Godspeed

by Nickolas Butler

  “I was worried we wouldn’t make it,” Teddy explained, “so I called in some favors. We banged out all the painting today. At one point, we had sixty people here.”

  They walked to the master bathroom, leaned against the threshold.

  “All the fixtures came yesterday, and the plumber was right here, first thing in the morning.”

  They stared down at a squat little white toilet.

  “That commode there? Seven thousand dollars,” Teddy sighed. “She has three of them. Over twenty grand in privies. The mirror cost three grand, plus shipping from Italy. The stone in here is from Turkey. Haven’t even seen the invoice for that yet. The sink: another five grand. This bathroom, all the tiling and cabinetry—heck, this room alone probably cost . . .” He paused, glancing at the ceiling, tabulating the long list of expenditures. “I don’t know. Sixty thousand dollars? Maybe eighty.”

  “For one person,” Cole said quietly. His body still screeched out, still pled for the meth, but he held his shoulders tightly, rolled his shoulders over, and focused on staying small, on containing himself.

  They stood there, marveling at the sleek elegance of the little room.

  “The first time I saw her,” Cole managed, “I think I was in love. No woman that smart, that beautiful, had ever so much as”—his body trembled uncontrollably—“you know, given me the time of day.”

  Cole ran his hands over the tiling. “But now I see that . . . that she was always just stringing us along, you know? Using us.”

  “You think she ever figured we’d actually finish on time?” Teddy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cole croaked. He realized he hadn’t had a drink of water in days, and his body felt as dry as kindling. As far back as mid-October he’d wondered what her urgency stemmed from. He couldn’t be for certain, but somehow he sensed that she had no husband, no partner, no children. She had the air of a queen without a kingdom, and this house was her impenetrable citadel, an impossible aerie. An isolated fiefdom she was content to lord over. “Sometimes I think she just wanted to see how hard she could push. What would happen. Who’d be left standing. Other than her.”

  Teddy put a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Well, she didn’t burn us up, did she? We were like horses that just kept galloping, weren’t we, buddy?”

  Cole looked down at his filthy, wet sopping socks. “She burned up our friend pretty good, though. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Teddy nodded gravely. “Day after Christmas I’m headed over to Salt Lake City to visit him,” he said. “I promised him I’d be back.”

  “You’re a good man,” Cole said. His body felt more and more like that of an insect, just before a molt, felt like he could burst out of his flesh, both reborn and raw. He could take it no longer. “All this philosophizing is great,” Cole whispered, “but what’d you do with my shit, Teddy? I’m serious now.”

  “Threw it away,” Teddy said plainly. “Two days ago.”

  “That was my stuff,” Cole hissed. “Cost me a lot of money, Teddy. . . .”

  Though never a tall man, Teddy now stopped leaning in the doorway and stood to his full height, his body tensed and muscular. He had lost weight, too, over the past four months, but Teddy had never stopped eating or exercising, and his body now had the definition of an Olympic gymnast or a yoga instructor. Something had changed in his character, too, especially since Bart’s injury. He wasn’t afraid to lead this company. It was as simple as that. And he could not allow them to fail, because if they did, it would affect his wife and his children, and he could not abide by that. He had ideas and opinions, too. They were a triangle, after all, and he was one whole corner of that shape.

  He’d actually created a contest among his daughters: The girl who designed the best logo for True Triangle would win a hundred dollars cash, right out of his wallet.

  He’d given them some basic parameters:

  Instead of a single triangle, he wanted three;

  He wanted each triangle to look like a mountain;

  They needed to create a corporate slogan to accompany the logo.

  With Bart injured and Cole lost in the shadow of meth, Teddy had needed to step up to lead their fledgling company, and in the past two weeks or so he certainly had, because even if at first he couldn’t be certain that Cole was using, he began watching his friend more and more closely, especially during his breaks, when he would offhandedly mention going to their trailer for a catnap. Teddy began following him, peering in through a small window, there to see Cole smoking that clear glass pipe; the acrid, toxic smoke like some demon he inhaled that imparted supernatural energy, keeping his friend active for days at a time.

  Except, while Cole could focus on the painting or trim with superhuman precision, other facets of the business were slipping through the cracks: He wasn’t staying up-to-date with their subs, for one thing; wasn’t returning phone calls; wasn’t making sure that shipments would arrive in a timely manner. And so it was that Teddy picked up that slack, ensuring that their impossible timeline could be maintained.

  “It was not your stuff,” Teddy said firmly. “It was Bart’s, and it almost cost him his life.”

  Teddy’s rebuttal stunned Cole, as if Teddy had just flicked him with a finger in the forehead. But he was not done yet. Not by a long shot.

  “Where’d you throw it, Ted?”

  “You need help, buddy. All right? Let me help you out. I can take you to the hospit—”

  “Fuck off, you stupid, simple, Mormon prick.”

  The words left Cole’s mouth before he could think about them or take them back.

  “Cole.”

  There was no way back but through. “You’re a knob, Teddy. A little boy. Grow the fuck up and get the hell out of my way.”

  “You’re not yourself, Cole. I know you don’t mean any of that.”

