The Dead Man: Face of Evil (3 page)

November 18, 2010

Roger Silbert gathered the employees in the yard, climbed up on the back of a flatbed truck, and addressed them with a bullhorn. He was thin, smelled of breath mints, and talked too fast. Today he wore a B. Barer and Sons cap to show that he was one of the guys despite his jacket, tie, and gold cufflinks.

There wasn't a man in the crowd who owned a pair of cufflinks or would buy a shirt that didn't have buttons that could do the job.

Matt stood beside Andy at the front of the crowd. Rachel stood on the periphery with the rest of the staffers from the front office building. The Barers were conspicuously absent, vacationing in Palm Springs for three weeks, as they did every winter.

Silbert began by reminding them of the bad economy, the sharp drop in new home construction nationwide, the influx of cheap lumber from other countries, and all the other ills that afflicted their industry, as if they didn't already know all about them, as if those worries weren't already keeping them up nights, or causing them to kick their dogs, or spend their weekends drunk, or put off going to their doctors for fear of what that hard bump under the skin, or that chronic pain, or that bleeding from the ass might turn out to be and what it might cost.

"We've had to take a hard look at how we do business and embrace new technologies that lower costs, conserve energy, produce greater yields, increase efficiency, and offer more operational flexibility," Silbert said.

Andy turned to Matt. “How many guys you got working on that new rig you've been playing with?"

Matt hesitated a second before answering. “Two."

"Shit," Andy said.

"So I'm pleased to announce that we'll be replacing our old, outdated equipment with the latest, cutting-edge equipment," Silbert said. “No pun intended."

He laughed, just to make sure everyone knew that his pun was intended and that he thought it was pretty witty. But half the men there had no idea what a pun was and no one was in the mood to laugh.

Andy spoke up. “When you say you're lowering costs, what you mean is that you're going to fire people."

"Unfortunately, there will be some reductions in our workforce," Silbert said. “But those who remain will have the security of working in a leaner, stronger, more efficient company that's better prepared to take on the challenges of the future."

"What you mean is that half of us, guys who have been here ten, twenty years, natural-born woodsmen, are going to be kicked onto the street to starve while you collect a bonus and move on to fire more hardworking men at another company in some other industry you don't know shit about."

"Let's not get overdramatic," Silbert said. “Nobody is going to starve. We'll be offering retraining programs, absolutely free, for all of our temporarily displaced workers."

"Training in what?" someone in the crowd called out.

"Word processing, website design, solar panel installation, computer repair," Silbert said, "and other exciting jobs in the new economy."

"I want to train for your job." Andy unbuckled his pants, let them drop, and then mooned Silbert. He bent over and peeked at Silbert from between his legs. “All I've got to do is figure out how to get my head up my ass and I'm qualified."

The crowd cheered and laughed. Silbert shook his head like a disapproving parent and lowered his bullhorn. There was nothing more to say and he knew it.

Matt smacked Andy's shoulder. “Pull up your pants. You're just making things worse."

"We're losing our jobs, Matt. Exactly how can things get any worse than that?"

"You might have kept yours before you did this."

"Yeah, right," Andy said, hiking up his pants.

Matt turned towards Silbert, who was walking back towards the main office building, and called out to him. “Are you going to fire Andy?"

Silbert stopped and faced Matt. “He's the first and only name on the list so far. He'll be out by the end of the day."

"If he goes," Matt said, "I go, too."

Andy looked at his friend in astonishment. A hush fell over the crowd.

"You're the best sawyer we've got," Silbert said. Then he moved a few steps closer to Matt and looked him in the eye. Matt could smell the wintergreen Life Savers on his breath. “But the beauty of the WM3500 is that now
anybody
can be the best sawyer we've got. Good luck to you both in your new endeavors."

Silbert turned his back on them and walked away. Matt looked past him to see Rachel, staring at him not with shock or anger, as he expected, but with disappointment.

"The fucking asshole," Andy muttered, snatching a long-handled cant hook from a nearby woodpile and advancing on Silbert from behind.

Matt rushed forward, tackling Andy just as he was raising the cant hook over his head. They hit the ground hard, rolling in the mud and sawdust, Matt wrestling the cant hook from Andy's hand.

Andy turned Matt on his back, straddled him, and raised his fist to deliver a hammer blow.

