Straw Man

by Gerry Boyle

  “Could have been one of the outlaws,” Clair said. “A truck you haven’t seen. Or maybe your ATF boys have another vehicle.”

  He paused.

  “Or maybe it was just somebody stopped to take a leak. And you almost shot him.”

  I looked at him.

  “I aimed but I didn’t fire,” I said.

  “You gotta know your target,” Clair said.

  “That’s why I held off.”

  “Hell, if it had been Billy, would you have shot him in the back?”

  I started to answer, stopped.

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m worried about Louis, but I’m thinking maybe I should be worried about the two of you. He’s self-destructing, and you’re getting so worked up that you’re trigger-happy.”

  Roxanne crossed in front of the window, the bathroom this time. I heard Sophie’s chatter, the trill ringing across the yard.

  “I won’t have them threatening my family,” I said.

  “I don’t think they have,” Clair said.

  “It’s implied. Following Roxanne around town. Already told us—you, me, and Louis—that we’re dead.”

  “Idle threats. That’s what the judge will say when you’re up on a manslaughter charge.”

  “You’d fight back. Of all people.”

  “I pick my fights. I pick my target. I pick my situation. I fire only when fired upon, or close to it. And, Jack, I control my emotions. You’re too wound up.”

  I was silent.

  “I told Louis it was time for him to get back to work. Be good for you, too. When the girls get to school tomorrow, come out and we’ll finish up a chunk of the Hoddings’ lot. Be back by the time they get out.”

  “I’ve got stories to work on,” I said.

  “I know. And potholders to crochet, I’m sure,” Clair said. “But a few hours working in the woods will be good for what ails you. Come out to the lot after you get them squared away.”

  He turned away, started back toward the path to his barn. And then he stopped and turned back.

  “Jack,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Get in there and get to work on your marriage. I’ll keep an eye on things out here.”

  I tried. But Roxanne was reading to Sophie, and then she fell asleep on Sophie’s bed, books scattered around them. I rattled around the study and the kitchen, even went in and patted her shoulder. She curled herself tighter. I went to bed. Lay there in the dark and listened. Got up in the night every two hours and stood at the window.

  I peered at the watching spot, or the place where it was, hidden in the darkness. Was he back? Clair had said he’d keep an eye out, which for him meant more than a glance. I told myself that if the guy came down the road, if I missed it, Clair would be there. If the guy parked in the woods again, Clair would be standing behind him with a gun at his head.

  It was what he did, after all. Force Recon in Vietnam. Crawling through the jungles with the enemy all around him. Silent and deadly and endlessly patient. And if he could do that, he could track one dirtbag in the Maine woods.

  Reassured, I went back to the bed. Climbed in and lay on my back and then turned and reached up to the slot behind the headboard. The Glock was there. More reassurance, still.

  And then it was morning, 4:45, and the sky turning blue-gray from black. I looked to my right, saw the empty space. Soured, I heaved myself up, reached for the gun. Even in the pale light, the threat seemed diminished, the cold, hard pistol somehow out of place. I thought of Clair’s admonition, and wondered if he was right.

  I got up and pulled on my jeans and T-shirt and, the gun in my waistband, padded down the hall. I peeked through the door into Sophie’s room and saw Roxanne and Sophie sleeping, Roxanne’s arm thrown over Sophie’s hips. Mother and cub.

  Closing the door, I went downstairs and slipped on moccasins and stepped outside. It had rained in the night and the ground was wet. To the south there were clouds—quiet; not the gunmetal storm front, but still heavy and dense.

  I reached for my phone to check the forecast: 50 percent chance of showers through noon, 60 percent the rest of the day. We didn’t cut wood in rain, the muddied ground too slick underfoot to be safe with a chain saw. But I had a feeling Clair was going to want us out there, for the therapeutic value if not the cordage.

  Putting the phone away, I stepped around to the far side of the truck, glanced at the house, and slipped the Glock out of my jeans. I opened the door and put it back in place under the seat. Safety on.

  Who said I was losing it?

