Trifecta #33: Post One

Trifecta's going crazy on the threes for their 33rd week.

“What I tell you three times is true.” I am relieved to hear steadiness in my voice and I hope that it sounds like strength. I have no doubt the obscure literary reference will go right over his head. He doesn’t look to me to be a well-read man. Still, he has a habit of holding eye contact far too long. It’s just a tactic, I tell myself, a way to make it look like he sees far more than he possibly could. Knowing that, it’s still unnerving.

“Say it as many times as you want,” he answers. His voice is deep and flat, like a drum in a sound-proof room. “It’s still not going to work.” I see the dirt under his nails, impossibly black. I try not to speculate on the jagged scar that slices across the right side of his neck, but I can’t help myself. A knife? A rope? “You’ve never done this kind of job before.” It wasn’t a question.

“Well…” I drag the word out, feeling a stammer coming on. I swallow. “I’m still in charge of this thing.” I know I should let silence speak for me. I should turn with the confidence that he will follow, but my mouth keeps chattering on without me. “That’s what I was hired for. I’ve got the technical knowledge. The education. That’s why he put me in charge. If you’ve got a problem with that, we can call him right now.”

He doesn’t laugh, at least. But he never drops his eyes. His right hand hangs in a fist, like a stone at the end of a maul. He runs his left hand slowly down his right cheek, his little finger brushing the line of that awful scar. “You don’t look much like a Bellman to me,” he says, and my heart and my stomach change places. “Not a Butcher, either.” His eyes move down at last, then up again, slowly. “No,” he says. “A Beaver. Definitely a Beaver.”