One of the bulldozers was pushing fallen trees into a pile. The pile was a huge one. The higher you made it the better it would burn when the burners came around, after a few days of drying out. The operator had his blade low and was digging in in the lowest gear to push the pile into a more compact mass. It was an accident, a freak thing that should never have happened. In the mass of broken trees in front of the dozer there was a young pine, about five inches thick at the base. It had been pushed out easily, its tap root broken just below the ground. Its branches had been stripped by rolling and crushing in the mass of trees. But it was lying near the top now, full length, its small end pointed toward the dozer. The tip had been broken, too, leaving a jagged point about two inches in thickness. The jagged end was lodged against a small oak limb and the butt end was pushed solidly against a large pine. The pressure bent it, compressed it into a bow. Just as the Cat began to bog down, unable to compress the mass further, the jagged end snapped free of the oak and the compression of the flexible young tree was released suddenly, sending it lancelike and deadly, under the protective cage on the machine and to pierce the operator just in the vee of his rib cage. No one heard his scream. The young pine went through, severing the backbone, punching a hole in the leatherette upholstery of the seatback. The big Cat spun its treads, slewed off, blade ripping free of the mass of trees. The guard saw it lumbering across the clearing toward the northern tree line, rose to see what was going on. The pine, embedded in the operator’s body, was extending out over the hood, heavy end bouncing up and down as the Cat rocked over the rough ground. The guard gave chase, but he knew nothing about heavy equipment. The Cat hit the tree line, crashed through and over small brush, and thudded into a huge oak, where it stopped, spun tracks, and then choked down.
It was clearly an accident, but Flores had four straight operators tell him, hell, no, they weren’t going over there. That was a jinx job.
Now there were too many of them. Two men on the machines, a guard, and others coming around during the day. All she could do was stand back in the woods, out of sight, and watch. Now the other was even more important. Now it was vital to her to have the visitors, for only then could she close her mind to the rending pain. The first two were still her favorites, but she liked the others, too. And there were always new ones coming. Usually she waited for them, standing in the clean, cool water, the soothing sand over her feet, the brushing touch of the plants on her legs. But sometimes they’d come when she was inside, and then they would stand by the pond and whistle until she went out. Then she’d feel ripe, swollen, and at peace. Then she’d blank out the noise of the bulldozers and the pain and afterwards she’d be rewarded with memories, with the delightful feeling of eternal peace and love and immortality.
Some of them wanted to swim in the pond afterwards. She’d let them, telling them to be very careful. Once two of them started a water fight in the shallows and, in their enthusiasm, ripped plants from the sand. She told them not to come back.
By mid-August the Pine Tree Island cut was complete. Black smoke swelled into the humid air. Workers carried large cans of waste oil and other inflammables to help ignite the piles of broken trees. The fires burned for days, were put out by heavy rains, reignited. When it was finished, two bulldozers smoothed the ravaged area, leaving white sand, spotted here and there with torn, red, broken roots.
The pain was over, but it had been so vast, so extended, that her nerves were raw, tingling. She ached with the memory of it, dreamed it was back, thought with fierce satisfaction of the four decomposing bodies hidden in her woods, covered with dirt and sand and leaves, filling the empty sockets, of trees blown down, in past storms, returning something to the earth which they had torn and ravaged.
There were still sounds, but now it was the sounds made by the diggers and earth movers and that was bearable. Inside, with the air conditioner running, she could scarcely hear them. One by one, she told the visitors not to return. Some of them were not convinced, came to stand beside the pond, whistling, until, she supposed, their whistlers got tired and they went away. The danger of one of them coming kept her from the pond. Now it was only in the early morning, with the sun red and the heat of the day still ahead, that she could stand, feet wet, buried in sand, and feel the peace. Soon, however, only the youngest came. She, in pity, called him inside, padded nakedly ahead of him to the living room couch, gave him pleasure.
“You’re very sweet,” she said, “but you mustn’t come again.”
“Why?”
“If you come again, I’ll scream and tell my husband,” she said, wanting it ended.
Well, Tommy thought, walking slowly away toward his hidden bike, now he knew how. And there were still a lot of summer girls down along the strand.
15
The editor of the Ocean City Weekly was a fourth generation native of the area. Back in the days when land had been priced at fifty cents an acre, and large plots had often been sold for back taxes, one of his forebears had built large holdings which had remained largely intact down through the years, mainly because no one wanted to pay good money for bays, sand-hill pines, and scrubby oak. The good timber had long since been sold off. Aside from a few twisted trees unsuited for lumber, the largest longleaf pine in the county wouldn’t have made three good two-by-fours. Fast-growing loblolly pine had replaced the longleaf, and about every twenty years a landowner could sell enough loblolly for pulpwood to pay a few years’ taxes. For decades, Ocean County was a depressed area. But there was the river, a large one in its lower stages, with enough water to take the untreated sewage of Port City, absorb the mercury and other wastes of the upstream industries, and still be liquid enough to be suitable for cooling large atomic reactors. The editor had politicked openly for the power plant, and not solely because he owned a few hundred acres of land unsuited for much save industry. He had a true interest in the people of the county, and was of the opinion that industry was the one hope. He worked with the newly hired industrial consultant, whose salary was paid with county funds, to bring the power company officials down for oyster roasts and tours of the county.
Never had there been, in modern times, a place more open to development. Land values were low. There was a surplus labor supply, as witness the crowds at the courthouse every week on unemployment-check day. Of course, a large influx of people would strain the antiquated school system severely, but the property taxes paid by industry would build new schools.
Just incidentally, the editor sold five hundred acres of riverside bays and sand for a price which set a new record in the county. Just incidentally, he owned a plot of the most beautiful residential development land on the lower river, just outside of town. Taxes cut into his profit, but by taking the long term capital gain he still was able to hold onto a respectable chunk of cash. The houses were going up three and four at a time in his housing development and doing well, selling almost as fast as they were laid out.
The prime contractor of the nuclear generating plant brought in a couple of thousand outside workers and their families and took off the slack in the local labor market. Bills were being paid for the first time by people who had, in the past, depended on fishing for their income. Merchants were building new buildings to handle the increase. When the job let off a shift at four in the afternoon, it was a thirty minute stop-and-go drive from Main Street to the edge of town. The local law enforcement agencies were worked to the breaking point, but that was a price to be paid for progress. The editor’s circulation had jumped by several hundred, and he knew the source of the increase. As a result, he had at least one story a week about the new plant and did his best to mention as many names as possible, concentrating on the supervisors and power company people. Meanwhile, he was talking to the representatives of a large chemical company about an industrial site of four hundred acres adjacent to the raw cut in the landscape made by the power plant. The price per acre was roughly equivalent to the cost of producing Florida citrus land.