  Back inside, I made a silent breakfast: Cheerios and juice, and a cup of tea, the kettle’s whistler lifted off. Then I made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the woods, the ten o’clock break. I put the sandwiches in my lunch bag with a banana and an orange, filled my water bottle, and set them out on the counter.

  I went to the study with my tea and checked my e-mail. There were messages from my editors at the Times and Outland, both checking on my progress, both reminding me of looming deadlines, both hoping things were going well.

  My love life? Not really. Local dirtbags? Jury was still out. The stories? That was the only good news.

  I wrote back, said my reporting was moving ahead. The gun story had the potential to be even stronger than I’d envisioned, I said, with a real-life homicide to hang it on. The Mennonites in Maine story could be stronger, too, with one of the potential subjects questioning his faith and his father’s authority.

  Sometimes you get lucky.

  It was 5:35, the sun rising somewhere behind the clouds. I went out on the deck, saw the perimeter of brush and woods I’d walked the night before. I circled the yard, went out to the road, and walked across to the mailbox. I flipped the door open, peered inside. There was a flyer, something from a tanning parlor, first session free. I pulled it out and another piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

  It was small, with ripped holes on one side, a page torn from a coil-bound notebook. I picked it up and turned it over. It said, in neat penciled script:

  A lady at the store told me where you live. I can’t talk to you anymore, and nobody else will either. There is no story.

  Abram

  I turned it over. The back side was blank. Flipped back and read it again.

  Short and sweet. Good-bye, Mennonites. Good-bye, three grand.

  “Damn,” I said.

  I started back across to the house, and by the time I’d hit the driveway I’d decided I wouldn’t give up, not after pumping the story up. I’d worked sources hard before, spent weeks and even months trying to persuade someone to talk to me. I could change his name, not that that would help him at home. I could set some parameters. Talk about Mennonite life more than his personal crisis. Give the Bishop every opportunity to talk about his congregation. Tell them the story would say how well received the Mennonites were in the larger community. Hard workers. Good farmers. Cute little kids, girls in bonnets. Let them think it was going to be a real Mennonite lovefest.

  But I needed Abram, goddamn it.

  Back in the house, I went to the study and put the note on my desk. I stared at it for a moment . . . the handwriting. It was cursive, carefully drawn. Was this how they were taught, in their one-room schoolhouse or whatever? Did they learn to write with chalk on slates?

  I picked the note up and sniffed. A distinct odor of tobacco. Mennonites smoked, right? I pictured men with wide-brimmed hats and corncob pipes. But how did they get here? Clip-clop the ten miles in a buggy? Or get a ride from a cigarette-smoking English in his pickup?

  And another question: Who the hell had been in the woods last night?

  The sun was hardly up and things were starting to go off the rails. I had an urge to drive right over to the farm, see if I could start working on Abram first thing.

  Or was the note from him at all? Did Semi tell him I was trouble? Did Semi not want me poking around in his business?

  There was a stirring up
stairs, Roxanne’s footsteps headed to the bathroom. I went and refilled the kettle and put it on the burner. The shower came on as I filled the coffeemaker: her favorite vanilla roast. The water started to drip, and I heard the shower go off, the bathroom door open.

  I went to the cupboard and got out flour and oil, then milk and butter from the refrigerator. I mixed the stuff up in a bowl, grabbed a bag of frozen blueberries from the freezer, poured them in, too.

  When Roxanne came down, dressed in jeans and flats, a white open-necked blouse, Sophie tagging behind her, sleepy-eyed and dragging her stuffed lamb by the neck, the pancakes were sizzling. Sophie brightened. Roxanne didn’t.

  “Daddy made my favorite,” Sophie said. I grabbed her and swung her up and gave her a hug. I gave the lamb a squeeze, too, and then put the two of them down in the chair at the table. I turned and flipped the pancakes; Roxanne poured herself coffee.

  “Want some?” I said.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll just have toast.”

