Straw Man

by Gerry Boyle

  Over by Clair, the father and son were still on the ground, spitting blood. Semi was at the truck, fumbling with the door handle. And then Billy was up, moving behind us.

  He was standing in a swaying crouch, smiling through the blood, knife held out in front of him. He moved three steps and lunged toward Louis, slashed the air, the blood spraying from his chin. He whirled toward me and slashed and I jumped back. Clair leaned down for a tree limb, started toward us.

  “You’re a fucking dead man,” Billy said, grinning with his splattered lips, eyes on Louis now. He waved the knife again and missed and Louis darted in, and spun backwards. He clamped Billy’s knife arm under his armpit. Louis dug his fingers into the guy’s forearm, finding nerves. Billy bellowed and Louis elbowed him in the face, spun, and kicked his legs out from under him.

  The knife slashed weakly at the air.

  And Louis dropped knee-first onto Billy’s right forearm.

  There was a crack, like a branch snapping, and Billy screamed. Louis, back on his feet, had the knife and flung it into the woods, a silver spinning thing. Billy was turned on his side, writhing, holding his right arm and moaning.

  “You asshole! You busted his arm,” Semi said from the truck, and when we turned we saw the shotgun. He raised it, aimed at Louis, but Clair was running toward him, shouting, “Hey, hey.” The kid swiveled the gun toward Clair, and I ran at him, screaming, “Me, me,” and he started to swing back toward me and then Clair was on him.

  He bulled Semi back, got a hand on the barrel, men and gun going over, the gun booming as they hit the ground, the blast ripping the leaves above us as Clair punched him hard in the face, a slapping sound.

  The kid was mumbling, “Get offa me,” but after the second punch he stopped. I wrenched the shotgun from his hands, jacked the shells out.

  One, two, three, four.

  Stepped to the oak log and raised the gun by the barrel, brought it down like an ax. Once. Twice. On the third swing the stock splintered, and I dropped the shotgun to the ground, stomped it into the mud.

  The woods were quiet. Again.

  They glowered at us as they helped Billy to the truck, stepping on the broken gun. Billy, his arm swinging at his side like a dead animal, slid onto the passenger’s side, butt first. Semi, his mouth bloody, got in the driver’s seat and started the truck while Beefy went and started the bulldozer. Truck and bulldozer moved to the flatbed. Baby Fat backed the truck up and got out and hitched it to the trailer. Beefy drove the bulldozer onto the trailer, hooked up the chains.

  They traded spots, according to hierarchy. Beefy drove, his son and Semi in the middle, Billy hunched over in pain against the passenger door, face swelling, maybe going into shock. The truck and trailer pulled into the slashed tote road, crushing branches and brush, and then backed out. The kid flipped us off as they pulled away. Billy revived enough to raise his head to bellow, “You’re dead. You’re all motherfucking dead.”

  And they rumbled off. We stood in the clearing, the oily diesel smoke hanging. Louis shook his head like he’d just awakened, looked down at his bloody hands. “I would have killed him,” he said.

  “A knife comes out, it changes things,” I said.

  “And all that training kicks in,” Clair said. “Becomes automatic.”

  “Then what about you?” Louis said to him.

  Clair took a step toward the skidder, turned and smiled, said, “Guess I’ve lost a step.”

  3

  It was deep dusk when I pulled into the driveway. Roxanne’s Subaru was there, a new blue Tacoma pickup parked beside it. I got out, winced as I stepped down, my knee sore, my face, too. I reached back into the cab of the truck and retrieved a six-pack of Ballantine ale, sixteen-ounce cans. I yanked one of the cold cans from the plastic web and pressed it against my swollen cheekbone. Lowered it and popped the top, took a long swallow. Looked at the Tacoma, the matching cap on the back with gold lettering that said

  HEAVEN SENT FARM

  Organic Chevre

  “Needs a hyphen,” I said. “And a freakin’ accent.”

