by Matt Moss
I turn to Gibbs. “I’m starting to think losing this bet isn’t such a bad idea.”
Gibbs gives me a wink. “Does that mean you’re still in?” he asks.
“I bet you won’t miss,” I tell him, a weak attempt to try and get inside his head to make him nervous.
He goes about his business like a man possessed. I’ve never seen such laser-focus, such effortless skill. If throwing cards were a profession, Gibbs would be an assassin.
Twenty more cards fall in the hat, which earns me another shot and a joint to go with it. By the time Gibbs sinks forty-nine, my head’s buzzing and, for a second, I think I’m seeing things as a card skips off the edge of the hat and lands on the floor. I walk to inspect it, just to make sure. I turn back to Gibbs, wide-eyed.
He shrugs. “It’s like you said. Gotta miss sometime.” He stands up and inclines a nod, both arms held behind his back. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Truth.”
“Truth? Damn. I was looking forward to a dare.”
I got so caught up in the excitement of asking him for the truth that I never really narrowed it down to a question. I’ve had so many questions since I got here, but now can’t think of one for the life of me. “Shit,” I mumble, searching for something.
“Beg your pardon?” Gibbs asks.
“Nothing,” I say and ask him the first thing that comes to mind. “Why didn’t we go to work today?”
Idiot! Of all the things you could have asked…
Gibbs walks to the bar and pours himself a shot. “We didn’t go to work because, the way I see it, we’re done with work.”
“Done with work? Like done, done?” Benji asks.
“Done, done,” Gibbs confirms. “Life’s too short to work it all away. I say we party everyday from now on and never work again.”
“Won’t argue with that,” Donald says and raises his glass.
Gibbs takes a shot and slams the glass down. “I’m bored. Let’s go do something else,” he says to all of us. We finish our drinks and place them on the bar.
Everyone turns to leave, but before we do so, Gibbs turns around and looks at the hat that’s nearly fifty feet away. He’s got a card in his hand, twirling it about. “Double or nothing if I hit this shot, Cole.”
Impossible. “Throw it.”
It goes in.
“Hot damn, I’m on fire!” Gibbs shouts and pumps a fist in the air.
Benji’s drunken ass pats me on the shoulder again. “Told you. He doesn’t miss.”
My head begins to buzz and I look Gibbs in the eye. “You win. What’ll it be now?”
Gibbs matches my gaze with a gleam in his eye. “We’ll save it for a later time. And when I come calling, I expect you to stay true to the bet.”
“No worries.”
“Alright, then.” Gibbs nods and offers his hand for us to go down the hall. “Come on. Let’s see what Red’s up to.”
“Damn,” Donald says and shakes his head as he goes. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. How can someone be that good?” He leaves with Eve, discussing the odds of hitting that last shot, let alone all the others.
Abram slides beside Jane and pulls her into the hall. “Come on babe, I got something I want to show you.” She giggles and flirts back with him as they walk past me and out of sight, leaving me alone with Gibbs.
He offers me passage. “After you.”
Mr. Red meets us in the foyer and invites us all into the kitchen. “Today, I think everyone should help prepare the meal.” We follow him through the dining room and into the kitchen.
He stands over a dead deer that’s lying on the hardwood floor and we all gather around, stunned and gazing in awe. We’re looking at the beast with mixed feelings; one being that this is the first animal we’ve seen in our five month stay on the farm. And two, there’s a communal feel of remorse for the deer.
“I didn’t think animals lived here,” Benji croaks, almost in tears.
“Where do you think the meat comes from? Of course there’s animals here,” Gibbs says as a matter of fact.
“It’s just…I’ve never seen one.”
“Doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
Mr. Red pulls a filet knife from the counter. “There’s something great about killing and preparing the meat yourself. Most people don’t know where their meat comes from, let alone how it’s produced. They don’t care. But taking a life and consuming it… in a way, it’s spiritual,” Red says. He begins to work the knife, sawing from anus to sternum. He opens the stomach, allowing purple and white guts to spill, the blood pouring out and pooling on the floor. Benji jumps back before it touches his boots.
