Godspeed

by Nickolas Butler

  Sometimes, he reflected later, an orgasm could be as good a marker to measure one’s life as anything else.

  * * *

  —

  They walked out of the hospital just before lunch. She leaned her weight against him, and he slung an arm around her as they made their way through the parking lot toward her old Ford Bronco.

  It was two days before Christmas, and the day was dark, the light scant.

  “Look,” he began, “I’m through with the meth, and I can’t do much in the way of work, but I do have to get back to the site. The deadline’s Christmas morning. And if I can help out—even a little bit—I ought to. I need to.”

  She knew that arguing would be useless; one thing she loved about Bart was that he didn’t do drama. When he spoke, it was economically, with real thought.

  “I’ll take you out there, then,” she offered. “I’m on vacation until after Christmas anyway.”

  * * *

  —

  They drove east through one drowsy little town after another. Main streets not more than two blocks long. Old brick buildings lined with pickup trucks. Store windows lit with Christmas lights. Doors decorated in pine wreaths.

  On the plains below the mountains, horses and antelope watched them as they passed. Higher up, the temperatures dropped, and a light snow fell. By the time they reached the high passes, even the highway felt claustrophobic.

  “I’ve already decided that I’m retiring after this house is done,” he said to her at one point, after a long silence.

  He had not yet told her about the bonus, because he couldn’t be sure there would be a bonus. But if there was, if his partners had managed to pick up the slack for him, and if they could drag themselves over the finish line with the job done and done well, then . . . his life would be forever changed.

  “It’s not just—not just this,” he said, indicating his left arm. “Hell, it’s my knees, too. I’m in too much pain these days. I’ve gotta find something else, something new. Some new way. I’d sure as hell like to be able to get out of bed when I’m fifty.”

  Now he was almost talking to himself. He thought about Bill, about killing Bill, and ran a hand through his hair, wincing with regret and horror.

  “What I really want is to go someplace warm,” he confessed, drawing a little triangle in the fog on the window. “Someplace where I’ll feel, I don’t know, loose. Disconnected. Away from all the crap these days.”

  “What will you do when you get there?” she asked softly.

  “I could tend bar,” he said almost naturally, and though he hadn’t in fact given it a great deal of thought, those words seemed true enough. He could envision that: A Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops, shorts, looming large behind a rickety, sticky tiki bar, chatting up the tourist wives and bullshitting with their husbands—it wouldn’t be so different from the world of high-end construction. Walk home at the end of the night with a pocketful of bread and wake in the morning to putz around town; maybe do yoga three or four days a week, or swim. Paddleboard up and down the cerulean coast. Something to limber up those joints of his. To say nothing of putting some distance between himself and that sheriff, who would no doubt be sniffing around Gretchen’s house for clues, some explanation for the disappearance of two men . . .

  “I like dreaming with you,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile. “Margo, seriously—thank you. Thanks for coming out to get me. The taxicab fare back home would have been a real bitch.”

  “You moron,” she said playfully, “no one takes a cab anymore.”

  36

  Of all her years at one of the nation’s most prestigious law firms, those first twenty-three days of December marked the most hours she’d ever billed. She took not one day off, working nearly twenty hours a day, even as her body cannibalized itself, the stage IV cancer wasting her away. And yet, on Christmas Eve she awoke, retired. She lay in bed, long before dawn, listening to Abby’s gentle snores over in the guest bedroom. Only, Gretchen did not feel free then, released of whatever burden she’d felt the need to shake; she just felt . . . rudderless. The way a dinghy out in the open ocean is at once utterly independent and entirely vulnerable—vulnerable from every direction, including below, where a leviathan, say, might explode up from the bottomless depths and swallow the little craft whole.