  I turned to the back of my old Toyota truck and lifted my chain saw out, then my toolbox. Walked to the shed door and slid it open. Went inside and put the saw and toolbox on the bench. Took another drink of ale. Pressed the cold can against my face.

  Drank.

  When I opened the door to the kitchen, I heard voices. Laughter. Welt.

  “Just what I need,” I said.

  I crossed the kitchen and stepped through the opened door to the deck. He was sitting in an Adirondack chair. Roxanne was in the other one, her legs crossed, her shorts hiked up. Her feet were bare, her sandals tossed off. Her face was flushed with wine and her shirt was open, tank top underneath. Welt—rumpled white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled, frayed khaki shorts, a belt embroidered with faded sailboats, blond hair raked back—was smiling, leaning toward her.

  “You were great,” he was saying. “I mean, when you said that her jaw just—”

  He leaned forward, put his hand on her knee. I squeezed the can and it crackled. They turned toward me.

  “Jack,” Roxanne said. “What happened?”

  The hand slipped off.

  “A branch,” I said. “Sometimes they spring loose.”

  “My God, your face,” Roxanne said.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Just a flesh wound, huh?” Welt said.

  He grinned.

  “Your hands, Jack,” Roxanne said. “That doesn’t look like—”

  The words trailed off as the picture became clear.

  “How’s the tree doing?” Welt said.

  “Fine,” I said. “Cut into twelve-foot logs.”

  “That’ll teach it, huh?” he said. “Next tree will think twice before it picks a fight with you.”

  Another grin.

  Roxanne sat up, tugged the hem of her shorts down. “Jack,” she said. “You remember Welt Remington. From the school? Salandra’s dad.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I reached out and he did, too, and we shook hands. Welt’s were soft, for a farmer. Must be cashmere goats.

  “Welt came by to pick up Salandra. She and Sophie have been upstairs, just giggling away.”

  She paused.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? Your eye looks—”

  “It’s fine. Be back to normal by morning,” I said.

  I looked at the tray on the table. A bottle of wine, a half-inch left. Cheese and crackers and a cheesy knife. A sprig of flowers, yellow and white.

  “Welt brought this delicious goat cheese from his farm,” Roxanne said.

  “From the LaManchas,” Welt said.

  I glanced at the plate.

  “That’s a kind of goat. I have Alpines and Kinders, too. And we grow our own herbs. I’m sorry to say the wine isn’t local.”

  “That’s okay,” I said.

  “But I got it from these wonderful friends of mine who own this vineyard in Napa. Canter and Trot?”

  He said it like I should have heard of it.

  “They’re also into horses, obviously. My wife—we’re separated—she did the label for them.”

  He said it like being separated was a happy and expected outcome. Then he reached and took the bottle off the table, held it up to me. There was a picture of two rearing horses, silhouettes against an orange sun.

  “Handsome,” I said.

  “Grab a glass, Jack,” Welt said, glancing at the beer can. “I brought another bottle. It’s this perfect little chardonnay, just a hint of citrus and then this subtle waft of oak that follows. You almost think you imagined it. Kip and Chloe won all kinds of awards for this.”

  “Good for them,” I said. “But I’m all set.”

  He looked at me, then at the green can, and then back at Roxanne. I moved away from the table, leaned against the railing of the deck, put my boot up. Welt sipped his wine, reached across to Roxanne to top off her glass. She leaned toward him a
nd held out the glass, cleavage bared, the smooth white skin beyond her tan line, the curve of her breasts.

  He poured slowly. No surprise. I touched my hand to my forehead and came away with a bit of dried blood. I flicked it over the rail. My right eye was swollen almost shut.

  “My God, Jack,” Roxanne said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “How ’bout ice?”

  I held up the beer can and smiled.

  “Well, the girls are still playing upstairs,” Roxanne said. “We were just talking. About the peace project.”

  “Peace is a good thing,” I said. “Quiet is, too.”

  A flicker of annoyance, and then Roxanne said, “We worked on the mission statement today.”

