Godspeed

by Nickolas Butler

He found his friend carrying lumber from the first floor to the second, big armfuls of lumber, his eyes and muscles bulging, sweat pouring off his reddened face. Clearly the guy was amped up and hearing nothing but Jimi.

  “Bart!” Cole yelled.

  His friend startled, losing his grip on the lumber, which then spilled out of his cradling arms and went clunking down the makeshift stairs in an avalanche of two-by-fours.

  “Jesus,” Bart said, “didn’t even hear you. Scared the shit out of me.”

  “You okay?” Cole yelled. The music was rising to a crescendo of wild guitar and vocals; for a moment, Cole recollected an image of Hendrix lighting his Fender Strat on fire.

  “Yeah,” said Bart a little shakily. “I guess it’s the moon or something. Just couldn’t get to sleep to save my life.”

  But of course, it wasn’t the moon. It was the vial of cocaine back in Bart’s truck. Or maybe it was the shabby solitude of his squalid little apartment. Or there again, that Lonely Planet guide to Panama and the promise of never-ending sun, rarely visited crescent moon–shaped beaches, and the Atlantic Ocean showing every shade of green-in-blue. Bart had nothing else in the world but this house and the money they had been promised—one narrow way out of this mundane, haggard life of his. And he was willing to work himself down to the bone to grab that golden ring.

  12

  The protocol is this: Materials need to be bought; subcontractors need to be paid; and of course, the general contractor needs to be paid. So, the general writes up what is known as a draw, basically a bill, an invoice. The homeowner okays the draw, and the draw is then examined by a title company before the bank releases the money to that title company, which then in turn passes it to the general contractor for disbursement. In this way, there is oversight, checks and balances. Theoretically, no one is gouging anyone.

  The day after Halloween, Gretchen flew back to monitor progress on the house. The roof was on, the outer shell of the house had been wrapped in Tyvek and sided, windows had been installed, the drywall was up and waiting to be taped and mudded, and in that first week of November, the electricians and plumbers would begin their work.

  The house had not only taken form but was somehow nearing the early phases of completion. The work that remained was in the details: trim, painting, tiles, cabinetry, countertops, fixtures, appliances, lighting, sinks, toilets, faucets, carpeting. . . . Hundreds of moving parts to be sure, but by god, the building was sealed; a person could live there if they needed to. The space wasn’t yet luxurious, but it was more or less habitable.

  Cole, Bart, and Teddy met her where the road ended and walked her over the bridge and up the driveway to the house, pausing meaningfully to take in the structure.

  “That was—pardon me, ma’am—a helluva roof to install,” Cole said to her. “That there is high-quality standing-seam metal, the best we’ve ever worked with, heavier than shit, and it should last fifty—who knows?—seventy-five, maybe a hundred years. And because you’ve got a smart, south-facing alignment for this house, the snow just ain’t gonna build up on that sumbitch either. I can’t wait to see it, to be honest. This house is gonna shrug off the snow like a fuckin’ afterthought.”

  For the first time that they could remember, they heard Gretchen laugh.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Cole apologized. “Our language out here can . . . deteriorate. Beg your pardon.”

  She touched his forearm to let him know it was okay, lightly, like a butterfly landing on a flower, and he felt the pads of her fingers graze his arm hair. He peered surreptiously at her; not squarely, not directly in the eyes, but just a stealing glance as he continued talking about the roof and pointing to how the gutters would run. On this day, she looked closer to fifty, he had to admit, or fifty-five, though beautiful, of course. But there was something about her skin that struck him as . . . less vital. Maybe it was the change in seasons; they were all seeing much less of the sun now, all of them slowly growing paler. Or maybe it was just the stress of building the house. All that money spent, the extra phone calls, and the travel time between there and her home in California.

  “Gentlemen, you can relax. Not my first time at the rodeo.”

  They moved closer to the house.

