Straw Man

by Gerry Boyle

  “You were totally rude to him.”

  “I don’t like being patronized,” I said.

  “He wasn’t patronizing.”

  “Oh, come on. The whole thing about fighting?”

  “You goaded him, Jack. You backed him into a corner.”

  “If I hadn’t he would have been all over you.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ. Just stop with the jealousy thing.”

  “You’re telling me you didn’t see it? You’d have to be blind. I mean, he’s divorced, right?”

  “Separated.”

  “Well, he’s got his sights set on number two.”

  “Oh, please.”

  A pause. Roxanne lifted the tea bag from the mug and swung it into the sink. I smelled orange and spices. She sipped, then lowered the mug.

  “And another thing,” she said.

  “Bring it on,” I said.

  Roxanne took a deep breath, looked up from the mug, and said, “I’m worried about Sophie.”

  “Why? She seemed fine.”

  “It’s about you.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you? Did you look in the mirror, Jack? Your face, your hands. What the hell happened?”

  “There were some guys poaching wood off the Hoddings’ land.”

  “So you beat them up?”

  “Clair told them to leave and they wouldn’t. They started it.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” Roxanne said. “And you finished it.”

  “Well, me and Clair and Louis.”

  “You had a brawl in the woods?”

  “There were four of them. And they had a knife and a shotgun.”

  “My God, Jack. Don’t you get it? You can’t do this anymore. You have a daughter.”

  “That’s why we made sure we won.”

  Roxanne was shaking her head. She turned and put the mug down on the counter, then picked it up, her mind apparently churning about more than the fight. Without looking at me she said: “This isn’t right for Sophie to see. It’s not a good example.”

  “Standing up for an old lady in a nursing home? Kicking some dirtbags off her land? Defending ourselves when they attacked us? The guy went right after Louis with a knife.”

  “Who’s got issues to begin with,” Roxanne said. “I know. The war and all, and he’s good in so many ways, but still he’s—”

  “He’s just processing what he’s been through.”

  Roxanne turned and picked up a sponge, started wiping the counter with quick and angry swipes. And then she turned to me and her eyes were red rimmed and wet with tears. She hesitated and then said, “I’m not having an affair.”

  The words stunned me. Had she considered it? I’d been angry, thought this guy was a lecher, maybe Roxanne was flirting. But not that they were actually playing around. I fumbled for a response.

  “Good to know,” I said. “Because I’d kick his sorry ass down the road. Cram his chardonnay bottle down his—”

  “Please, Jack. Just stop it. The violence.”

  “I don’t ask for it.”

  “I know. And Clair doesn’t either. But it finds you guys. Or you attract it, with the way you work and think and act.”

  I waited.

  “I’ve been thinking about things. In a different way.”

  “Okay.”

  “Welt is a really nice guy. What he’s doing is good. He wants to make the world a better place.”

  “So did Mother Teresa. Doesn’t mean he gets to jump your bones.”

  Roxanne paused, sipped the tea. The anger had subsided, but it had been replaced by something deeper, more ominous.

  “I know this is going to come out wrong.”

  I reeled inwardly. “You’re right about the wrong part,” I said.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m not getting your full attention. But when I’m talking to Welt, about our project—”

  She hesitated. “—I don’t know, it just feels like he’s fully engaged.”

  That top would do it, I thought. The hint of makeup.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Jack,” Roxanne said. “You’re never around.”

  “I’m working,” I said. “Things are going great. The Times has me booked for the next three months. The story for Outland is a go. I’m making money, what, six grand in the last month? Another six under contract. It’s taking off. And we talked about this. You working at the school and me stepping up the writing.”

  “But I hardly see you.”

  “I’ve been on the road.”

  “But Sophie hardly sees you. And she’s growing up. She needs her dad. She needs you to be present and not be all—”

  “You’ve got to jump on this when you’re hot,” I said. “I mean, turn down an assignment and all of a sudden you’re off the list. The A-list, I mean. And there’s no guarantee that you’ll ever—”

  “But then this Mrs. Hodding person calls and off you guys go. These were supposed to be the days you said you’d be home. You said—”

  “She needs help,” I said.