  With great effort, she sat up then and dragged her skinny legs over the side of the bed, setting her feet down on the plush Afghan rug. She had hoped to wake up on this day, finally headed back to the mountains, with the energy she once enjoyed as a girl. She had hoped to bound out of bed, excitedly wake Abby, cook a hearty breakfast, and then rush them to the Learjet waiting at SFO for their flight east and into the mountains. Only now, she felt like simply falling back into bed, doing nothing more arduous than focusing on her breathing.

  Had she been alone, she might have just given up, might have made peace with the idea of spending her final days here, lamenting her end, coming to grips with the fact that she’d never even see her new house in the mountains, never experience retirement, the third and final act of her life, when, had things gone just a little differently, she might have finally met a partner, or even a husband, someone to spend time with, to travel with. . . . This realization frightened her—that the only thing separating her from giving up, quitting, was this young woman a room over, a young woman she barely even knew, though she certainly liked, perhaps even respected; a young woman who had performed a yeoman’s work these past several weeks: filing and mailing paperwork, packing bags, cleaning the penthouse, cooking, organizing shipments of furniture and personal goods, so the new house would be something more than just an elegant empty shell when they arrived, and, when they had a spare moment, sharing a meal or working her falcon together.

  Gretchen pulled herself back out of bed again and with great effort walked to the bathroom, where even the task of relieving herself felt monumental. Then she padded into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, checked her email, and finally knocked on Abby’s door.

  “Good morning,” she said softly.

  Abby sat up and called her in, perhaps slightly embarrassed that this older, severely weakened woman had managed to wake before her.

  Gretchen handed her a mug of black coffee. “Today is the day,” she said. “Christmas Eve.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “All right, I guess, all things considered.”

  “Lady, you don’t have to go anywhere if you’re not feeling up to this. It’ll all still be there tomorrow, I promise.”

  “I’ve been dreaming of this house since I was a little girl, Abby. It’s the only place I ever wanted to live. I’ve . . . well, I’ve made mistakes in my life, and when I think about it, that’s one thing I wish I had back. I should have figured out a way to make a living there. I could have been an attorney there, could’ve found my niche.”

  Aware that this bleak last-minute reflection was painted black, that in her final days, she was no font of gratitude or joy but only this rather weak trickle of regret, Gretchen shook her head as if to tell herself, No. The house, she hoped, would do something to change her mind-set, she was sure of that. That the house might be enough to put it all right.

  “It’s wheels up at noon,” Gretchen said, feeling a new vigor in her voice. “We land in the early afternoon. I have a reservation lined up at a beautiful boutique hotel in downtown Jackson and then dinner reservations at one of my favorite restaurants. Have you ever tasted Rocky Mountain oysters?”

  Abby shook her head, perplexed.

  “Everyone should try them at least once in their lives. And then . . . perhaps never again.”

  Abby rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  Gretchen smiled at the younger woman. “Oh, and look in that closet, will you? I bought you a little Christmas present.”

  Abby flopped the bedsheets away from her and walked
over to the closet. How Gretchen could have had the time to buy anything for Christmas, especially without Abby’s knowledge, she had no idea, and yet, there hung a brand-new, knee-length camel hair coat, a Burberry scarf, a pair of Frye boots, tight burgundy pants, and a chunky gray turtleneck sweater.

  “Jesus,” Abby sighed.

  “Hurry up,” Gretchen called on her way out of the room. “I’m making bacon, eggs, sausage, and toast. Something of a cowboy breakfast. Then I need you to call the car service and make sure everything is in order. I want our bags beside the door. And your hawk! Don’t forget that sweet dear. Take a shower, put your face on, and then come eat.”

  Abby hustled into the shower, thrilled by the expectation of flying on a private jet, of finally glimpsing this other side of her employer. Not that she hadn’t already seen plenty. Still, it was all so unreal.