  “So, your garage doors should arrive any day. Real dandies. That nice semi-industrial look you wanted. Quiet and dependable. There won’t be another garage with a better view than yours, especially with all that glass in them doors. And the entryway-mudroom is going to be a stunner. Very utilitarian, but I think that west-facing window is going to make a statement that you’re not entering any old house.”

  They walked through the garage and up a flight of roughed-in stairs to the first floor.

  “A person could damn near use an elevator in this house,” Bart joked.

  “It’s funny, actually,” Gretchen said as they reached the first floor. “I’ve always thought of stairs as a form of life insurance.”

  Oh, but the house was beautiful. And the men could see by the look on her face that she was delighted. Even such as it was, still lacking finished flooring, paint, lighting, appliances, furniture, the space sang. This first floor was long and open and inviting, and those stairs that led up from the garage deposited you smack in the middle of the floor plan, presenting a breathtaking view of the land south: to the left, the hot springs; directly in front, the driveway leading to the bridge and river, and beyond that, mountains; and, finally, to the right, one of the huge cliff-faces, always shining, generously sharing its refracted light with the rest of the house.

  Gretchen covered her mouth with one hand.

  “Ma’am,” Teddy said, “you all right? Everything okay?”

  “Oh, my,” she breathed. “It’s just—this is what I’ve always wanted. Just . . . This view, right here, going on forever.”

  “So those windows will work for you? Them frames will be okay?” Teddy asked. “You sure had us worried a few weeks back.”

  “No, no, no.” She laughed breezily. “The windows are magnificent. I don’t know what came over me. You gentlemen were right, there isn’t a bad view in the house.”

  They walked to the would-be kitchen area, practically hanging over the hot springs, and Bart very professionally outlined where the counters would be, where the twelve-by-four island would be stationed, the refrigerator, and so on. They’d marked spaces for everything on the floor in pink-colored masking tape.

  “There’s still plenty to do,” Bart said, “but at this point, it’s more like air-traffic control. It’s managing all the subs. Making sure we get the right timing. We ain’t gonna lie to you, Gretchen. It’s gonna be close. But we think we can make it.”

  Turning toward the center of the house, they interrupted Bill, who was busy grouting stones into place around the hearth. He stood up, and before he could even clean off his hands, Gretchen had given him a short hug. The big man blushed and continued wiping his hands with a wet cloth.

  The hearth was dramatic, a work of art in the making, no doubt about it, and Cole had to admit he could understand Gretchen’s loyalty to this man. Bill was a true craftsman, and as they stood there, Gretchen touching a rock here or there, he described how he’d alternated the placement of different rocks, some standing upright, others lying down; how he’d created an exhibition of sorts to let the hearth display the personalities of the rocks.

  “Look,” he went on, “this is greenstone, from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. And this is Baraboo quartzite from north of Madison, Wisconsin. Beautiful, huh? I collect these stones from my travels. Road trips I take, here and there. Actually got a dinosaur fossil encased in some stone from Montana . . . Nothing crazy, just a prehistoric fish, but . . .”

  “Bill,” Bart said, “we’ve been working on this site for six weeks now and we ain’t heard you say shit, and now you’re gushing on and on about prehistoric fish?”

  The mason blushed ag
ain and peered down at his boots.

  “When Bill has something to say,” Gretchen put in, as she slid her arm around his elbow, linking them together, “he says it.”

  She moved toward the living room, and the men followed, leaving Bill to return to his work. Now she stood at the center window, holding her elbows and looking south. Cole, Bart, and Teddy simply watched her expectantly. She coughed into a small fist. “So,” she said at length, “are we still on schedule, gentlemen?”

  Cole glanced at his partners and then nodded. “We think so, ma’am,” he said. “Yes. Barring anything totally unexpected.”

  “Magnificent,” she said. “Well, you’ve done incredible work, I have to say, and not just in terms of the tempo either. Very impressive. Now, why don’t you show me to the third floor.”

  They marched up another flight of roughed-in stairs to the top floor of the house, and in the space where the master bedroom would soon be, Gretchen stood quietly, leaning against the window, her breath fogging the glass.

