Come Hell or High Water | mxm

4.2

4.2

Gritty smoke eddied coarse and choking in the air, muting the humid tang of rich earth.

"Can you see the flames from there?" Sam asked.

Phone pressed to his ear, Gord tilted his battered tan cowboy hat further up on his forehead and squinted towards the northern horizon, obscured today by billowing chartreuse clouds. "We're not that far north, city boy."

"No, I know," Sam laughed. "The fire just looks so big on the TV, I kinda imagined it must be visible for hundreds of kilometres or something."

"Can sure smell it," Gord admitted. "Feels like I just smoked a whole pack, after breathin' it all day."

Gord sat on the back porch, sweat still dampening his t-shirt in the unusual warmth. A shovel rested against the freshly sanded railing and muddy gloves were discarded on the small wooden table beside him. At the bottom of the garden, furled buds were just beginning to blink open tender green leaves along the gracefully arching branches of the apple trees. At their roots, freshly turned dark earth striped grey soil still winter dormant.

Sam's phone call had interrupted Gord's work in the garden. He didn't mind. His lungs were aching, even though he had only put in a few hours of work after getting back from town.

"I've been watching the footage on the news," Sam told him. "It's pretty surreal. Eighty thousand people evacuated, they said. I didn't even realize Fort McMurray was that big."

Gord squinted at the rising smoke. "Miracle there's only been the one car accident and no one else hurt."

"Have you had any evacuees come through town? Or are you too far out of the way?"

"No, we're full," Gord told him. "Grocery store's stripped, gas station's dry, curlin' rink's wall-to-wall cots and air mattresses. Took over a few crates of veggies from the greenhouse this afternoon, just so's they'd have somethin' fresh, and Stan's never had so many customers." He laughed softly. "Mayor's beggin' those who can to move on, but most folk don't wanna go further from home than they have to. Sure and most brought almost nothin' with 'em."

"I wonder how soon they'll be able to go back."

"Too early to say. But seems like everyone's pitchin' in."

"Could be worse, I suppose," Sam agreed softly.

Gord settled further back in his chair, kicked his heels out before him. "How're things goin' with you?"

"Good," Sam told him in a quiet voice. "Really good. Two months sober on Friday. Starting to feel like myself again."

"Beauty." Gord's smile was audible in his voice.

"Thank you for being so patient with me."

"'Course. We got all the time in the world."

For a moment they just listened to each other breathe, soft exhales in their ears, a kind of closeness despite the distance.

Eventually, Sam said, "I've been thinking about coming up soon, if you're okay with that. I've got a job interview next week, but maybe after that?"

Gord's teeth were white against his dark beard. "I'd like that, Sam."

After they said their goodbyes, Gord tidied away his tools, then whistled between his teeth for Quip. She came bounding around the side of the house and trotted obediently through the door while Gord held it open for her.

Light faded from gold to a sickly orange as the smoke-shrouded sun sank into evening. Gord puttered around putting together a simple dinner, humming under his breath and pausing occasionally to jot down a line or two of lyrics to the half-composed song haunting his thoughts. When he sat down to eat, Quip settled patiently beneath the table, her snout across Gord's feet.