  Welt spread some cheese on a cracker and held it out. At least he didn’t feed it to her.

  “You and the little kids?” I said.

  “They really contributed,” Welt said. “I mean, it really made you think there was some hope. For a world without conflict. Of course, I know it’s just a start. An elementary school in Prosperity, Maine. But you know the old saying—‘Think globally. Act locally.’ ”

  “Gandhi had to start somewhere,” I said.

  The look from Roxanne again. My eye was nearly shut. Behind it my head was starting to throb.

  “It was just so heartening,” Welt said. “They’re learning that there’s no disagreement that can’t be resolved peacefully, as long as you have mutual respect and understanding.”

  “They’re learning that? Six years old?”

  I caught Welt in midsip, so Roxanne filled in.

  “They are,” she said. “I mean, they really are getting it.”

  “We underestimate children,” Welt said. “As a result, we actually lose their most formative years, when they’re forming as people. Six is almost too late.”

  “Studies say that many social patterns are established by three years old,” Roxanne said. “That’s why the kids, the older ones, were so hard to change. The agency would try, bring in every expert we could find. But by the time they’re eleven or twelve . . . ”

  “You were so courageous to do that work,” Welt said.

  I bit my tongue. He prattled on.

  “Most people would just run the other way. But there you were, on the front lines, working so hard to make a difference. Really. I have so much respect for you. Makes my work in the school look kind of—”

  “Piddly,” I said.

  They both looked at me. I smiled and it hurt. Roxanne’s lips were pressed tight, her eyes slightly narrowed.

  “No, it’s not piddly,” she said. “It’s important. It shows what a difference we can make if we all take responsibility for the way we live.”

  That seemed to be directed at me. I finished my ale and walked to the kitchen and got another. This time I pressed the can to my eye. It felt good. I walked back to the deck, popped the can, and drank. That felt good, too.

  “We did these exercises,” Welt said.

  His face was tanned but his skin was smooth. His eyes were ice blue like cough drops and his teeth were gleaming ivory. He’d crossed his legs and was dangling his shoe, a vintage boat shoe.

  “Role play, for one thing,” he said. “We had each child play both the bully and the victim. The idea is to help them put themselves in the place of others, see somebody else’s point of view. Did you know that sociopaths aren’t as much violent as totally lacking in empathy?”

  “Glad to hear the little skinny kids finally got in some whacks,” I said.

  “Jack,” Roxanne said. “There’s no need to be disparaging.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Welt said. “Skepticism is part of the process, remember? Stage three? It’s a sign that the change agent is being taken seriously. It becomes threatening.”

  “I’ve already been threatened today,” I said. “Believe me, this isn’t threatening.”

  “Jack,” Roxanne said. “Please.”

  “So what were you doing?” Welt said. “Duking it out with the local lumberjacks?” He gave me the smug grin again. He needed a good slap.

  “Resolving a dispute,” I said.

  “You couldn’t have found another way, establish some common ground?” Welt said. Like I needed his advice.

  “There was common ground, but they stepped across it. This one guy, he was named Beefy. He was six six, two-eighty. But you know what they say. The bigger they are . . . ”

  “Oh, but that’s another thing we’re working on,” Welt said. “The male reflex to see conflict as a chance to prove manhood, or at least some antiquated notion of it. Not lose face. That’s just what we’re trying to teach these boys not to do. But they model their fathers, who instead of reasoning with someone, finding a way to compromise, just lash out. Why talk things out when you can just smash somebody in the face?”

  I looked at him.

  “You’re right there, Weltie,” I said. “That’s exactly what they do. And if you don’t hit ’em back, they move on from your face and start on the rest of you.”

  I lifted the can and drank. Put it back on my face and smiled.

  “I’ll leave you two to your meeting. See if I can clean off some of this blood.”