  “Would you give me a moment?” she said.

  “Uh, of course,” Cole said. “We’ll be just down on the driveway. Take your time.”

  Fifteen minutes later she met them outside the garage, her demeanor once more all-business. “Gentlemen, you’ve done superb work here. As I’ve told you before, Bill has worked on some of my other properties, and he confirms what I’m observing today. You’re as good as your word. Just to say, I am more than happy to sign your draw.”

  “Wonderful,” Cole breathed. Each draw amounted to over two million dollars, and each time he organized the invoices and tallied their own labor, the sums had simply stupefied him. He’d never been so close to such deep wealth. In fact, he found the ledger-balance of his own life completely incongruent with the work he was performing there. How was it possible, he wondered, to own no house, to have no savings, no college education, no art, nothing, really—not a single artifact to mark his nearly forty years on the planet—and yet find himself here, building this shrine in the mountains? The sheer disconnect of it sometimes left him dumbfounded and the only solace he took was that this house, in some small way, was also his impression, his legacy, even if his name was not etched on any surface, any stone.

  Even now, he could hardly say he really knew Gretchen. He had no idea what her job was, whether her money was actually earned or just accumulated through the generations proceeding her, as a birthright. There were so many days when he stood up to stretch his back, and looked over the other men on the site, marveling at how each moved as if on some predetermined track: pouring concrete or running a bulldozer, driving a semitruck or carrying loads of rock up to Bill for the fireplace. . . . Of course, this was just the way of things, he had reasoned, the way it had always been, perhaps, for time immemorial. Right here, right now, these men were busy building this latter-day “enlightened” palace for someone clearly beyond wealthy, where thousands of years earlier it would have been the same story, only multiplied by many hundreds, constructing a pyramid for some man who fancied himself a god. There were those who built and those who did the building. Just as there were those who got on with it and those who didn’t.

  Still, it unnerved Cole. And after Gretchen signed the paperwork, shook their hands, and walked back to her vehicle, Cole’s head throbbed with something like resentment. Yes, he loved construction; he was proud of the company he’d formed with his friends and appreciated being his own boss; yes, he liked working outside in the elements, the caress of the sun on his neck, the early-morning fog that made his morning coffee taste better, or the heat of a cigarette in the dampness after an afternoon rain squall. He knew he was probably unfit to do anything else, too, and yet . . . His vocation, he now better understood, was essentially the very same thing it had been back on those ski lifts or working as a bartender: He was in the business of providing pleasure to the top tenth of one percent of the population. It was as simple as that.

  Dust rose in the air from Gretchen’s vehicle as it retreated down the mountain. Cole looked again at the check in his dirty hand: $2,427,750.00. Jesus Christ.

  13

  The following day, the men were gathered in the garage, eating their lunches, a light rain falling outside, when they watched with curiosity as a sheriff’s truck pulled across the bridge, up the driveway, and parked twenty paces away from the house.

  “Now what the hell is this about?” Bart asked in a low voice.

  “Beats me,” Cole said. “I ain’t done anything wrong. How about you, Teddy?”

  “No way. Never had so much as a speeding ticket. In my life. Anyway, I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong,” Teddy said, a hint of guilt in his voice. “I mean, I hope not.”

  The sheriff stepped out of the truck, and a moment later, a fellow in his early thirties opened the passenger door and climbed out into the drizzle.

  “Afternoon,” said the sheriff.

  The men stood and wiped their hands on their pants, on pieces of paper towel.

  “Oh, I don’t mean to bother you none. This here feller just forgot a tool and given the stipulations of that NDA your boss had him sign, he felt like it was the proper thing to have an escort up here. I don’t blame him.”

  “Sure as hell glad to be done with this place,” the man said.

  “A tool?” Cole said softly.

  “Any of you guys see a Milwaukee cordless drill and two batteries?” the sheriff called out.

