Godspeed

by Nickolas Butler

  “Better have our money. She better have our fucking money. All we been through.”

  “I’ve got your money,” Abby managed. “But first, maybe you ought to introduce yourselves, and then I can tell you who I am and, um, why Gretchen isn’t here.”

  “Of course. I’m Teddy Smythe, miss.”

  “Bart Christianson.”

  “Cole McCourt.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, miss?” Teddy asked. “I just got this French press for this morning’s housewarming, and, uh, well, anyway, coffee tastes a little strong to me, but it’s nice and hot.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Smythe,” Abby said, managing a small smile.

  “So, where’s Gretchen?” Cole said again, though a little less menacingly this time.

  They all stood around the kitchen island, each of them with their arms crossed across their chest.

  “I’m afraid she’s very ill,” Abby explained. “Well, I think I can level with you, because you’ll find out soon enough anyway. . . . She’s dying.”

  Bart shook his head. “You have to be fucking kidding with us,” he said.

  “I am not,” Abby said. “It’s stage IV cancer. She and I were set to board a plane together yesterday to fly out here, and just before we left . . . well, she collapsed. I haven’t even heard from her yet today.”

  “I knew this place was fucked from the get-go,” Bart said, covering his face with that remaining hand. “All that, and for a woman who might never see the place.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against her,” Abby said with some force. “As you know, Gretchen is incredibly tough and driven, and she’s got the best doctors in the world. I truly believe the one thing keeping her alive all these months is the idea of living out her final days in this house. Look, I know you gentlemen are angry at her, and perhaps you have a right to be. But please, trust me, no one has ever wanted to stand here, in this beautiful house on this morning, more than Gretchen. And know this: You three have fulfilled her dream. That must mean something.”

  “Pretty expensive coffin,” Cole said, hanging his head just above the island’s surface.

  “Jesus,” Bart said, “take it easy, Cole. She doesn’t deserve that.”

  “Oh, fuck off, Bart,” Cole replied. “You really think she cared about us? About our well-being? She even send any flowers to your hospital room? Did you get a card? Did she even text you? Let’s be fucking real, for once.”

  “Still, I don’t wish anything bad on her,” Bart said. “She didn’t do this to me.” He held up his left arm. “She didn’t make us take this project. Didn’t hold a gun to our heads.”

  “No,” Cole replied, “but she burned us down, used us up. And you know it.”

  An uncomfortable pause settled over the kitchen.

  “Well.” Abby sighed. “I say we get down to business, because I’m sure you gentlemen want to get paid. I’m here to do several things. To inspect the house, and assuming everything is right, reward you your bonuses, and then to sign the final draw. After which, I can, uh, take the keys and basically send you on your way.”

  “Send us on our way, huh?” Cole sneered. “You know Bart here lost all the fingers on his hand working on this house? You have any idea what we’ve been through, lady?” He dearly wished that he had brought the Mason jar of Bart’s fingers with him, so that he might have handed it to this woman. That would make a fitting housewarming present, now, wouldn’t it?

  “I’m sorry,” Abby admitted, meeting his eyes. “I’m just—I’m just the messenger.”

  “Maybe I can guide you around the house,” Teddy interjected. “I think you’ll find everything’s in order.”

  Teddy began where they stood, in the kitchen. He motioned toward the one-of-a-kind cabinets, the specially imported granite, the commercial-grade windows, and the top-of-the-line appliances. He suggested Abby open the cutlery drawer and showed her the high-end hardware of the adjustable shelves in several of the cabinets.

  “None of us have ever seen a project of this quality,” he said. “From the cement work to the bathroom tiling, everything’s top-quality, all the way through, and exquisitely finished.” He took a shameful amount of pride in the use of that word, exquisitely.