  I sat with Sophie and ate pancakes with her, poured the syrup. Roxanne stood at the counter and checked her e-mail on her phone. Sophie ate two pancakes before Roxanne said, “Go easy, honey,” like she’d been chugging beer.

  I got up and cleared the plates, said, “I’m working in the woods this morning. I’ll head over when you go to school.”

  “Okay,” Roxanne said, and then, “Honey, time to get dressed.”

  “Once you’re inside, I’ll head out.”

  Sophie dashed down the hallway and up the stairs. Roxanne was pouring another cup of coffee as I said, “So how long is this going to go on?”

  She put the carafe back on the machine, poured milk in her mug. Stirred. Turned to me.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said. “It’s hard to go from more mortified than I’ve ever been in my life to hugs and kisses.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You’re sorry about the result,” Roxanne said. “Not sorry you said those things to Welt. Or fought with that man. Or have a gun in your truck.”

  Yes, I thought. That about summed it up.

  “I’ve got to get Sophie ready,” Roxanne said, and she was gone.

  I loaded my truck with gas, saws, oil, tools. They came outside and I gave Sophie a big hug and put her in the back of Roxanne’s car and buckled her in.

  “Salandra’s daddy’s truck has a backseat,” she said.

  “Good for him,” I said.

  “She said I could ride with them when Mrs. Robinson’s class goes to see the goats.”

  “Oh, fun,” I said. “When’s that?”

  “Today,” she said, holding up her bag. “We have to bring our mud boots.”

  I said, “Well, don’t let the big billy goats bonk you in the butt.”

  Sophie laughed. I closed the door, looked across the roof of the car at Roxanne. “Have a good field trip,” I said.

  “We will, I’m sure,” Roxanne said, and she got in the car and closed the door.

  I followed them out of our road, glancing at the place where the mystery truck had been parked. I wondered whether we should leave the house unattended all day, but then figured I’d go in first when we got home. And maybe by then Roxanne would have thawed a bit. An afternoon with Welt at the farm . . .

  I kept the Subaru in sight as we made our way to Prosperity Primary, a cozy brick complex with a bright blue roof, set in a former pasture. Roxanne parked in the staff lot and I pulled the gun out from under the seat, laid it on my lap as I watched. She and Sophie gathered their bags and hurried to the door, which Roxanne keyed open with her ID. The door closed behind them and I made a loop around the parking lot.

  Teachers and parents, backpack-toting kids bailing out of minivans like paratroopers. I looked for the red work van, the ATF soft car, but didn’t see it. Maybe they were on Semi today. Worse yet, maybe they’d gone home.

  Louis and Clair had already unloaded when I got to the wood yard. The skidder was off the flatbed and Clair was sitting in the seat as the diesel idled. He saluted me as I pulled in and stopped and Louis came over to my Toyota and put his saws and gear in the back with mine. And then the big black hound jumped up into the truck bed, claws scratching at the metal.

  The dog sat. Louis climbed in. Clair revved the skidder motor and there was a burst of blue smoke as the big orange machine lurched forward, chained tires digging into the mud.

  I followed, easing along in low gear, the truck jouncing down the trail.

  “How you doing?” I said.

  “Fair,” Louis said.

  “Me, too.”

  “So I heard. Clair said you called out some guy’s been hitting on your wife. And you torqued on Billy’s broken arm with your little kid watching.”

  “When you’re on a roll,” I said.

  Louis was quiet, then said, “Billy backed off?”

  “With a promise to get even.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “He gave me a lecture about male machismo and violence and treating women like property.”

  “You restrained yourself?”

  “Yeah. But too late. Damage is done.”

  “Everybody’s got something,” Louis said.

  “Except your dog,” I said.

  “Don’t think he doesn’t have his cross to bear.”

  “What’s that?”

  I looked at Louis and he looked back at me.

  “Right,” I said.

  We were going to the north end of the parcel, where we’d left off before we’d scrapped with the other crew. It was about a mile in, fifteen minutes at this speed. I waited two or three, then said, “You shouldn’t make all of this personal. It’s not your fault.”

  Louis shrugged.