"Andy!" Matt called out.

His friend froze and blinked hard, like he was snapping out of a daydream. Andy looked at Matt, then in surprise at his own fist, poised to smash his friend's face in. He slowly lowered his arm and unclenched his fingers.

By now other loggers had gathered around them. They pulled Andy off of Matt, who raised his hand up to his friend for a lift to show there were no hard feelings.

But Andy just backed away until he was swallowed up in the crowd and disappeared from Matt's sight.

Another logger took Matt's hand and helped him up. Matt thanked him, slapped the dirt off his clothes, and went to clean out his locker.

The Longhorn looked like a sawmill that served drinks. The walls were decorated with blades and vintage sawing tools, and just about everybody in the place when Rachel came in was a B. Barer and Sons employee or, in the case of Andy and Matt, ex-employees.

Andy was at the center of attention, holding court at a table overflowing with mugs and pitchers, people buying him more beers than one man could possibly drink, though he was certainly going to give it his best try.

Matt sat at the bar, where he had been nursing a beer and a bowl of mixed nuts for an hour, idly watching the celebration of the bravado that had cost Andy his job.

Rachel took the stool beside Matt and helped herself to a sip of his beer.

"That was a stupid thing you did today," she said.

"You're right," Matt said. “Silbert probably deserved to have his head caved in."

"You know what I'm talking about, Matt. You didn't have to go down with Andy."

Matt shrugged. “He had every right to be angry and didn't deserve to be fired for it."

"That's not what happened. Andy is undependable, irresponsible, and an asshole. He knew he'd be the first to go, and that's why he pulled this stunt, so he could go out feeling like a hero. But you ruined it for him. He's still an asshole and you're the hero."

"I don't feel like one," Matt said.

"That's how you know you are one," she said. “Because the real heroes know being one means you've got to lose something big in the deal. What are you going to do for money now?"

"I can get by without much," Matt said. “Besides, I'm pretty good with a hammer and saw and there's always plenty of folks who need carpentry work."

"Only there's not many folks here who can afford it."

"So I'll work in trade," Matt said. “Patch a mechanic's roof in exchange for him fixing my transmission."

She studied his face now, seeing something there she hadn't seen before. “You really are okay with this."

"I take things as they come," he said.

"What did Andy Goodis ever do to deserve you?"

Before Matt could answer, Andy sauntered over, bringing two overflowing mugs of beer and two dozen of his admirers over with him.

"I love this man," Andy said, setting the mugs down hard in front of Matt and spilling beer on the counter. “Matthew Cahill is the greatest human being in the Pacific Northwest. Am I right?"

The crowd cheered and whooped and applauded, which clearly embarrassed Matt. He dismissed it all with a shrug.

"You think what he did today was great, you should have seen him in the seventh grade," Andy said, then turned to Matt. “Remember that?"

"Nobody wants to remember anything they did in junior high," Matt said. “Why doesn't somebody put a song on the jukebox?"

Matt reached into his pocket for some change, but Andy wasn't going to be so easily distracted. He turned back to regale the crowd with his story.

"The principal came into first period and accused me of breaking into his office and leaving a pile of horseshit on his desk. He hauled me out of my seat by my ear," Andy said. “But before we even got to the door, you know what Matt did? He confessed."

Rachel looked at Matt in astonishment. “You did that?"

Matt grimaced and nodded.

"He was suspended for an entire quarter, and when Matt got home, his dad took off his belt and whipped his ass raw," Andy said. “The thing is, Matt wasn't the one who left the shit on Ackerman's desk."

"Then why did you take the blame?" Rachel asked Matt.

"The principal always assumed anything bad that happened at the school was Andy's fault, whether it was or not," Matt said. “I had a clean record, so I knew they'd go easy on me, but if Andy went down for this one, they'd expel him from school for good."

"And he knew that the beating I'd get from my daddy wouldn't be nearly as gentle as the one he got," Andy said. “That's Matthew Cahill for you."

The crowd applauded again, raising their glasses and guzzling more beer in Matt's honor. One of the loggers gestured to Matt and yelled at the bartender, "His money is no good here!"

"That's good, because after today, I'm not going to have any," Matt said.

