said. Go do what you need to do. I’ll be in the garage.
I took the bird behind the house, a dull ache growing in my gut as I reread Ray Fife’s reaction through lens after lens, none of which clarified anything. The pyrrhuloxia ground his beak inside the cage. As I set the cage down on the grass I sang to him under my breath: You can’t start a fire worryin’ ‘bout your little world fallin’ apart…
I pulled the towel back, took a last look at the bird, and opened the cage.
We’re in deep shit if we get caught. And even if we don’t, they’re going to know it was us…
Ray Fife had drawn his idea out into a plan. He knew it was a good one and he wasn’t taking comments. We sat around the card table like students at a seminar as he explained: each of us had a part to play. It was imperative that we each play our part well.
Erik would break into the administrative trailer the Vaughns had set up on the west end of the property. It was a dinky little single-wide with a particleboard door that would be easy to pry open. Ray Fife had peered inside through a window the previous evening; there was a computer in there, a file cabinet, a pile of banker’s boxes. All of it was to be destroyed.
Val would be right next to the trailer, in the barn where the tractors were stored. She would jimmy open the fuel doors and pour gasoline into the diesel tanks. When she finished, she would keep watch for Erik while he worked in the trailer.
Aw, Erik said, that sounds fun. I want to switch with Val.
No, Ray Fife said.
Susan would go to the east end of the field and put tire spikes under the three cattle trailers that were parked there.
Where the hell am I supposed to get tire spikes? Susan said.
We’ll make them here, Ray Fife said, after I finish going over the plan. He held up a piece of PVC pipe about four inches long, cut in half lengthwise and spray-painted gray, with six thick nails driven through it.
Jesus, Susan murmured. Ray, this is serious.
Yes it is, Ray Fife said. I’m going to take the angle grinder over to those big spools of fencing wire they’ve got by the central entrance and cut through them. Charlie, you’re going to help me.
How? I asked.
Any way I need, he said. Help me carry the generator. Keep watch for me. Man the walkie while I’m running the grinder. Walkies, by the way. We’ll all have one. When you’re done with your job, let us know and then get the hell out of there. None of this should take more than 20 minutes if we all stick to our jobs.
Ray, Susan said. I mean it. We’re in deep shit if we get caught. And even if we don’t, they’re going to know it was us on account of all the time we’ve spent yelling at them alongside the road.
We’re not getting caught, Ray Fife said, and they’re not going to have anything on us. We’re going to wear all black. We’re going to wear masks and gloves. And we’re going to do it on the Fourth. All the cops will be busy, and Charlie and I will just look like kids playing with sparklers.
I’m supposed to take my nieces to the fireworks on the Fourth, Val said.
Ray Fife slammed his fist on the table, leaving a sagging dent in the vinyl. None of you, he bellowed, are listening to me. None of you are absorbing what I am saying. Thursday is the day to do this, so that’s when we’re doing it.
He picked up a box of pipe sections and plopped it in the center of the table, then tossed a box of nails in our direction. Erik caught it just before it hit the ground, his cigarette ashing itself on the garage floor. My body tightened; I knew how much Ray Fife hated it when we made a mess in his garage. But he had already turned to leave out the back door.
Just hammer the nails into the pipes, he said without looking back. I’m going outside.
We struggled to figure out how to make the spikes. Hammering either bent the nail or cracked the pipe; none of us could work out how Ray Fife had made his prototype. Finally Erik came up with a method: drill small pilot holes into the pipe, then hammer the nails in and cover the heads with epoxy for good measure.
We formed an assembly line, with Erik on drill, me and Val on hammers, and Susan on glue. We could hear Ray Fife coughing just outside the door, so we conversed about things that didn’t involve him. Susan leaned over to me during a lull and muttered in my ear, If Ray doesn’t cut the crap real soon I’m out. I can’t deal with this anymore. I nodded in agreement, but the words stung as if they were referring to me, and I hurt for Ray Fife. I wished he would come back inside, see us working so seamlessly, churning out tire spikes like empty beer bottles—I wanted to give him something to be proud of.
But he didn’t come back in, and when the spikes were all done the others took off, each in their own rush: Erik to catch Simpsons, Susan to pick up groceries before the store closed, Val simply to get the fuck out of there. I swept up the ash and pipe shavings, threw the bottles in the recycling, and stuck my head out the back door to say goodbye to Ray Fife.
He was sitting in his beach chair with his back against the wall, working on his own personal 12-pack and smoking a cigarette. A pile of butts was forming on the ground next to him. Lit by the cigarette and the moon, he was impossible to read, the highlights on his profile like a chalk sketch on a blackboard: nose, lip, chin, neck. Then he turned his head to me and the light from the garage fluoresced off his face. His eyes looked swollen and his mouth hung open just a sliver.
Can I come out? I asked.
He nodded, but still I was hesitant to step forward without hearing his voice; the nod could have been a trick of the light, or just something I wanted to see.