  “So do I,” Roxanne said. “I need your help with Sophie. I need your help in our relationship. I need your help to keep us together. Really together, like we’ve always been. And we’re not. I feel so—”

  She paused. I waited.

  “—alone.”

  So she had considered it. A roll in the hay with Mr. Goat Cheese.

  She sipped her tea, formulating something more. I waited.

  “And another thing,” Roxanne said.

  “That wasn’t enough?”

  “The peace project.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I really believe in this. I spent seven years trying to put kids and families back together. And sometimes it worked. But the problem is, they were already so broken. This way you intervene earlier and have a chance to break the cycle before it starts. And you could duplicate it anywhere. You could make real generational change on a big scale.”

  “Great,” I said. “I hope it’s a success.”

  “So what I’m saying is, you should know I’m going to be spending time with Welt. Working. We’re applying for grant funding. We’re a good team for this. I have hands-on experience with troubled kids and he has these fresh new ideas.”

  “A match made in heaven,” I said.

  She paused for another sip. A deep breath.

  “Jack.”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is very important to me.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Please respect what I’m trying to accomplish here.”

  “I do. Really.”

  “And think about what I said. About being here for us. About you as a role model. We talked about it. After the last time. How hard that was on Sophie. And on me. On all of us.”

  “I know. It was tough all around. They were bad people. Sanctuary was a bad place.”

  “The fire and the shooting.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “So here we go again, Jack. I love you. You know I do. But we can’t keep doing this. Not to our daughter. Not to me.”

  “You want me to start turning the other cheek.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. I mean, you’re a reporter, right? Was the newsroom in New York full of people with cuts and black eyes? Of course not. So there’s a way to do your job without all of this, I don’t know, this aggression. Someone threatens you, just walk away.”

  My turn for a deep breath.

  “Welt tells the kids it takes real courage to be a peacemaker.”

  I took another breath.

  “He says the real sign of weakness is to give in to that impulse. Anger and violence.”

  I clenched my teeth. Breathed.

  “Welt says if you want to be a real man, you—”

  “God almighty. The places I go, they’d chew him up and spit him out. Easy to spout all this stuff when you’re off in friggin’ la-la land, with your goats and your chardonnay and your inheritance or wha
tever it is he lives on. And your friends have a vineyard in Napa and have I heard of it? No, I haven’t heard of some goddamn vineyard or seen their label designed by your goddamn ex-wife or separated wife or ex-whatever the hell she is who is now your best friend.”

  A breath.

  “Because you know what I was doing? I just got pretty much punched out by some redneck kid, another one tried to stab Louis, then one of them goes for a shotgun and Clair comes at him from the left and I’m coming from the right and the guy can’t decide, so he ends up in between and Clair takes him down. Now there’s a crazy guy out there with a broken arm, another guy who probably still can’t breathe, all of ’em swearing to get even. And this happens because we’re helping a sweet old lady whose husband, a real gentleman, had a stroke and can’t talk or walk, and taking care of him costs twenty grand a month that they don’t have. But they do have trees.”

  I paused. Roxanne stared, clenched the mug.

  “So I’m sorry if I’m not setting a good example for our daughter, or if I’m Exhibit A for your buddy when he thinks about what’s wrong with the world. Or if my face looks like crap next to Mr. Spray Tan. And you’re kidding yourself if you don’t think he has the hots for you.”

  Roxanne still stared; tears were welling fast. I hurried.

  “This project sounds great. I’m serious, honey. Go for it. I hope it works in spades, I really do. And I understand why you’re good at it, and how you give Welt there—what kind of name is that?”

  “Welton.”

  “The third, I’m sure. So yeah, you give him some street cred. And good for him, putting his time into something like this. Really. But don’t patronize me. And don’t say that I’m what’s wrong with men. And do not try to scoop my wife.”

