The Man Game (46 page)

What? No. Do something, said Pisk in a hoarse, fevered voice. I can't lose my feet. I can't lose them.

I've no other choice, young man, I'm sorry.

Don't be sorry, fucking don't amputate.

Nothing else I can do.

You don't get it, doc. I
need
my feet. Look, Molly said you'd be a better fucking doctor than
this
. I'm not going to let you amputate. If I leave this room without my feet, you will, too, doc. You will, too. So. What else can you do?

The doctor sighed, rubbed the irritated bridge of his nose, the pink indents where his pince-nez sat. He looked to Molly for support, for another voice of the rational. To prevail against this man's fervour with the aid of a woman's logic. Instead he saw someone who expected miracles.

Bloody hell, said the doctor, flushed. He checked his watch again, by reflex. Sixteen minutes past five.

He said: What did your boss have you doing to get your feet in such a state?

Said Pisk: I don't got a boss. I got frost-bit in my spare time.

Spare time? said the doctor. No boss? he said. The doctor dabbed his forehead with a kerchief. He unrolled the leather
purse that held his chisels and tools. They glinted. Pisk clenched his teeth. The doctor took the sharpest chisel, gave it to Litz, and ordered him to assist in the preparations. From a pouch the doctor unslipped a stainless steel flask, twisted off the cap and took a swig, passed it to Pisk, who took three swigs, then another swig, then passed it to Molly, who took a swig. She passed the flask to Litz, who declined when he felt the weight. Save the rest for Pisk, he said, leaned to give it back to the doctor, and saw engraved on its side the words
Adveho valetudo vel altus unda
.

What?

I shouldn't have any, Litz said. Spare it for Pisk.

There's more than one raspberry on the bush, son, said the doctor, take a pull if you want.

Litz nodded boyishly and took two swigs of the warm brandy.

I better have some more then, too, said Pisk, grabbing and slugging down.

We get this over with fast, said the doctor.

Faster the better.

Molly took Pisk's hand in hers and patted his rocky knuckles. He let her go and said: You better not hold my hand, I might crush it.

Dr. Langis said: Where do you want me to start?

Pisk looked at his feet. He took another drink. He said: With the big toes and work your way down. Fuck.

Might not be enough, the doctor warned. These feet …

Cut the feet off, I kill you with the stumps.

Yes, yes, said the doctor, enough out a you. Have another drink.

The doctor lopped off the big toe in a swift two-fisted jab with the large chisel, and said: Bring it.

Litz opened the door to the stove and pulled out the wood-handled iron pick, well-reddened like a cigarette, and applied it gingerly to the wound. A noxious cooking smell arose from the hissing flesh and blood. Hold still, said Litz. It really fucking hurts now, said Pisk. All right, said the doctor,
and waved Litz off. The wound cauterized shut and Dr. Langis slathered the nub with aloe lotion. Holy shit, said Pisk. His face was pale and wet. Keep going, he said. Keep going.

The doctor walked Molly home, for it was quite late by the time it was all done. Past midnight. The fog lifted into the trees. The ceiling of the world wasn't much higher than the rooftops they walked past, silently, fatigue keeping them silent despite all the things a man would normally inquire of a lady in such a scene. Like who the hell were those guys back there? And why does she keep company with them and not himself, if she's grown weary of the paralyzed company of her husband?

When they reached her verandah, he paused on the walk while she ascended two stairs. Then she turned and looked him in the eyes at last. They were indeed brown moted with green, so said his heart.

M-Molly, he said.

Yes, Dr. Langis?

Not certain what to do with his hands, Dr. Langis touched his chest for his pince-nez. He said: Worst of all is knowing that you mustn't love me.

Oh, she said. Her cheeks were flushed and plump. The swirl of her mouth was imploring him to recant his words. She was tracing circles around his desire. But I do love you, Dr. Langis, she said. I do. Look what you have done for me today. How could I not love you?

That's not love, my young thing, he said, with misted eyes under his pince-nez, that's gratitude you feel. I was only doing my duty.

What you did for Pisk, that was not for me, said Molly. I'm aware of that. What I mean is, you have respected my dignity. Dr. Langis, she said, you know that I love you. You know how shy I am around you because of it. Your intelligence brought you there, to help another man, another good man in need of help.
You've shown
me
your strength. My husband, Dr. Langis—, well … Klahowya, dear doctor, she said and turned and ran up the final stairs with an irrational titter to her step.

Yes, but—

Klahowya, she said, and eased in the door and out of sight.

But how was I supposed to know that you loved me? he thought to himself with growing, ascending, impending nausea. One denies the face of love as often as the skull of death … Ah, Langis exclaimed, curse my intelligence.

Inside night's jewelled mouth, under a forest of bacilli on the tip of North America's tongue, saved from the jaws of gloom by the flames and sparks and embers of the campfire, Daggett hacked a message into a tree that would remain there until the construction boom of 1952. In giant wedged-out axe script, the message read:
KILL PISK
.

His men watched him carve out the message and laughed and, as Daggett seated himself back by the campfire, fell into silence. The cook came over. Furry & Daggett hosted their logging team to a late dinner of beans, flatbread and butter, coffee.

When dinner was over, Daggett took a deep breath as he prepared to begin the evening's soliloquy with a bold declaration: Vancouver's going to learn
our
crew's the better. Woodsmen
and
man game. Bohunks are going to want a coach, and that's us. Open up a Furry & Daggett's Coaching Association.

