When Is a Man by Aaron Shepard Page B

breakfast. Bad weather would end the wandering that distracted him from his thoughts. He wasn’t ready to be trapped inside the trailer yet.

    The tree-planting camp appeared in a shallow valley clear-cut on both hillsides. Clouds in the treetops and mist along the ground framed the scene, dreamlike. Among the burnt stumps, the dry streambeds, thistles and fireweed, bloomed a colourful collection of tents, trucks, rusted GMC vans, and Volkswagens. Two long industrial trailers, the ones he’d seen drive by Basket Creek, formed the hub of the camp along with a pair of large, dirty canvas tents. Off to one side of the camp, near a small copse of ash and rhododendron, stood three porta-potties spaced a few metres apart. The camp looked like a post-apocalyptic shantytown. He stopped for a long time at the crest of a hill where the skid road descended to the camp, and might have turned around then if someone hadn’t stepped out from inside one of the trailers and given him a wave. He tapped the gas lightly and rolled down to her.
    â€œSo you finally come visit, right on the last day,” Gina said. Flour clumped and clung to her hands and wrists and sauce stains covered her apron. Beneath, she wore shorts and a grey, long-sleeved shirt. She let the rain soak her hair, the early grey strands damp and shining.
    He stared at her as he stepped outside. “Last day?”
    â€œEvery contract ends with lousy weather. I don’t know why.” She brushed off her hands. “Lunch?”
    He followed her into one of the trailers, knocking the mud from his hiking boots on the edge of the steps. A rich smell of broth, onions, and baking bread greeted him. Rows of cupboards and long countertops stocked with fruit, vegetables, and tins lined the counters on both sides of the trailer, except for a space near the back where a small table and two chairs rested against the wall. A pair of fridges and a large grill, a four-burner propane stove and oven, and a double sink completed the kitchen. A shotgun was mounted on a rack above the back door.
    â€œA bear comes by every now and then,” she said, following his glance. “He scares easy, so far. Coffee?”
    The smoky, nutty smell of it, set against the damp cold outside, was impossible to refuse. He edged his way into a chair. “Where’s your boy—Shane?”
    â€œJust started kindergarten,” she said. “He’s back in town. With his dad.” Her tone was a bit too neutral, but he said nothing. She poured coffee from a French press into a chipped yellow mug and set it in front of him. It was perfectly brewed, strong and earthy, not bitter. He closed his eyes a moment.
    â€œSo, are you going bush yet?” she asked.
    Must be, he figured. The mere texture of good coffee in his mouth had him swooning, emotional. He knew he looked terrible, his forehead and cheeks scabbed and bruised, yellows and purples in the folds of skin beneath his eyes, a dark scruff of a beard harbouring bits of food and twigs. He probably smelled—his nostrils were perpetually clogged with clove oil and fish slime, so how could he tell anymore? “Do I look the part?” he asked.
    â€œA little rough, yeah.” She grinned. “Should I ask about your face? Some guys don’t like being asked. Pissed off they got hurt in the first place.” She scooped a ladle of soup into a bowl. He stirred the vegetables in their yellowish broth and lifted some to his lips, tasting cracked black pepper and turmeric.
    â€œThank you,” he said. Soup dribbled off his lip into his beard. He took another sip of coffee, the beginnings of a giddy euphoria rising from his chest.
    â€œYou’re the first person I’ve talked to in days that isn’t a trout,” he said. “Except for this young guy—Jory. Gave me a fish scope, and I almost drowned. That’s why the cuts and all that.” He pointed to his forehead as he spooned more