  I stopped. Swallowed. Roxanne was really crying now, tears running down her cheeks, one clinging to her chin. She wiped the drip, then her eyes. Then she said, “Are you here tomorrow? I need to plan.”

  Her voice was cool and distant.

  “I’m working. Starting to report a couple of stories.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Just for the day,” I said. “I’m starting the Mennonite farmers for the Times. Or maybe the Outland story.”

  “Where’s that one?”

  “I’m not sure. I have to go shopping. For guns.”

  She looked away.

  “Nice,” Roxanne said, and she put the mug on the counter and walked out of the room. I listened to her footsteps on the stairs, heard the bedroom door slam shut.

  5

  Roxanne slept curled in a fetal position on the edge of her side of the bed, her back to me. I was awake most of the night, the argument replaying in my head. At 3:45 a.m., I said, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t answer.

  At 4:30 I collected my clothes from the floor by the bed, went downstairs, and got dressed in the kitchen. While the kettle heated, I put bread in the toaster, poured a glass of orange juice while I waited for both.

  Roxanne’s mug from the previous night was on the counter. I put it in the dishwasher, as though that somehow would erase what had happened. Ditto for the four Ballantine empties, placed quietly into the bin. I scowled as I poured my tea, grimaced as the first sip touched my scabs.

  When I was done, I put the glass and plate in the dishwasher. Took my tea and went to the study. Opened my laptop and went to mainesbestdeals.com, clicked on GUNS.

  Roxanne’s reaction replayed in my mind. I sighed, pressed on.

  I had a few items bookmarked. A Mossberg tactical shotgun in matteblack finish. Body armor, approved for law enforcement use. A couple of AR-15 assault rifles, one a Czech replica with a fifteen-round clip. Two Glock handguns, a nine-millimeter, and a .40, the latter offered with a laser sight.

  Seven hundred dollars. Cash.

  I fired off e-mails, asking if the items advertised were still available. I figured I needed to look at a dozen to give a representative idea of what was available. The editor at Outland, Josh Clifford, had tacked $1,000 onto my $5,000 fee to buy a handgun, a rifle, and ammo for both. I’d have to dicker.

  Clifford had gone for the pitch inside an hour, the way things had been falling for me of late. He said he was hooked after the first two sentences: Gun control? Not in Maine, where the Second Amendment is alive and well and doing a very brisk business, cash on the barrelhead.

  But not at five a.m.

  I packed my satchel with notebooks, pens, my iPad. The house was still: the hum of the refrigerator, a wood frog croaking outside. Taking out a pad and ripping out a page, I wrote Roxanne a note. Hey, honey. Headed out early. Very sorry about last night. I think you’re doing a good thing. I love you and I’ll call around 10. Give Sophie a hug for me when you see her.

  I stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet photo of Sophie at nursery school. She was smiling and her eyes sparkled. I wondered how much she’d sensed from the previous night, whether Salandra had kept up the lecture. Or maybe the girls got together with Welt, talked about an intervention.

  I scowled. Grabbed my satchel and pushed out the door. Locked it behind me.

  It was dark, the morning sky tinged with blue-black, stars showing faintly to the west. A robin cackled on its roost as I crossed to the truck, and I looked to the woods. There was a rustle but it was the wind in the trees. The birds were still, the wood frogs quiet now. Billy and company were probably sleeping in.

  I started the truck and, with lights out, eased out of the driveway. Snapping the lights on, I went left, the tires crackling on the gravel road. Approaching Clair and Mary Varney’s house, I slowed and looked back toward the barn. It was dark. Passing the house, I saw the kitchen light on, Clair probably up and making coffee. I thought about stopping, but knew he’d sense my mood and ask what was bugging me. I wasn’t ready to talk about Welt—even less ready to talk about Welt and Roxanne.

  He just gives me something I don’t feel like I’m getting from you.

  “What the hell does that mean?” I said.