  “I take responsibility for all my actions, good and bad,” he said. “It’s the only way to confront evil, to acknowledge it, and your part in it. But if you pretend evil doesn’t exist inside you, then you allow it to flourish.”

  I considered that.

  “But mistakes aren’t evil,” I said. “Sometimes they’re just mistakes.”

  “There’s black on one end, white on the other,” Louis said. “In the middle there’s one long stretch of gray. And it keeps pitching back and forth. If you’re weak, you let the dark side prevail, not necessarily in one action but in a bunch of little ones. Evil grows in very small increments.”

  “Baby steps,” I said.

  Louis nodded. The truck rolled along, the skidder roared and lurched and smoked. The woods around us looked like rain forest, something primeval.

  “So breaking Billy’s arm?” I said.

  “That tipped the balance,” Louis said.

  “And now you’re tipping it back?”

  “Trying, McMorrow. Always trying.”

  “And if breaking one guy’s arm was something, then what about the whole Iraq war?” I said.

  “Wasn’t the whole war,” Louis said, half to himself. “It was one day. One minute. One second. Won’t live long enough to earn that back.”

  The dog was on his feet now, sniffing the forest air. Deer, coyotes, raccoons, and foxes—he probably saw them in the scent, like ghosts.

  “Serious damage to the karma,” he said. “Some things you can’t make up.”

  “It was war,” I said. “Most of it’s out of your control.”

  I downshifted and we rocked over ruts. The dog scrabbled to stay upright. When the truck had righted, Louis said, “He was fifteen, sixteen, McMorrow. Just a child.”

  “He was blowing up your buddies,” I said, looking over at him. “You’re a good person, Louis.”

  “Good people on the other side, too,” he said. “All of us good people, blowing each other to bits.”

  He smiled, shook his head, started to slip away to a place I imagined was dark and guilt-ridden and suffocating. As I drove, passing fresher slash piles where we’d logged last, I tried to pull him back.

  “Christians would say that God can wash away your sins
,” I said. “It’s all about redemption. I met this Mennonite kid up here, he was talking about it. Old Order Mennonite, kind of like Amish. He’s trying to figure it all out.”

  “He has sins he needs to have washed away?”

  “He’s been hanging around with Semi,” I said.

  “Ah,” Louis said. “Then he will.” He turned away, staring out the window at the woods.

  But what were they? I thought about it as we worked, Louis and me, felling and limbing trees, Clair in full work mode: moving the machine into position, waiting at the controls as we affixed the chains, dragging the logs to a new wood yard. The rain held off but the cloud cover and fog coated everything with a fine mist. In the still, damp air the mosquitoes homed in, and we kept wiping ourselves down with repellent, our hands streaking our faces and arms until we were camouflaged with mud and blood.

  I tried to concentrate, but when I was limbing, hauling the slash into piles, Abram crept in. Abram trying to find his way. Abram racked with guilt about being a bad son, a bad brother, a bad Mennonite. Abram trying to figure out where he fit in a world that had people like Billy, but people like Miriam, too. Abram hanging with Semi.

  Why him? I thought of Semi in the fight—part jock, part outlaw. What did he offer Abram? I dropped an oak, pondered it as I started cutting. Abram was with family all the time. Miriam. Victor. Younger kids. His parents. Semi would have a crowd. With Semi, Abram could, for the first time, be one of the guys.

  Would that be enough? I pictured a lot of backslapping, drinking cheap beer, Abram being called “dude.” It would be novel, comfortable, somehow supportive. But how long would it take for Semi to show his violent side, the kid who went for the gun?

  We’d paused for the skidder to do its work when Louis came up to me. He put his saw down, then stood looking away for a moment, the way he did when he had something to say.

  “You like this Mennonite kid, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He reminds me of myself, way back when.”

  “You should tell him to hang on to his faith. Sometimes it’s all you got. And once you lose it, it’s pretty damn hard to get it back.”

  “I’ll pass that on,” I said.

  He looked away again, then said, “I thought good reporters weren’t supposed to get attached to people in their stories.”