You think your bird’s out here? he asked.
I flicked the garage lights off and stepped out. He’s probably spending the night in the woods, I said. But hopefully he’ll head south once he gets some rest. He’s a little out of his range.
Ray Fife scoffed and cupped a hand around his mouth. You and me both, buddy, he shouted at the darkness.
I squatted next to him and touched his shoulder, lightly at first and then, fearing the impression that a light touch would leave, with force. I felt his muscle flex against my palm. We were close enough, he was drunk enough that I could smell the alcohol on his breath even as he exhaled through his nose.
What if this doesn’t work? he said.
The plan?
Any of it. Any of my efforts. They can just get new machines. Hell, they could get a fleet of them and bring down all the trees in a day. They’ll see our carnage on the Fifth and have the cows moved in on the Seventh.
I thought the idea was to scare them enough so they don’t try again.
That is the idea. Charlie, that is the idea. But it’s the last one. I’m out of ideas after this. This is it.
Then it’ll work. It has to. We got all the spikes made. We all know our jobs.
He shook his head. Charlie. God. You just don’t get it.
I withdrew my hand. I withdrew.
Char— I’m not trying to make you feel bad. You just don’t think about things going wrong. You never have. You take these sick fucking animals and you make them better. Like an extension of God himself. As long as I’ve known you. Nothing can go wrong once Charlie’s heard about it.
My calves tingled from squatting. My feet had roots, pushing out through my shoes and into the dirt, and everything’s roots were there with them, labyrinthine tendrils that brushed against mine as they stretched, hardened from soft white to woody brown, swelled with water and molecular spoils from the earth—
And honestly, maybe that’s for the best. Every team needs an optimist.
—grew so thick that they parted the topsoil, displaced me from my terrestrial mooring. I stood up, said Good night Ray, and went back to the garage, and though we were no longer connected I could feel what remained of my thin white roots left in the dirt next to Ray Fife, fresh wounds where we’d separated, insides stinging in the open air.
Ray Fife had gone primal, saliva flying from his mouth as he charged ahead of me, stinking of alcohol and adrenaline.
Susan radioed in at 8:31 to say that she had arrived. She had parked her car behind the cattle trailers, waited a few minutes past sunset for the dark to start settling in, then dashed across the road to check her visibility. If you weren’t looking for me, she said, you’d never see me.
I was in my car in the tall grass by the spools of wire; you couldn’t see me either. Ray Fife hadn’t shown up yet. He was supposed to bring the angle grinder. The generator in my trunk was useless without it.
Should I get started with the spikes? Susan asked.
I didn’t know. I didn’t want to be in charge. It wasn’t my plan. I didn’t know when she was supposed to start. I didn’t see any harm in getting on with it—though if Ray Fife’s words were true, I didn’t suppose I would. I pulled my mask over my face, got out of the car, and peered around the grass to the road. There was no sign of him.
Charlie? Susan crackled.
Yeah, I said. Yeah, go ahead and get started.
Erik chimed in, You got this, Suse. Fuck those trailers up.
Where are you, Erik? I asked.
With Val. Pulling up now.
I went out to the road and looked west just in time to see a pair of headlights flick off a quarter mile away. That would be them arriving at the trailer. I looked east towards Seco and saw nothing.
All right, here we go, Erik said. Val, pop the trunk. On your signal, Ray.
Ray’s still not here, I said.
Well, Erik said, on your signal, then.
He’s not even in range, I don’t think. Else he’d be responding. What’s the range on these? Five miles or something? He’s not even within five miles of here?
Charlie, just hold tight, Val said. He’ll come. We’re gonna get started over here.
The radio went quiet. I checked my phone, though I knew I had no signal and there wouldn’t be anything waiting there for me. Of course there wasn’t. I closed the phone and thought I felt it vibrating as I put it back in my pocket, but when I opened it again I still had no bars and no messages. Out in the field, an owl sliced through the air down into the grass, emerging a second later with some type of animal in its talons, the two creatures visible only in silhouette against the final sliver of sunset. In a second, both life and light were gone.
Twilight draped over the landscape. My tongue felt like sand. I went back to the car and chugged a bottle of water. Instantly my bladder reacted; I relieved myself in the grass. It was 8:42. Ray Fife was almost 20 minutes late.
Spikes are set, Susan said. Taking off now.
Right on, Erik said. I just got into the file cabinet. Dumbasses left the key right on the desk.
Still no Ray, I said.
Jeez, Val hissed. Where is he?
I’m almost there, Ray Fife said. Two minutes.
My breath caught in my throat.
About time, Erik said. Ray, Susan’s done. Val just wrapped up with the gas. We’re making the burn pile now.
Good, good, Ray Fife said. Charlie, I’m turning my headlights off. I’ll be there in a minute.
I could tell by the way his truck careened towards me that he was drunk. Before I could get mad at him he was jostling out of the driver’s seat, retrieving the grinder from the back, telling me to hustle as he jogged towards the spools. As he went he left behind a whiskey-scented wake and a cloud of kicked-up dust that clogged my senses.