  From room to room they moved, Abby’s defenses slowly melting as she was overcome by the thoughtfully decorated Christmas tree in front of those wide windows, or the way in which the men had perfectly arranged all the furniture for which she’d supervised delivery. It was all well and truly clear: These three men had done everything in their power to create a special moment for Gretchen when she arrived here, and now she felt a deep sympathy for them. They were like little boys on Christmas morning who somehow had been promised a glimpse of Santa Claus, only to be confronted by his loud absence, or perhaps some dull, shopping-mall impostor.

  As they passed the fieldstone fireplace, Abby asked, “And what about Bill? We haven’t heard from him in a month or more. I know Gretchen was in contact with local authorities, but she’s been so absorbed in her own work and with her health in decline . . .”

  The tour had by then wound back toward the kitchen, where Bart promptly insinuated himself.

  “Yeah, after he completed the fireplace, that was the last we heard from him,” Bart said. “And we tried, too. He’s owed a pretty healthy chunk of change, for one thing. Both him and his assistant, José.”

  “Do you think something could have happened to them?” Abby asked. “I mean, the way Gretchen described Bill, he just seemed so . . . I don’t know—dependable. And strong. She is very, very concerned about him.”

  “You know what they say,” Bart put in, with a wry tone that felt off to Abby. “It’s the quiet ones you gotta keep an eye on.”

  “What are you suggesting?” she asked. “That Bill wasn’t who he appeared to be?”

  “Hey, these are the building trades,” Bart said. “We see all kinds, miss. Look, we’ve got no idea what happened to Bill, or José, for that matter. But we’ve seen it all. Nothing would surprise us.”

  “Well, what do you think could have happened to them?” she asked. “Did you check with the police?”

  “I really don’t know,” Bart said. “Maybe they went to visit José’s family down in old Mexico. Or maybe they took a much-needed vacation together to Greece. Maybe they drove off one of these scary mountain roads and somebody’ll find ’em come spring. Who knows? But after they finished their work for Gretchen, that was the end of our obligation to ’em. We’re just waiting for a bill, so we can officially settle up.”

  “So, you never called the police?”

  “And tell them what? We haven’t seen an invoice yet?” Bart scoffed.

  “The sheriff has been here,” Cole said, almost calmly. He gestured toward Bart. “Came not long after the accident. It isn’t fair to say we haven’t been in touch with the authorities. We’ve seen him a few times, actually, all the way back to when that fella came to get his forgotten tool.”

  Abby bit her lower lip and surveyed the men.

  “Well, what do you think, miss?” Teddy asked, desperately trying to redirect the conversation, eager to get things back on track. “Would you say the house is in order?”

  She took a deep breath, then smiled.

  “Gentlemen,” she began, “congratulations. I’m happy to communicate to Gretchen that the house is one hundred percent complete and beautifully built. I really can’t think of a single objection she might have.”

  There was a long moment of silence when the men simply stared at one another, and then at this messenger, Abby, a total stranger to them, and this chauffeur, another stranger, before Teddy cheered wildly, jumping up and down, hugging Cole, who merely stood there, as if a pillar of salt, suffering Teddy’s affection, even as Bart, off to the side, began sliding down one of the walls until he sat on the gleaming wood floor, his head between his k
nees.

  “So today, I will make out two checks to True Triangle,” Abby said, leaning onto the island and flourishing the checkbook and one of Gretchen’s Montblanc pens. “The first is your bonus for finishing the house on time. That check is in the amount of five hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, to be split between the three of you. The second check is another bonus that my employer wanted very much to reward you with because of the hardships you’ve endured, including the loss of your hand, Mr. Christianson. That check is for three hundred thousand dollars, again, to be divided by the three of you.

  “I’ll be in town for the next several days,” she continued. “If you finish your final draw, we can bring all this to a close before I leave. In fact, that’s what Gretchen would prefer. She says you three deserve as much.”

  Then she handed the checks to Teddy, whom she reckoned seemed the most responsible of the group. He held the two slips of paper in his hand as if they were sacred scrolls, just staring at them.