  4

  I peeked in on the girls. They had all of Sophie’s dolls and stuffed animals lined up in pairs on the floor. Sophie was seated at the head of the line. She was holding an invisible steering wheel. Salandra, blonde and catalog-ready like her dad, was seated by Sophie.

  Sophie made a hissing noise and reached to open the door. Salandra looked up at me and froze.

  “We’re playing school bus,” Sophie said. “I’m the driver and ’Landra is the monitor—”

  She paused.

  “Daddy, you hurt your face,” Sophie said.

  “I bumped into a tree,” I said.

  “You should be more careful.”

  “I will be,” I said.

  Salandra said, “We’re not supposed to fight.”

  She looked at me, her six-year-old face full of judgment, just like her dad’s.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Fighting is a bad thing.”

  I moved to Sophie, patted her head, and told her I’d see her later. I told Salandra I was glad she had come to see us. She looked up at me with unveiled suspicion.

  “I’ll let the bus keep rolling,” I said, and I backed out and closed the door. I started down the hall, stopped at the window over the deck, and listened.

  Their voices were just murmurs, soft and low. Welt, then Roxanne, then Welt again. And then he spoke up in a staged voice, and said, “Well, I guess I’d better gather up the child and head home.”

  “Thanks for bringing her,” Roxanne said. “Sophie just loves it when you come. And I do, too.”

  I wondered what there was to love—Mr. Organic Pretty Boy or his scold of a daughter.

  I scowled, hobbled to the bathroom. Took off my boots and T-shirt and jeans and stood in front of the mirror. My right eye was purple, tinged with fiery red. My upper lip was swollen, the left side scabbed over where it had split. There were claw marks on my left cheek from Semi’s fingernails.

  “We won,” I said.

  I stepped into the shower and let the hot water drum on my back, then fill my hair. There were scrapes there, too, and they stung. I took a washcloth and dabbed at my mouth and eye and cheek and the cloth turned rosy red. I stood there as the bits of dried blood swirled in the water at my feet, and then I turned the shower off, toweled myself dry, and headed for the bedroom.

  I put on clean boxers and shorts and a faded blue polo shirt from some long ago New York Times gathering. Then I stepped to the window and glanced out.

  Welt’s truck was still in the driveway. Roxanne was standing at the driver’s door on the far side. Salandra was in the backseat on my side.

  Roxanne said, “Good-bye, guys,” and Sophie, out of sight, said, “See you tomorrow.”

  The truck slipped into gear, the backup lights snapping on. Roxanne se
emed to reach through the window, to what? Give Welt a pat? A squeeze on the shoulder? The truck started to pull out. I turned and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. I was opening another beer when Roxanne came in the door.

  “Hey,” I said.

  No reply. She took the kettle from the stove, moved past me to the sink. Filled the kettle and slammed it back down on the burner. Past me again, to the cupboard where she took out a box of herbal tea, shook out a tea bag. Took out a mug, dropped the tea bag in, put the mug down on the stove. The kettle began to quiver. I heard Roxanne take a deep breath, her hands on her hips.

  “Where’s Sophie?” I said.

  After a long moment she said, “She went home with Salandra. She begged. They were having so much fun.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You were in the shower,” Roxanne said.

  “I would have said good-bye.”

  “Sorry. They had to go. Welt had milking to do.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. She turned to me, her eyes dark and angry and hard.

  “What the hell does that mean? And what the hell was that all about?”

  “That’s what I was about to ask,” I said.

  “You were absolutely hostile.”

  “No I wasn’t. I was skeptical. He said so.”

  “Don’t you ever treat my friends like that,” she said.

  “Is that all he is?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack.”

  “You’re dressed to impress. And believe me, it was working,” I said.

  “He’s just a friend. I have a right to have friends. Men or women.”

  “Of course you do. It’s just a little awkward when your friend is looking down your shirt.”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “It’s true,” I said.

  Roxanne poured her tea. Slammed the kettle back down. Dipped the tea bag up and down in the water. Hard. Water splashed and I could see her jaw clench. She picked up the mug and turned to me.