  Maybe I should have seen it coming, hearing Welt’s name in passing, then more as Roxanne talked about the school. Some guy who volunteered a lot. His kid was Sophie’s friend. He had a farm or something. There probably had been more. I hadn’t been paying attention.

  Clearly.

  In my head I’d pictured some big Mainer, manure on his boots and tonguetied in front of women. Who knew the guy was more Marin County than Waldo? That the cheese probably had gotten a spread in Bon Appétit?

  Welt says if you want to be a real man . . .

  Jesus.

  I drove down the road, headlights picking up red eyes that blipped out as a deer sprang for the woods. A half mile farther I braked as a skunk waddled across, then threaded its way into the brush. And then it was clear sailing on the main road, allowing me to stew for the five miles to the top of the ridge. The sky was pale to the east, more blue than black. At the Belle View restaurant, the lights were on and there were a half-dozen trucks in the lot out front. I added mine to the line, grabbed a notebook and the iPad, and walked in.

  The place smelled like coffee and bacon. Belle and Kathy said, “Morning, Jack” in unison from behind the counter. A couple of older guys looked up from their coffee and nodded. I said, “Morning” and nodded back and went to a booth by the far window. It was number six. Like Wyatt Earp in the saloon, I liked a clear view of the door.

  Belle brought my tea and, peering at my face, said, “What happened to you?”

  “Working in the woods,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” she said knowingly. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, huh?”

  I smiled, ordered scrambled eggs, home fries, toast. I sipped as Kathy worked up the eggs and home fries, opened the iPad to the gun list to see if there was anything new. A bunch of deer rifles, another Glock. An interesting .22 rifle with a high-powered scope. I’d read somewhere that there were assassins who liked .22 rifles because they were quiet and accurate. I bookmarked that one and closed the screen as K
athy brought my eggs and ketchup in a plastic squeeze bottle—and Baby Fat and Billy came through the door.

  Billy’s arm was in a sling, a cast from his wrist to above his elbow. The sling was dark blue and the cast was dirty white. He held the arm in front of him like he was asking someone to waltz. His face was swollen, his eyes squinting behind bulging purple flesh.

  Baby Fat was wearing unlaced work boots, baggy shorts, and a big flannel shirt, a baseball cap on backwards. He had a bill in his hand and he flicked it onto the counter as Belle stepped forward.

  No smile. No greeting.

  “Two coffees. Sugar and cream.”

  Belle turned and reached for paper cups. Baby Fat stood with his hands on his big hips, turned and scanned the restaurant. The old couples. A guy whose hat advertised animal feed. Me.

  Baby Fat froze. Elbowed Billy. Billy turned and looked over. His scowl hardened. They both stared and I stared back, gave them a slow salute. Smiled and looked away.

  Belle put the coffee cups down on the counter and scooped up the bill. Slapped their change down and Baby Fat swept it into his hand and dumped it in his pocket. No tip. I eased closer to the edge of the seat of the booth in case I had to get up fast, but they took their coffees, gave me a last look, and turned and walked out the door.

  I kept eating. Belle came over and said, in her cheerful morning voice, “How you doing, dear?”

  “Great,” I said. “Delicious.”

  She leaned closer.

  “You know those two?”

  “A little,” I said.

  “Trouble. Won’t serve ’em inside here. Older one, Billy, beat hell outta my sister-in-law’s niece.”

  “Why don’t I know him?”

  “From Monroe, the kid’s Junior. Father they call Beefy. I don’t know their real names. Pretty much outlaws. Other one, Billy, he’s poison. My sister-in-law’s niece lived in Monroe, out by Brooks. Met him there.”

  “Good taste in men,” I said.

  “Makes bad choices,” Belle said. She looked back, leaned close to me. “Story is Billy met Beefy in jail. Went and looked him up when he got out. He’s from Lewiston area. Sabattus, I think. Pretended to be Mr. Nice Guy at first. Taking the kids fishing.”

  “What was he in for?”