  “Now,” Abby said, “if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’d like to take some pictures to send to Gretchen.”

  She shook their hands and drifted off to snap photographs of the Christmas tree, before suddenly remembering something and returning to the kitchen area.

  “Oh,” Abby said, “one other thing—I forgot the keys.”

  Teddy reached into his pocket and placed two gold keys into the palm of her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve done great work. You should all be truly very proud. And here is my telephone number, if you need me.” And with that, she handed him a small slip of paper before turning her back to them and continuing to take photos.

  The men stayed put, unsure what to do with themselves, though not exactly wanting to leave the house.

  “Come on,” Teddy said. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “It’s Christmas,” Bart replied. “Shouldn’t you be home with the kids?”

  “Oh, there’s time for that,” Teddy said, “but first we ought to celebrate, don’t you think?”

  “I agree,” said Cole, who above all did not want to be left alone right then.

  * * *

  —

  They converged on the Chinatown Restaurant, one of the few businesses open on Christmas Day. Past the lobby’s red gumball machines and faux golden dragons and lions, the men were seated in a dining room with plastic bamboo plants and wall-mounted televisions. In their hometown, back in Utah, the three men had often visited a Chinese restaurant called the Pagoda, a near magical place with a shallow wishing well, where three orange koi swam their endless circuits, where the brilliantly red dining room was a dark mystery, the walls papered in rich textured patterns, the background music trickling just above the dining room’s soundtrack of competing voices, clattering silverware, and the distant frying sounds of the woks at work. But this place was just a rectangle in the center of a woebegone strip mall.

  “Christ, this is depressing,” Bart said.

  “Well, let’s have a drink,” Teddy suggested, perusing the menu. “Maybe a mai tai?”

  Cole sat stoically, passing his finger over the flame of the candle at the center of their table.

  Their server arrived, and Teddy ordered their drinks and several entrées; then the men just sat there, quietly, avoiding eye contact and unsure where they stood.

  “Cole,” Bart said finally, “I told Teddy this already, but after we deposit those checks and split up the bonuses, I think I need to bow out. If you guys get the paperwork started, I’ll sign whatever you need. But I think you understand. Might be for the best if I disappear for a while. Truth is, I ain’t any use to you now anyways. Like tits on a bull.”

  Cole cleared his voice, then went about smoothing the red linen of their tablecloth. “Yeah,” he began, “might not be a bad idea to deal me out, too. I, uh . . . I’m gonna need to get back to the straight and narrow before I . . .” His voice drifted off, the other two giving him whatever time he needed. “But I’ll tell you something.”

  Just then their drinks arrived, and each man took up his goblet of mai tai.

  “We built a helluva beautiful house out there,” Cole finished. “Here’s to us: Long live the True Triangle.”

  They touched glasses with as much festiveness as they could summon then sat quietly, unsure how to proceed with the rest of their lives, but certain of their crimes and newfound wealth.

  40

  Seven weeks later . . .

  San Francisco, California

  Abby sat alone in the conference room, staring out the window. The space was so quiet she could hear the ice cubes in the glass before her crack and resettle. A bookish-looking young man entered the room with a file folder tucked under his arm. They shook hands, and he unbuttoned his suit jacket before sitting down and briefly cleaning the lenses of his glasses.

  “Ms. Saunders, my name is Aarav Reddy, and I am the attorney tasked with executing Gretchen Connors’s will and estate. I know we’ve spoken over the telephone and communicated through email, but I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss. Now, um, you may not have known it, but Gretchen was pretty methodical when it came to her estate documents, and she was incredibly grateful to you for your help, especially in her final days.”

  Abby nodded her head. “She was the best boss I ever had,” she said, looking out the window.

  “Well, Ms. Saunders, I’m happy to report that Ms. Connors named you as a beneficiary in her will. She left you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in fact, and her Range Rover, which is housed at the Jackson Hole Airport, near the house you visited.”

