ED MET BEN AT THE back door, and they crossed through the dairy to the yard behind where Ben stored his equipment and the logs. He and Ed did not discuss the process. They knew the routine. They pulled on their heavy gloves and helmets. They set to work. Ben climbed onto the skidder. The machine rumbled to life. Nimbly, he selected seven birch, lifting these out of the pile with the grabber and placing them down to the right. A hundred years ago this would have been brutal labor. Ed was down there with the chainsaw, and he began to make regular cuts at specific intervals along the middle of the logs. Ben, meanwhile, maneuvered the grabber, picking up a dozen logs and swinging them to the left and onto the logging truck.
When he was done, he jumped down and joined Ed. Taking a small chainsaw, he cut horizontally and alternately between Ed’s vertical cuts, so that the logs had castellated grooves of a foot each. Working together now, they took the ejected pieces and carefully sawed out the cores. They made sure each chunk was placed beside the space it had been cut from. This was time-consuming work, taking them about an hour. When they’d finished all seven birches, Ben switched off his saw, lifted his visor, and nodded at Ed. They took off their work gloves, pulled on latex pairs, and Ed disappeared into the dairy.
Ben took a moment to study the chainsaw sculptures, in particular one of an Indian maiden. The papoose on her back looked like a spinal deformity, but her face was carved with surprising dexterity, almost tenderness. Possibly, Ed had real talent after all.
He reappeared pushing the wheelbarrow, the bricks of heroin neatly wrapped in waterproof plastic packaging. They counted out a hundred bricks, a kilo each. Carefully, they placed the bricks inside the concave space they’d cut out of the birches. From his pocket, Ben drew out a bottle of wood glue. He squirted the glue around the four edges of the chunks, then fitted these snuggly back onto the log. Up close, the cuts were visible, but from the casual distance the logs looked like any other. Ed tapped a nail into the end of each log, nodded to Ben when he’d done all seven.
With a surgeon’s precision, he loaded the marked logs onto the truck with the grabber, interspersing them with untampered logs in the very center of the load.
By noon they were done and Ed invited Ben back into the house for a lemonade. They entered the kitchen. The trash was piled high with packaging for microwave meals and take-away pizza. Some time ago the Mr. Coffee machine had erupted. A lava-like seep of cheap coffee continued to ooze down the pot and over the counter. Ed’s cat crouched under the table, eating a mouse. Ed gave it a kick as he went past. The cat skittered out of the way in time and hissed at him.
“I prefer to mix it myself,” Ed said, popping the top of a Newman’s tin, carefully measuring the scoops of yellow crystals into an unclean red plastic pitcher.
“That explains why it’s so good,” replied Ben, taking a seat.
“I can make it stronger or weaker.” Ed stirred the mix. “Depending.” He poured the result into a coffee mug, handed it to Ben. “I can combine pink and regular, sometimes half and half, sometimes one more than the other.” He poured himself a mug, sat down. “I’ve tried other brands, but Newman’s is the best.”
Ben took a sip. His eyes began to water. He blinked rapidly.
“Hey, man.” Ed was looking at him. “Don’t you like it?”
“It’s fantastic, Ed.”
“Oh, man, am I stupid. Shevaunne, right?”
Ben was forced to wipe a tear away. He shook his head. “It’s not Shevaunne.”
But Ed leaned in, needed at last. “She was a nice gal.”
“She was a lying junkie, Ed.”
“You loved her. You did right by her and the boy.”
The cat made a retching sound, then a long few minutes of silence followed. Ben finished his lemonade.
“You want another?” Ed was already up, reaching for the pitcher.
“Should we go through with this, Ed?”
“With what?”
“Canada.”
Ed poured them each another glass. He sat back down. He drew a smiley face on the glass’s condensation. “I’ll lose my dairy without it, Ben.”