“Don’t be scared of a little blood,” Mr. Gibbs says and fetches a cup. He scoops it full of blood from the inside of the carcass and takes a drink.
“What the hell are you doing! Why would you do that?” Benji asks, his face a vision of horror.
Gibbs wipes the blood from his mouth with his hand. “It’s a ritual. Always drink the blood of your first kill. It awakens the warrior spirit and binds the soul of the prey to the hunter, confirming that all things pass away in one way or another and turn to dust. We honor its sacrifice and welcome its soul to become part of our own.” He hands the cup to Donald.
“Why not.” Donald states and takes a drink. Reverently, he passes it to Eve and she drinks like it’s wine. Jane does the same and hands it to Abram, who nearly chokes as the blood fills his mouth. He shakes his head after swallowing, and then hands it to Benji.
Benji shakes his head. “I’m not doing it.”
“You have to,” Abram says.
“No, I don’t,” Benji states, his anger growing by the second. He stares down at the deer with sorrowful eyes.
“It’s alright. He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to. That just means he won’t eat from it,” Mr. Red proclaims, kneeling beside the beast. He pulls the rest of the intestines out with a hand, and cuts through whatever remains to hold them in place. He scoops the guts into a large bowl and places it in the sink.
Abram turns to me and offers me the cup. “Here you go, Cole,” he says with blood around his mouth. I take it from him, drain what’s left, then hand it back without batting an eye. Gibbs smiles as I do so, then looks to Red. “Mr. Red, how can we help?”
Mr. Red stands up and wipes the sweat from his brow, smearing a red streak across his face. “First we remove the skin, then we can start butchering. Jane, could you fetch us four knives please?”
“Sure,” she says. In seconds, she hands the knives to everyone except for Benji who’s standing far off and to the side. He’s doesn’t want to watch, but can’t look away.
Mr. Red holds a leg up to demonstrate. “Cut around the ankle, here,” he points with the blade, then begins to cut around the hoof. “Then split the skin down the inside of the leg until you reach the end, here.” He explains this as the knife cuts and saws through the flesh. “The hair makes it tough to cut, so you have to work the knife and pull the skin at the same time, like this,” he says and makes quick work of the demonstration. He stands up and points for us to do our share.
It takes the three of us much longer. We look about as awkward as a one-legged man trying to kick a football. Donald’s the first one done and looks like he’s enjoying the process way too much. At one point, Abram nearly gags and turns his face away.
“It’s the smell that gets ya,” Gibbs notes. “Some smell worse than others.”
After Red inspects and is satisfied with our work, he turns the carcass on its stomach. “Now, start peeling it like a banana,” he says and points to the hind legs. “Go all the way to the neck. Remember, use the knife to cut as you pull.”
We work together and it peels back fairly easily, leaving red meat, veins, and white strings of tendon and muscle exposed. When it’s all peeled back and draped over the head, Gibbs walks up with a machete. The first blow cuts halfway through the neck until it hits the spine,
and he wrenches it free as we all watch. He brings the machete down hard and hacks at it once more. The head falls away. With bloody blade in hand, he stands tall and overlooks his work—his chest rising, arms held away from his body with a steel grip on the large blade. “Meat of the Day,” he says.
“I’ll do the butchering today, but will show you all how some other time,” Mr. Red says and hoists the carcass onto a large table at the edge of the kitchen—the table with scarred wood making it look more like a large carving board.
Gibbs places the machete on the counter and washes his hands in the sink. “Now that the work’s done, let’s take it to the living room.”
“And what will you be taking to the living room, might I ask?” Mr. Whyte says from out of nowhere, standing behind us. All eyes turn to him.