  Cole pushed Teddy in the chest, and somewhere behind him a chorus of gasps sounded out. Cole knew that there were women and small children in the house—that likely Teddy’s family was present—but he could no longer restrain himself.

  “I love you, buddy,” Teddy said evenly, moving toward Cole with his arms spread as if to embrace him in a hug.

  Cole telegraphed the punch he was about to throw; Teddy could almost see it taking shape, originating palpable moments before the fist even came close to making contact. And so, channeling many of his own heroes, Teddy deftly deflected the blow with a hand that sent Cole’s forward momentum away from its target and straight into the drywall to the left of the doorway.

  For a moment, Cole’s fist was awkwardly caught in the wall before he was able to pull it back, his knuckles leaving blotches of blood on that newly painted surface.

  “Fuck this house,” he said, spitting on the floor. “And fuck you, Teddy.” Then he whirled around and punched the wall behind him, too, leaving another ugly hole. He turned and stared at Teddy. “I’m coming back,” he said, pointing a finger at Teddy’s chest. “I promise you. Christmas morning.”

  Two of Teddy’s largest friends were now at Cole’s side.

  “Get him out of here,” Teddy ordered.

  “Touch me,” Cole snarled, “and I’ll ruin every wall and window between here and my goddamn way out.”

  Teddy’s friends parted to make way for Cole as if the very air he exhaled were noxious, as if, in brushing his skin or grubby clothes, they might contract some horrendous disease.

  From those grand south-facing windows in the living room and in the warm glow of the Christmas tree, Teddy watched Cole walk down the driveway in his ragged socks, past the trailer, over the bridge, and into his truck, the brake lights glowing red as the headlights popped on, and he tore off into the night.

  “Who was that?” Teddy’s youngest daughter, Kylie, asked, as she reached out a little hand for Teddy’s trembling fingers.

  “You know who it
was,” Teddy said quietly. “That was Uncle Cole.”

  “It was?” she asked. “He didn’t look like Uncle Cole.”

  “He’s just . . . very, very tired,” Teddy said, squeezing her hand.

  “He wasn’t even wearing any shoes,” she said, tilting her head to look at her father.

  “Maybe his feet were too hot,” Teddy said.

  She scrunched her nose and giggled.

  35

  For months, Bart hadn’t had a second to so much as daydream or kick back with a cold beer and watch a meaningless baseball or football game. There had been no time for anything other than Gretchen’s house. Even on the rare occasions when they’d rewarded themselves with a one- or two-day hiatus, he’d felt so guilty about the time away that he hadn’t left the site, or else suffered an ever-building sense of guilt every minute away from the house. It was as if he were just delaying some inevitable torture that became more painful by the frittered minute.

  But then, there in this hospital, with its view of the mountains, time stretched out before him like a near endless plain. There was time to think of his friends, for one thing, to wonder how they were doing, and if his absence had cost them, had made their deadline impossible. Teddy called him each day at lunch, like clockwork, and gave him a rundown of their progress. If they’d suffered any setbacks, he omitted those, painting the most optimistic picture of the project. And it was good to hear that simple bastard’s voice, even if at times he droned on and on about his girls, their Christmas lists, and the presents he was planning to buy Britney.

  But man, Bart wanted to be right there alongside them, cranking on that house.

  He’d always loved that aspect of construction: the definable beginning and end and that steady stretch of labor in between when the demons he’d always fought—alcohol and drugs, namely—were kept at bay by incessant work. He was his own boss, and that was priceless. Not every mug in America could lay claim to being a business owner, with two partners he’d known more or less his whole life. He could listen to his own music, smoke cigarettes without someone giving him a dirty look, and hell, dress exactly as he pleased. He was, in so many ways, free.

  Or, he had been. Now he could hardly even piece back together in his mind how it had all fallen apart. He remembered the meth. Just like he remembered the crazy deadline that had sent him back to it. But so damn much of it was a haze. He’d been fully alert for more than two weeks now, sitting up in a bed, flicking through the television stations, flirting occasionally with the female nurses and doctors, and doing his level best to battle the tedium. He was still in the same standard bed he had occupied since arriving there, but he figured it was just a matter of time before they’d need to shift him to some rehab unit or nursing home. Or, then again, maybe he could simply walk out the front door on his own recognizance.

  Trouble was, his future was blurrier than ever. What good was he to his partners anymore? And what else besides building could he even do? He could not see his own mangled left hand, but he knew the damage was ugly and profound. All the fingers of that hand were gone now, leaving what would be little more than a club. He could swing a hammer with his good hand, yes, and maybe carry some boards in the crook of his right arm, if the load was well enough balanced, but he understood that his future as a manual laborer was essentially kaput. If he found work on a jobsite, it would be only as some sort of charity case. He thought of the hunchbacks and clubfoots of yesteryear. He shook his head; didn’t much care of thinking of himself in those terms—and before even reaching his fortieth birthday.

  Bart clenched his eyes shut and yawned, then tried to rub his hands over his eyelids and forehead, but he realized that even familiar movements like that one, like pulling on his socks or pants, say, or, turning the wheel of his truck, hell, grabbing food from the drive-up of a fast-food restaurant—all of that would be difficult now.