  “Yeah,” Bart said. “Funny you should ask. We got it right here. Wondered who’d left such a nice tool up here.”

  He stood from the pile of lumber he’d been sitting on, and after retrieving a small cardboard box, he handed it to the man.

  “Hey,” Cole said, “maybe—if you wouldn’t mind—uh, is there any possibility you could tell us what happened here? Why you fellows had to walk off the job?”

  The man scoffed. “What is this, a trick? I tell you what happened, and you scabs go back and tell her and get our deals ixnayed. No dice, assholes. I appreciate you keepin’ my drill safe, but I ain’t spillin’ no beans.”

  And with that, he tipped a dusty baseball hat in their direction and climbed back into the truck. Then the door opened again, and the man climbed out, leaning against the truck.

  “Actually,” the man said, “I’ll say this much. I don’t envy you sumbitches one bit. You’re doing the devil’s work, and you don’t even know it.”

  And with that, he slammed the door.

  “Gentlemen,” the sheriff said, turning his back to them and walking to his truck.

  “Wait a minute,” Cole said. “That fella might’ve signed an NDA, but you haven’t. Clue us in, Sheriff. Don’t you think we got a right to know?”

  The officer stopped, turned on his heels, and looked back at the house for a long time before addressing Cole. “You fellers really don’t know, do ya?”

  They shook their heads in the negative.

  “A worker died here,” the sheriff began. “They was working round-the-clock, and a feller was up on them top I-beams after dark and toppled off.” The lawman made a motion with his hand, like a bird falling out of the sky, and then hitting ground. “Broke his back in multiple places. He was more or less dead on impact; skull fracture, massive bleeding. I came out the following day to talk to witnesses, but it didn’t much matter. No one was directly responsible. We ruled it an accident. A stupid, preventable accident. Wasn’t like anyone could press charges, so there’s nothing on the record. I guess your boss talked to the man’s family and paid off the rest of the crew for their silence.”

  “Where’d he fall?” Teddy asked.

  “Over yonder,” the sheriff said, pointing near the hot springs.

  “Sonuvabitch,” Bart said. “Son of a bitch.”

  “You boys be careful,” the sheriff warned. “That man died because he was being worked. The word around the campfire was th
at he hadn’t slept in three days. Now, good day to you.”

  They watched the sheriff’s truck reverse, and then pull back down the road.

  “You gonna call her?” Bart asked Cole. “Or should I?”

  “Oh, I’ll call her,” Cole said. “I say we call her right now.”

  They piled into Cole’s truck—all three of them—and rode out to the highway, where the cell reception was good enough for Cole’s phone to find a signal. He dialed Gretchen’s number and then turned the phone’s speaker on for all to listen.

  “Cole,” she said warmly enough, “what news from Wyoming?”

  He laughed darkly and looked at his friends. “What news, Gretchen? Well, a little bird just told us what went down at your house before we were hired on. You got any comment on that? Any comment on working a man until he fucking died?”

  There was a brief pause, and the men looked at one another and out the rain-slicked windshield as a logging truck rushed by on the highway.

  “That man,” Gretchen said, “was notoriously noncompliant with standard safety protocol. He didn’t care to, for example, wear a helmet. And the day he died, he was not strapped into a harness, which would have certainly saved his life. He was also known to begin drinking at five in the evening whether he was done working or not. He fell about twenty feet away from his last can of Steel Reserve. . . . Not that it really matters, but I also examined his criminal records, where I discovered that he had been arrested for three incidents of drunken driving and two instances of not paying child support. Those details are not necessarily germane to the question you are asking, but they illustrate that this man was no saint. . . . So, Mr. McCourt, would you like to rephrase your question?”

  The men stared at one another, the cab of the truck filled with a strange combination of dread, remorse, and anger.

  “Well, a little honesty would have been appreciated,” Cole said. “We don’t care for being called scabs, ma’am, and it does make a little more sense now, why that crew walked off the job such as they did. One of their guys died, and from what we heard, he’d been working for days on end.”