Gibbs smiles at him the way he always does when he’s the one running things in Whyte’s absence. “The other night, we danced and listened to music. Figured we’d shake it up a bit. Tomorrow is Friday—game night—where we will be playing Texas Hold‘em. I say tonight, we can all just chill and take it easy.” He flings the water from his hands when he’s through washing and dries them on a towel as he turns to Whyte. “There’s gotta be some down time in between all the fun to make it worthwhile. Everyone needs a change from time to time. Getting too used to a way of living can be dangerous, can’t it, Mr. Whyte?”
Whyte glares at him and tightens his grip on his cane.
“I love Texas Hold’em,” Donald says.
Abram snorts. “It’s not a bull-milking contest, Don.”
Donald flips him the bird. “It’s poker, smart-ass. Seen it played on TV.”
“Do whatever you like,” Mr. Whyte says in annoyance, tired of the banter, and seemingly tired of Gibbs. He looks at me. “Cole, care to join me?” Before I can answer, he leaves the room.
“Sure thing, Mr. Whyte.”
After he’s gone, Abram mimics me like a child. “Sure thing, Mr. Whyte.” Everyone laughs. I look at all their smiling faces with the blood on the floor, and on the table, and on their hands. They wait for a reply that doesn’t come from me. I turn and leave. Sometimes, that’s the best course of action, and delivers the most effect. Just walk away.
“Mr. Whyte, wait up,” I say, catching up to him as he goes into the living room. He walks to the left side of the room and looks back to see if anyone else is watching. “Remember when I told you that I would tell you things… show you things?” I nod my head, wondering what he could be so nervous about. He pivots a large painting that hangs on the wall and pulls a secret lever that’s hidden behind. The wall opens like a door. The hall is lit and, after he closes the door behind us, I inspect the gaps between the door and the wall, looking for light on the outside. “It’s like you can’t even tell that there’s a door here. Even now that I know, I can barely spot the outline.”
Mr. Whyte smiles approvingly and leads us down the hallway. It only turns once before ending. Whyte goes to the dead-end wall and pushes. “Look familiar?” he asks as we step into the smoking room beside the gun case. Everything had been cleaned up, all the debris removed, leaving the room somewhat blank and empty-feeling. The guns still hang on the wall.
“Nobody knows about that passageway, not even the farmhands.” He walks to stand in front of the arsenal, looking over his collection in earnest. “I only show you this in case of an emergency, in the chance that you may have to defend yourself or someone else.”
“From Mr. Gibbs?” I ask, figuring that’s who he’s referring to.
“I don’t know how much longer I got, Cole. Something is dying inside me and I’m afraid that it won’t stop. I’ve tried to stop it, but I’ve been fighting it for so long…” he looks to me, eyes watering. “I’m tired. Tired of it all…”
“It’s alright, Mr. Whyte. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. We’re in this together, right? So if you need anything, just let me know.” It’s the best I can do to make him feel better.
“Thank you.” He walks to where the whiskey sits, but doesn’t pull a bottle. He pulls a couple cigars instead, and hands one to me. We stand and walk about the room, enjoying the smoke and enjoying small talk about nothing. It’s nice to not think about things sometimes and just be. There’s a time and place for the heavy stuff, and it should remain that way.
“Leave it to the fates, right?” I say in reference to my own thoughts. “That’s what Mr. Aurelius would say, right?”
Mr. Whyte perks up. “So, you did read the book. I half-expected you might.”
I smile. “It contained some good advice, but I just don’t understand why you wanted me to read it so badly.”
He touches me on the shoulder and smiles proudly. “A book—a bit of words on paper—can change the course of one’s life and shape destiny itself. A single book can change the world.”
“Maybe.” A thought strikes me. “Have you ever written a book?”
“Me? Heavens no. Wouldn’t know where to start,” he replies.
“Have you ever thought about it?”
He looks away in remembrance. “One time…so very long ago.”
“Then that’s where you start. Go back to that time and remember how you felt,” I tell him.