  This bathroom in particular had spoiled her. The floor was heated, and inside the shower stall were eight separate jets that sprayed her body from every conceivable angle. The tilework had a playful luxe, with several shades of blue and green, mottled by whites and grays, and then the occasional pale orange, for effect. Gretchen’s soaps and shampoos, too, were themselves luxurious; the first time she’d taken a shower in Gretchen’s apartment, it all felt about as opulent as a free vacation at a four-star resort. The towels, the lighting, the big, wide mirror . . . Just standing in that space Abby felt more beautiful. Wrapped tightly in a towel, brushing out her hair, she noticed that her skin seemed more golden, luminous, even. She had never considered herself particularly attractive, had never been on more than a handful of dates in her life, but standing there, she caught herself wondering, maybe . . . Maybe she’d been too hard on herself. The steam filled the room, and she could not help but smile; her life just then seemed like a straight shot of good fortune.

  As she shut off the water and reached for a towel, the fire alarms began chirping loudly. She hadn’t smelled smoke, not with the perfumed scents of shampoo, conditioner, and soap filling the bathroom. But there it was, as she rushed to dry herself off—bacon left in the pan too long and burnt.

  “Gretchen!” she yelled out. “Hang on, I’ll be right there.”

  A moment later she opened the bathroom door to find the apartment filled with smoke. She quickly rushed to the windows and flung them open, letting in the December cold. She slung wide the sliding porch doors to the terrace and then, dashing to the kitchen island, found Gretchen on the floor, blood issuing from a wound on her forehead, the breakfast, in two different pans, burnt and ruined and smoking, the bread in the toaster suddenly popping up.

  “Gretchen,” she said, leaning close to her employer. “Gretchen, can you hear me? Gretchen!”

  She reached for her phone and dialed 911, but when the operator asked Abby where the emergency was, the young woman suddenly realized she had never properly learned Gretchen’s address.

  By then, the falcon was screeching in its cage and someone was pounding away at the door.

  “Hold on,” she told the operator, realizing the words could just as well be directed at Gretchen. “Just a second. Someone’s at the door!”

  She ran to the entryway, where a silver-haired man dressed in navy-blue silk pajamas stood, a phone in his hand. Beginning to tear up in fright, Abby shook her head and led him out of the foyer and into the kitchen.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, bending his neck to peer around Abby to where Gretchen lay on the floor. “Jesus!” he shouted, pushing past Abby and quickly locating a kitchen towel, which he then held against Gretchen’s bleeding forehead.

  “Call an ambulance!” he cried.

  “I did,” she said, realizing the phone was still in her hand. “What’s the address here?”

  “The Newman. Laguna and Jackson.”

  He knelt close to Gretchen, his ear directly over her mouth, one of his great, soft hands encircling her frail little wrists. As Abby looked on, she realized just how fragile Gretchen was, how much weight she’d lost this past month, how pale her skin had become.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man asked Abby. “I mean, have you even taken a look at her lately?”

  Abby took a step back.

  “Christ, she looks half-dead!” he yelled. “Must’ve lost forty pounds.”

  “She has cancer,” Abby said quietly. “I’m her caretaker.” She clutched the bath towel around her tighter, feeling incredibly vulnerable.

  The man shook his head. “She’s breathing, but . . . I can barely find a pulse.”

  He peered around the apartment before his eyes stopped on the cage, where Abby’s falcon nervously moved from roost to roost, bobbing its head, its eyes blinded behind a hood.

  “What the hell is that? A fucking eagle?”

  * * *

  —

  Gretchen’s eyes opened as the gurney she lay on was wheeled swiftly through the halls of the hospital. Abby walked alongside, holding Gretchen’s hand and peering down at her.

  “Oh, thank god,” Abby said. “I was so scared.”

  “Thanks,” Gretchen whispered.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” Abby said. “Just—relax and hold on. You’re in good hands.” She squeezed Gretchen’s hand.

  “Get . . . my . . . checkbook,” Gretchen managed quietly.

  The gurney moved on down the hallway, through the din of nurses and doctors loudly talking, through doors shutting, past vending machines rattling out cans of soda or bags of potato chips. . . .