He worked smoothly yet stiffly, wrapping himself around the generator and lifting it out of my trunk on his own, his knees clicking as he bent to put it on the ground. I stood and watched through my dirty glasses, devoid of utility, wondering why he’d roped me into this at all.
You keeping watch? he asked.
Yeah, I said. Ray Fife flicked the generator on and we were swallowed by sound.
The angle grinder was more effective than I’d expected. When the blade sliced through the first wire I found myself a little surprised that it had worked at all. It was slow but steady, severing the thick metal like a butterknife on steak. But the noise was excruciating, a mechanical scream that, after a few minutes, made me certain I’d never hear right again. Ray Fife had brought earplugs for himself but not for me. Even with them, he was in pain, his grimace revealed by the sparks shooting out from the wire.
I closed my eyes for a moment, seeking any respite I could find, but remembered my duty and opened them again just in time to see a vehicle passing by, its brake lights illuminating as it left my view.
Ray, I shouted, unable to hear the name as I uttered it. I turned and ran towards him, lunging at the generator as he stumbled in confusion. I flipped the power switch and the noise was sucked back into the machine, a ghostly screech left reverberating in my pulsing head.
What the fuck, Charlie, Ray Fife yelled, throwing the grinder to the ground.
Ray, someone’s here, I choked. Someone’s coming. They just stopped.
Shit. Shit shit shit. We have to go. Get in the truck.
They’ll see us leaving. We can’t go that way.
Then run.
He grabbed my arm and we tore into the tall grasses. They crunched under our feet, their sharp edges slashing at our bare arms. I fumbled for my walkie, heavy on my belt but impossible to unclip with my left hand; Ray Fife still held my right arm in a vice, towing me through the field. Finally I freed myself, grabbed the walkie, and mashed the talk button.
Someone’s here, I gasped into the radio. Get out now.
Abort mission, Ray Fife said.
Fuck, Erik spat. Val, put the fire out!
I couldn’t tell if the rustling grasses and my ringing ears were combining to form a facsimile of speech or if there were voices coming from behind us.
Ray Fife had gone primal, saliva flying from his mouth as he charged ahead of me, stinking of alcohol and adrenaline. I fought to keep up, succeeding only because he kept tripping on the terrain, which was getting lumpier the closer we got to the river. Roots from the willows, maybe, the willows that loomed ever larger above the grasses as we neared the field’s terminus. When we finally reached the trees I heard the trickle of the river, stymied by the July heat but still flowing forward, and I cried out in relief as I flung myself through the branches onto the banks. I ripped my mask and gloves off, caught a tablespoon of water in my shaking hands, and sucked it up. Again and again and again. Droplets landed on my lacerated arms and I stung with relief. Across the river, fireworks burst into showers of red and blue light above town.
Oh God, Ray Fife said behind me. Oh God no.
What? I said.
Look. He pointed towards the west end of the field. A thick orange glow and a plume of smoke were peeking over the grasses, then towering over them, then consuming them.
They didn’t put the fire out all the way, he said. Oh God no.
Then he turned to me. We should get back to the cars, he said. Whoever was there will be distracted by the fire. We can get out of here before the cops show up and run our plates.
The field was pure kindling, a stage for the flames to dance across. The distant cacophony of combustion was embellished with caws and screeches from the surrounding treeline, each one a blade stabbing my guts. The blaze was growing impossibly larger with every blink; by the time the fire department could get here, the land would be consumed.
We can’t go, I said. We have to put the fire out.
With what? Ray Fife sputtered. Handfuls of river water?
He grabbed my arm again, not forceful this time but pleading. He pressed his thumb down on one of the scratches, stroking it with such tiny motions that I couldn’t tell if he knew he was doing it. I looked at him; the steady face I knew was now sweaty and stricken, solid wood chopped fresh and mashed into pulp.
Charlie, come on.
I slid my arm from his grasp.
God, what are you doing, Charlie?
I’m helping, I said. I’m playing my part.
His face quivered, or maybe it was just my brain filling in the blanks left by my eyes. But by the time I thought to turn around and check, we had already started running, him back through the path we’d cleaved together, me west towards the flames, and when I saw the emptiness at the point where we’d diverged I got it, the element he’d said I didn’t get, and I called out I got it Ray, I got it, but he didn’t call back, and so I turned one more time and kept running towards the fire, not an extension of God but a disciple of some adjacent progenitor, hurtling through the infernal heat towards my own abstract salvation.
Katie Mora’s fiction has appeared in Willows Wept Review, Fatal Flaw, and Gone Lawn. Her poetry has appeared in Third Wednesday, The Shore, and Progenitor. Born in Hawaii, she now lives in the Capital Region of New York. Her website is katiemora.com.
Header photo by mokhtar akel, courtesy Pixabay.