  “Mr. Christianson,” a nurse called, popping her head into the room. “There’s a visitor here to see you.”

  She smiled at him and then opened the door, allowing Margo to slip past her, holding a cooler in one hand and a small vase of garish grocery-store carnations in the other.

  “Hey, big guy,” she said gamely. “How’re you doing?”

  Her face almost brought him to tears, crystallizing something in his mind right then: Aside from Cole and Teddy, he was more or less alone in the world.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said, pushing himself up in the bed.

  “Well,” she said, setting down the flowers on the windowsill and then producing a cold Coors from the cooler and opening it for him, before sitting down on the bed and passing him the bottle, “I haven’t forgotten about you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Teddy told me you might want a visitor.”

  He accepted the beer, despite not really craving the alcohol, happy for the cold, wet glass against his hand and the familiar feeling of the beer slipping down his parched throat. He stared at her for a moment and then aimed his eyes down into his lap.

  “I truly have no idea why you’re so nice to me,” he murmured, “but . . . I am really glad to see you.”

  She smiled at him, reached for his beer, and took a sip herself.

  “Me neither,” she allowed. “You’re certainly not the smartest guy I ever dated.”

  “No argument there.”

  “But,” she continued, pointing a finger in his direction, “you do happen to be one of the hardest-working men I’ve ever known, and you take care of the people you love.”

  No one had ever really acknowledged these traits, but they were qualities he privately regarded as something like guiding principles. And it was powerful to hear her recognize in him those virtues he held so dear. It was like forgetting your own name, only to have someone greet you, call out your name, understanding even better than you ever did yourself who you’d always been.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “I wanted to know that you’re okay.”

  “You could’ve just called,” he said.

  She sighed. “I’ve dated a few guys since we broke up,” she began. “You knew that. But I’ll admit it, they were all douchebags. Every last one of them. Rich, conceited, arrogant douchebags. And the more I thought about it . . . about you . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she turned her head, glancing out the window toward the mountains.

  “The more you realized what a catch I am?” Bart said, grinning rakishly.

  “Shut up,” she said. “And don’t get cocky.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “I want to take you home with me,” she said. “All right? And then I want you to clean up. For good. I want you to quit your job. I’ll help you find something different. I work at a hospital. We’ll find you some rehab. Help you get a prosthetic, if you want.”

  She took a sip from his bottle, then passed it back to him, and he took a greedy swig as he considered what that would even be like: wearing a plastic hand, or maybe one of those silver hooks. He’d heard of this chef, Eduardo Garcia, up in Montana, who wore a metal hook like that, and he was a cool dude. Maybe Bart could pull it off, too.

  “I’ll think about that,” he said.

  “So, then . . . what about us?” she asked, moving closer to him. “Would you think about that? About giving us another shot?”

  He looked down at the stump of his left hand.

  “Margo,” he sighed, smoothing the bedsheets once more, “you deserve better than me.”

  Now she pushed him to one side of the bed and tucked herself in the space under his left arm.

  “Maybe let me decide what I deserve?” she said. “Besides, I gotta feeling about you. That your best days are still ahead of you.”

  He set down the bottle of beer on the bedside table and shut off the television.

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, pulling her c
loser to him. “Repeatedly.”

  “Nevertheless,” she said, smiling, “she persisted. Right?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” he moaned, rolling his eyes.

  * * *

  —

  And so they spent the day together, as if on a date, walking around the hospital, drinking weak coffee, and holding hands, talking about their lives, their goals and dreams; those sort of games like imagining what you would do if you received an unexpected and vast inheritance, if you could start all over. Margo liked her work but hated the new money infiltrating their town. Every year her nurse’s salary went a little less far, and the idea of buying a house or maybe starting a family ended up getting pushed off further and further, a sensation she resented more and more.

  Bart felt her squeeze his hand when she shared all of this with him, and in earlier years, some prickly part of his nature might have succumbed to the urge to make the kind of flip joke that would deflate her excitement, but now, he simply squeezed her hand right back.

  The next morning, she ventured into some hip men’s store in downtown Salt Lake and bought him a fresh pair of blue jeans, new boots, underwear, warm socks, undershirts, a flannel shirt, a beautiful barn jacket, along with a cowboy hat.

  She closed the door of his hospital room, undressed him, and sponged off his skinny body—for he was no longer even lean, but some measure less than that, his long frame weathered down to the bones by the meth and the work and the stress.

  “Just relax,” she said, taking his cock in her hand and stroking him gently, firmly. “Just . . . lay back and close your eyes, huh?”

  He hadn’t been touched in many long months, and her caress felt like a fucking rainbow boa of the softest feathers. “Oh, my god,” he gasped.

  Then she took him into her mouth. He reached down with his one good hand and took a fistful of her soft, silky black hair and pressed himself deeper inside her. Her fingers ran down through the line of hair dividing his stomach and chest, and she lightly pinched and pulled his nipple and moaned, even as her mouth was full of him.