He looks at me, a bit surprised. “Maybe I will one day.” He walks to the window and looks outside.
Now that he’s feeling better, maybe he’ll answer some of my questions. “Did you want to tell me anything else? Or was this just to let me know about the secret passage?”
He turns his gaze up at the blue sky. “I think you’re almost ready. First, answer me one question.”
Please don’t ask me to play truth or dare.
He turns to me with a most earnest gaze. “Why are you here?”
I nearly laugh at the audacious question. “Seriously? That’s what I’ve been wanting you to tell me since I got here. I have no freaking clue why I’m here.”
He cocks his head. “I can’t answer that question for you. You must find the answer yourself.”
“How am I supposed to know the answer? Where am I supposed to find it?”
“You’ll find it,” he assures me. “One day, the answer will come and your life will never be the same.” He opens the secret door, signaling me it’s time to leave. “When you can answer my question, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
My heart drops at the impossible question and the probability of him telling me anything about my past. “Sure, Mr. Whyte.” As we approach the living room, we can hear the others through the inside of the secret door. Mr. Whyte stops me. “We can’t go the way we came in,” he whispers and leads us back to the smoking room. “Out the window,” he points. It’s a bit of a struggle, but eventually opens and, by my best guess, probably hasn’t been opened in quite some time. We hop out the window and onto the front porch. I close the window behind us.
“I’ll go back inside. You wait out here for a while and keep yourself busy. Don’t want to make them more suspicious of us than they already are,” Whyte says.
“Okay. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I head towards the barn for some water, but before I can get off the steps, Whyte stops me. “Cole, if I don’t see you, I’ll be going away again this evening and won’t be back for a couple days.”
“Where are you going?”
He looks away, then looks back to me with a forced grin. “To town. I don’t want to, but I have to. When I get back, hopefully you’ll have the answer to that question.”
I match his grin, and part of me will miss him even though he’ll only be gone for a couple days. I enjoy talking with him and find him easy to be around. “I’ll try. Have a safe trip.” He winks at me before going inside.
My mouth is dry from the cigar so I make my way to the well.
“I saw you and Mr. Whyte climbing out of the window. You know, there’s this thing called a door…” Larry says, meeting me outside the barn.
“Yeah… it’s kind of hard to explain. We need to ta
lk.” After quenching my thirst, Larry and I take a walk. I tell him everything. I go in detail about what’s been going on with the farmhands, the girls, and the way the guys are acting lately. How the relationships between everyone in the group are getting weird and possessive, controlling and obsessive. How Gibbs is running the show, and how Mr. Whyte seems to be getting worse. “All they want to do is party all the time.” I look to Larry for help.
Larry nods and, for a moment, looks like a wise sage as he gathers his thoughts. “I thought Fridays were seafood nights, not poker nights.” After dropping that nugget of wisdom, he goes about looking at trees and grass and clouds as usual, his head following his eyes, darting from one to the next.
“Seriously? After everything I just unpacked on you, that’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Tell me I’m just being paranoid. Tell me that everything’s going to be okay.”
“I can’t do that. One, I’m not your mother. Two, I’d be lying because there’s no way anyone can know that it’s going to be okay. But your feelings are valid, for what it’s worth.”
I stop walking. “So you think something bad’s going to come of all this, too.”
He stops and turns to me. “Idle hands are tools of the devil…” he states. I wait for him to continue. He looks at me funny. “It’s something I heard one time,” he says in defense.
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means that nothing good comes from doing nothing all the time. If a man has nothing to do—if he’s not given a purpose—he’ll find something to do to pass the time. And human beings are born to self-destruct. Put two and two together.”
His words ring true. I’ve felt it already in my short time here. At some point, when the days repeat themselves and you’re only living for the next buzz, the next high, the next drink, the next good time, what is the point at all? It’s all temporary pleasure. It’s self-serving and useless.