  Abby continued staring vacantly out the window.

  “Do you understand what I just said?” Reddy asked after a moment. “Miss? Or is it, ma’am? I’m not sure—”

  “Her whole life meant so little in the end, didn’t it?” Abby said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “She went from her penthouse to work and back, every day for thirty years. Took about two weeks’ worth of vacation every year. The bare minimum, probably just so she wouldn’t attract attention to the fact that she rarely stopped thinking about work. She didn’t even live long enough to see that house of hers. Just accumulated a bunch of money, and . . . for what?”

  Reddy remained silent.

  “Did she have any relatives?”

  Reddy cleared his throat. “I’m, uh, not normally at liberty to share that kind of information, Ms. Saunders, but seeing as you were not only Gretchen’s assistant but also her friend, I can tell you that she had one cousin and also a great-aunt, who each stand to inherit a significant portion of her estate. The rest is to be split between several charities. And you, of course.”

  He reached into the folder for a small manila envelope, which he slid across the table to Abby.

  “Those are the keys to the Range Rover,” he explained. “And this,” he said, passing her an envelope, “is her gift to you.”

  Abby held the keys in her hand. “I’d rather she was still alive,” Abby said. “That’s what I want. I mean, she wasn’t the warmest woman I ever met, but . . . God, what a waste.”

  A quiet descended over the conference room.

  “And what are your plans, then, um, if you don’t mind me asking?” Reddy asked. “Will you be headed back out there?”

  “I think so,” Abby said. “Yeah. Probably in a week or so. I sort of liked it out there. Liked the mountains.”

  Reddy sat quietly, lightly drumming his fingers on the table, his work there all but done.

  “You work a lot?” she asked him.

  “Me? I’ve got a ten-month-old baby girl,” he answered, “a hundred grand in law school debt, forty more for undergraduate. What can I say?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m on the treadmill.”

  She stood from the table, the keys and envelope tightly clasped in her fists.
>
  You’re running, all right, she thought. And you ain’t going anywhere fast.

  * * *

  —

  She rented a single-wide several miles outside Jackson and off the highway, but close enough to a nearby creek so that the traffic noises were somewhat muted. Initially, she knew not a soul and felt very awkward driving Gretchen’s Range Rover around town, the odometer reading less than five thousand miles. Three days after she’d taken receipt of the vehicle, an eighteen-wheeler kicked up a stone that left part of the windshield a matrix of cracks. The next morning, walking out to the Range Rover, she was suddenly overcome with the desire to kick the vehicle as hard as she possibly could and did so, leaving a decent-size dent in the back-right quarter-panel. For good measure, she ran a key across the passenger-side door. The following day she regretted both the dent and the scratch because she realized what she should have done.

  “Shit,” she sighed.

  She drove the Range Rover to a used-car dealership and asked the owner, an old man with a white mustache and sweat-stained cowboy hat, how much he could give her in trade for the vehicle.

  “This vehicle stolen?” he asked. Vee-hickel, he pronounced it.

  “Nope,” she replied. “I got the title, free and clear.”

  “Somehow, you don’t seem like the Range Rover type to me,” he said, peering at her worn blue jeans, flannel shirt, leather belt, windblown hair, and sunburnt face.

  “I sort of inherited it,” she said.

  “Well,” he sighed, “it’s a beaut. Won’t take me long to unload it.”

  Circling the Range Rover, he made a whistling sound that conveyed as much admiration as incredulity. “Got a dent over there,” he said, pointing. “And a helluva scratch over here. Plus, the windshield needs replacin’.”

  “You can fix all that in a matter of hours,” she said. “This vehicle’s barely been driven. It still smells new. So, let’s not dick around here. Try to lowball me and I’ll walk.”

  “All right, all right, lady,” he said, brushing at his mustache. “Geez, I ain’t trying to cheat ya. Just stating the facts. Now, what’re ya in the market for?”