  “Gretchen, I—”

  “You . . . have . . . to . . . ,” Gretchen continued, “get . . . out . . . there. . . .”

  “Gretchen, I can hardly hear you,” Abby said, leaning closer to the older woman’s lips. “Please, just relax now, okay?”

  “Get . . . on . . . that . . . plane . . . ,” Gretchen said, reaching up for a fistful of Abby’s hair.

  “Stop!” Abby shouted at the EMTs.

  And with that, the gurney came to an abrupt halt. Abby pressed her left ear just above Gretchen’s mouth.

  “Go home . . . get my checkbook,” she began. “Get the plane . . . and fly . . . out . . . there. . . .”

  Gretchen gasped for a breath, writhing slightly.

  “Okay, I’ll head back to your apartment, I’ll get your checkbook, and yes, I’ll fly out there.”

  Gretchen nodded, then motioned with a thin index finger for Abby to lower her ear again.

  “You . . . pay . . . those men,” she said hoarsely. “They’ll . . . be . . . waiting . . . for . . . you.” Then Gretchen relaxed her grip of Abby’s hair and instead gently caressed her face.

  “I will,” Abby promised. “I’ll pay them. But they’re waiting for you, Gret—”

  “Directions,” Gretchen croaked, “in . . . a drawer . . . by . . . my bed. Amounts . . . to . . . pay . . . them. And . . . my . . . attorney . . .”

  But she said no more. And in that instant, the EMTs sprang back into action, one of them ushering Gretchen down that long, cool tiled hallway while the other began jogging in earnest toward the Intensive Care Unit.

  * * *

  —

  Three hours later, Abby sat on that time-share jet, so discombobulated and frenzied and, yes, sad that she barely took a single sip from the flute of champagne she was offered. Instead, she spent the entire trip reading and rereading the note her employer had kept in the top drawer of her bedside table, sealed in an envelope that was itself notarized and signed by Gretchen across its sealed flap.

  The note read:

  Dear Abigail,

  In the event that I am unable to travel in order to oversee the final inspection of my new house at 1 Granite Peak Road, Jackson, Wyoming 83001, I have with sound mind written the following instructions for you.

  Please make your way to my new house on the morning of December 25. Acting as my proxy, you will inspe
ct the construction. Pay close attention to detail. If the house was built to the standards that I have demanded from the builders, then you are empowered to deliver the principle partners of True Triangle Construction two (2) checks.

  The first check is for meeting their deadline. In appreciation for each partner’s extraordinary hard work under time constraints and great duress, you are empowered to deliver a check for $525,000.00 to True Triangle Construction, LLC.

  The second check is a bonus based on my own goodwill. Please deliver a check for $300,000.00 to True Triangle Construction, LLC.

  Both of these aforementioned checks are in this envelope, already signed and dated.

  Upon completing the inspection, I encourage you to spend a week residing in the house. This will allow you the time to detect any more significant mechanical errors that the contractors should immediately remedy.

  Should I die before I can travel to the house, please immediately call my attorney, Aarav Reddy, of the firm Cross + Spence, based out of San Francisco, CA.

  Thank you very much for your service, Abigail. You have been a fine employee and companion to me these past several weeks.

  Sincerely,

  Your friend,

  Gretchen

  The plane landed on a small runway in a wide, snow-cloaked valley. The pilots and flight attendant carried Abby’s two bags across the tarmac and into the terminal, where they shook hands and said their Merry Christmases. A driver stood holding a placard with Gretchen’s name. Once Abby introduced herself, he shouldered her bags and escorted her toward an idling black Cadillac Escalade. They drove wordlessly toward town.

  Inside the hotel, she tipped the driver as he handed her the rather light luggage she’d brought and showed him the address for the following morning. He did not seem to care that this would be Christmas morning, and if the location of the new house was incredibly remote or unknown to him, it did not register on his face; they shook hands, and after a slight bow, he walked out of the lobby, back into the cold.