Furry, who usually never said a word, lifted his beastly face from staring at the firepit and said: Don't forget, Campbell is our first. Campbell's the man on the street.

That's right, said Daggett. Campbell is the first in line. No one starts a game except Campbell. Don't let bohunks and peons and poltroons get your goat. Don't get set up and let your pride get you a fight. That's for Campbell. You hear? I tell you straight, this here a lesson for me. Alls I know is a
good fight. But shit. We got to push this game. Every day practise.

What do I do? said Campbell, chewing his lip.

You wait. You wait and listen to see who wants to compete against you. If it's Litz, so be it. If Pisk is still alive, you stomp his toes, that stupid bastard. I don't care aboot how they play. I can tell how much they practise. We got to practise twice as much.

Tired a waiting. I want to call out a man game.

If you can stir up some others, I don't know who, then do it. Daggett smoked his hash cheroot and paused for thought. No one interrupted, no one dared derail his train of thought. At last he said: If Moe
Dee
is looking to compete, fine. I suspect he is. But everybody can't be on the street looking to start something. Campbell's our representative for now. If someone wants to battle Furry & Daggett, they got to go through Campbell first.

And then it's Boyd, said Furry.

And then it's Boyd, agreed Daggett.

Why Boyd? Why not me second? said Meier. I want a shot.

You're still too clumsy, Meier. Don't argue here. We know what we're doing. So don't start something just to start something. It's Campbell then Boyd, and that's how it's got to be.

And no way me or Furry go up against nobody but
them
, said Daggett. No way I'm a showing a single one a these nuts before I use them on Litz and Pisk. If Pisk dies, I'm gonna curse God till the day I die for not giving me opportunity for revenge. I'll curse that motherfucker God he gets a spur up the ass so deep he gags. I'm one thing, said Daggett, and that's vengeful …

He paused.

He smoked.

He continued: That's why I don't take a wife. I got a vengeful soul. I'd strike a woman as quick as I would a tree. Women and whores fear me, ladies scared a me the same as a grizzly, and, you know what? I don't care. Anything aboot who I am strike you as caring what a woman thinks? You think a
lady gets a load a these tattoos and this beard and expects me to support her? You think the girls at Wood's look forward to my visits? I'm the unluckiest number in the room, always.

He paused again, his chest heaving with phlegm.

While the men enjoyed the silence, their Chinaman cook rinsed the dishes in the rushing creek nearby, spying intently on their conversation and trying to understand their words— he regularly attended man games—, and they all smoked copious amounts of purple-haired weed inside cheroot leaves.

On the subject a women, Campbell said: I want to get married, marry me a plum girl like Molly Erwagen and make some childs with her.

If I were your teacher, Daggett said, raising his elbows off his knees and swinging a fist through the air, I'd whip you for saying that. Campbell, my friend, don't get involved with a lady.

But that Molly …, said Campbell.

You see any other ladies around here like Molly? None that I see. And do any a the wenches calling themselves ladies around here, do any a them say word one to a fuck like yourself? You ever conversated with Molly Erwagen? I'm asking you a question, Campbell.

… No, said Campbell.

You're so full a shit, Campbell. A lady like that shows a man like us no interest, I can promise you that. Marriage, Daggett scoffed, marriage is for one a them pencils who needs an eraser, them men who keeps making mistakes and rubbing them off. We're not pencils, we're not even fountain pens, men, we're goddamn axes.

Wa, cried all the men, raising their drinks for clinks, inspired as much by Daggett's words as their fear of displeasing him.

Daggett pointed a finger at Meier, who braved a harsh woolpack of firesmoke to meet his boss eye to eye. For instance? Daggett asked himself (implicating Meier, perhaps), name me one married man who wouldn't
dream
to trade lifes with you. This taking care a the kids business? Do I look like I'm rearing me no kids? These women get it put up in their
heads by their mothers. Think if they can marry you then they can control you. Make you do all this backbreaking work, take all your chickamin, spend it on rearing. Know what I'd rather spend my chickamin on? Hash, whores, horses, and hooch. That's what blankets are for, spending at the saloon, the billiards hall, the cat house. What use do we got for families and childs-raising? What good's all that? No, she got babies because that's her sex.

As Daggett paused to catch his breath, Campbell said: I do, I want to find me a smart lady, good with money, marry her, have some childs. That's why I'm here. Raise money for a family.

Daggett stared at him. He received the weed, inhaled, gave it to Smith next to him, and exhaled.

Furry got the pipe next. He took two long pulls one right after the other, as if his lungs could take the entire plug at once. Their boys sat on the overturned logs around the fire, getting hazier, all ears at their age, young and impressionable and afraid of a belt whipping.

If I could marry a lady such as Molly Erwagen, said Campbell, I'd never want another thing in life.

Oh hell, said Daggett, calming a bit, I wasn't talking aboot Molly Erwagen. You find yourself a Molly Erwagen, Daggett said, and I don't say nothing to you. Go right ahead. But that girl's aboot as common as a blue cherry. You'll see one in your life if you're lucky. I'd say any one a us might be crippled to some degree by her loveliness.

Aye, said all the men. A faint silence came upon them, and Smith, in a good mood, donated the cherried joint to Campbell at his left.