Everybody laughed and headed back to their seats, except for Andy, who lingered at the bar, eyeing Rachel with curiosity.

"Did you come down here to console us?" Andy said.

"Just because I work in the front office, that doesn't mean I don't care about what happens in the yard."

"That's real nice, but I'm plenty consoled already," Andy said. “My buddy Matt here, however, has hardly been consoled at all. I've never met a man more in need of consolation than him."

"Go away, Andy," Matt said.

Andy started to go back to his table when Rachel asked a question.

"So who really did it?"

Matt replied, "Did what?"

"Left the horse manure in the principal's office," she said.

"They never found out," Matt said.

Andy grinned. “They knew right off."

Matt looked at Andy with genuine surprise. “You really did it?"

"Of course I did," Andy said. “You knew that. Who else but me would have had the balls?"

Andy laughed and turned to share the hilarity with the other loggers, all of whom found it as wildly amusing as he did.

Matt got up quietly from his stool. When Andy turned to look at him again, Matt hammered him in the face with a right hook that might as well have been a brick.

The blow knocked the mug out of Andy's hand, splattering him with beer, and sent him tumbling back into his friends, who caught him before he fell. The mug shattered on the floor.

Matt tossed a few bucks on the counter and met the bartender's eye.

"That's for the broken mug," Matt said and walked out without giving Andy another glance. If he had, he'd have seen that the punch failed to knock the grin off Andy's face, but it did smear his front teeth with blood.

"See?" Andy said to Rachel. “He's feeling better already."

"You're an asshole," she said and followed Matt out the door.

Andy watched her go, bounced back to his feet, wiped his bloody mouth on his sleeve, and turned to his friends.

"Beer me!" he yelled, and the party continued.

Twenty minutes later, Matt and Rachel sat across from each other in a booth at the Denny's on the edge of town. They each had a cup of lousy coffee in front of them and picked at a piece of banana cream pie that looked incredible but tasted synthetic.

"How could you not have known that Andy was guilty?" she asked.

"Maybe I want to see the best in people."

"Or you're blind, at least when it comes to him. What's he got on you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did he take a bullet for you? Give you his kidney? Or does he have pictures of you doing something terrible, like molesting little boys? Whatever it is, it must be huge."

"It's loyalty," Matt said.

"That's it?"

"It's huge to me. He's my oldest friend. I'll always have his back. That's all there is to it."

"But he's an asshole," she said.

"Not to me."

"
Especially
to you. How come everyone else can see it and you can't?"

Matt set down his fork. “You want to know what I see when I look at Andy?"

She nodded.

"Terror," he said.

They called the narrow, rectangular houses in Matt's neighborhood shotgun shacks. The four rooms were laid out in a row without any hallways. So, in theory, if all the doors were open, and you happened to be standing on the front porch with a loaded shotgun, you could fire it into the house and all the pellets could pass through to the backyard without hitting a wall.

That was how some people thought the shacks got their name. Another theory, the one Matt's parents subscribed to, was that it came from all the impoverished people who blew their heads off with shotguns rather than continue living in those miserable dumps.

Matt's father had remodeled their shotgun shack so extensively that it wasn't really one anymore. He'd built the place out, added a hallway, and erected a gable on their flat roof.

But the house next door, the one that the Goodis family moved into during the blistering-hot summer of Matt's eighth year, was still the original, cramped floor plan.

Sam Goodis, his wife, Marla, and their son, Andy, kept to themselves. Sam was a huge man, covered with tattoos, and worked as a mechanic in the railroad yard.

In the nights that followed, Matt often heard slapping, and crying, and yelling, and things breaking in the Goodis house. He could rarely make out what was actually being said, beyond the pleading in Marla's voice and the rage in Sam's. He never heard a sound from Andy.

Matt went to his parents about it and asked them to do something, but they told him that what happened under another family's roof was none of their business and that it was best not to mix in.

So Matt was left to wonder why Marla was always bruised and why their son, Andy, never wanted to play and always seemed as furtive as a feral cat.

But that changed one Sunday when Matt's parents were at church and he was home sick with a stomach flu. He was in bed, a towel laid out on the bedspread and a bucket on his nightstand, when he heard a scratching sound under the floor.

He got out of bed, went down on his knees, and pressed his ear to the wood. And when he did, he could swear that he heard breathing.

There was a dog in the neighborhood that liked to bring the small animals and birds that it killed under their house. The dog would gut the animals, leaving the carcasses behind, and the rotting smell would permeate the entire house for days. Matt was nauseous enough as it was without having to deal with the smell, too.

So he got up, grabbed a flashlight and a broom, and went outside to scare away whatever animal was under their house. They'd had everything down there. Dogs, cats, snakes, rabbits, squirrels, even a rabid raccoon that his dad had to shoot.

But he'd never heard anything
breathing
down there before.

He stepped off the porch, lay down on his stomach, and peered into the crawl space under their raised foundation, sweeping the beam of his flashlight into the cobwebby darkness.

What he saw surprised him.

It was Andy, curled up in the deepest, darkest part, one of his eyes nearly swollen shut, blood on his cheek. Andy looked at Matt imploringly and raised a finger to his lips, mouthing a silent
Shhhh
.

Matt was puzzling over it when he felt a presence looming over him. He scooted back and looked up to see Sam Goodis standing behind him, shirtless and sweaty, holding a beer can in one hand and a leather belt in the other. The belt was wrapped once around his hand, and the silver buckle dangled in front of Matt's face.

"What are you doing down there, boy?"

Matt stared at the buckle.
There were specks of fresh blood on the hook.
He swallowed hard.

"Looking for money."

Sam snorted and took a slug of his beer. “You think there's buried treasure under your house?"

"I broke my piggy bank and some of the coins fell through the cracks in the floor."

It wasn't entirely a lie. It had actually happened, only it was a year ago. He figured he had a better chance not getting caught in a fib if it was at least partially based on truth.

"What do you need a flashlight and a broom for?"

"I'm afraid of spiders," he said. “There are some big ones under there."

"Well, now that I know there's money under your house, maybe one night I'll crawl under there and take it all for myself." Sam grinned and finished his beer. “What would you say to that?"

"That it'd be nice if a black widow bit you while you were down there."

Sam squatted down on his haunches, close enough that Matt could smell the beer on his breath.

"You got balls. That comes as a surprise. Have you seen my boy?" Sam looked him in the eye.

"Boy?"

Matt couldn't help stealing a quick glance under the house. Andy was shivering with terror. He looked up at Sam Goodis again.

"No, sir," Matt said.

"You see him, you tell him he's the most worthless creature that ever crawled out of a woman's snatch."

Sam tossed his empty beer can under the house, got to his feet, and walked down the street.

When Matt looked back under the house, Andy was gone. For the next few weeks, every time he heard a sound under the house, he feared it was Sam Goodis, looking for his money.

Andy escaped that beating, but there were more, for him and for his mother. The beatings went on for years, until Sam walked out one day when Andy was a teenager and never came back.

"After that, Mrs. Goodis and Andy were on their own and my parents started looking after them," Matt said now, watching Rachel idly go after the last few crumbs of the pie with her fork. “Dad would fix things up around their house. Mom would bring them leftovers. I made sure Andy always had a friend."

"That was very sweet of you," she said.

"If we'd shown that concern a few years earlier, we could have spared them both a lot of pain. But we pretended we didn't see the evil that was right in front of us. We turned our backs and hoped it would go away."

"It did," Rachel said.

Matt shook his head. “Sam Goodis was gone, but we still felt him. He was there in the scars, the ones you see and the ones you don't. That's why Andy is the way he is."

And that was why late one winter night, a couple of years back, Marla Goodis walked naked out onto Spirit Lake and fell through the ice, but Matt didn't tell Rachel about that.

"You were a child, Matt. None of it was your fault. You shouldn't feel guilty about what happened."

"But I do," Matt said.

He was the most sensitive, caring man Rachel had ever met, and she had never wanted to make love to anyone more than she wanted to with him at that moment. She reached across the table and took his hand.

"You don't have to pick me up in the morning for the ski trip. You can come over tonight instead." She looked him in the eye. “And stay with me."

He smiled. “I appreciate that, but I'm real tired and I've still got to pack."

"Right, pack, I forgot about that. I've got to do that, too." She started to withdraw her hand, but he didn't let her go. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"I'm looking forward to this trip."

"So am I." She kissed his hand, closing her eyes and pretending the wedding ring wasn't there.