footsteps, and then Andy opened the door.
Andy was barefoot, wearing only a bathrobe and a pair of stained jockey shorts. His hair was a mess and he was unshaven, which could be forgiven, considering there was a gaping, wet, gangrenous sore in his left cheek about the size of a fifty-cent piece.
Matt took a step back. “Oh my God.'
'I think that's my line, buddy.' Andy grinned, his teeth yellow, his gums inflamed. “You're the dead guy.'
'Jesus, Andy, what happened?' Matt asked.
'I lost my job, my best friend died, I got evicted from my apartment, and my truck crapped out,' Andy said. “How about you? How have you been?'
As Andy spoke, pus dripped from his wound onto his bathrobe. His breath smelled like he'd been sucking on a shit-flavored Tic Tac.
'I'm talking about your face.' Matt pointed to Andy's cheek.
Andy, baffled, touched his cheek and probed the moist, infected wound with his finger. It sounded like he was stirring pudding.
'Sorry I didn't shave for you. I would've cleaned myself up and put on a tuxedo if I knew you were coming back from the dead today.'
Matt turned to Rachel. “Don't you see it?'
'See what?' Rachel said. “He's the same ugly son of a bitch he's always been.'
'Thanks,' Andy said, then regarded his friend with concern. “What's wrong?'
You mean besides that there's big fucking hole in your face that nobody else sees?
But Matt didn't want to admit it to himself, much less let anyone else know that he was ever so slightly delusional.
'I'm just wondering how a guy can crawl out of his grave after being dead for three months and still look better than you do in the morning.'
Matt laughed and forced himself to give his friend a hug to show it was all a joke. But he was careful to hold his breath and stay on the side of Andy's face without the sore.
'It's so great to see you,' Andy said, clapping him on the back. “Without you, I had nobody.'
'That's why I came back,' Matt said.
Rachel frowned. She didn't like the idea that Matt might pick up where he left off, babysitting Andy again.
'Now that you're here, I suppose you want everything back,' Andy said. “Would you like me to move out?'
'No,' Matt said. “It's your place now. It was part of my old life. I'm starting a new one.'
Matt took Rachel's hand and gave it a squeeze. Andy noticed.
'I see,' Andy said, picking at his sore and flicking dead skin away.
That's not really happening, Matt told himself. He's just scratching his cheek. There's no wound there.
'I don't want anything except my family photos, Janey's things, and my grandfather's ax.'
Andy looked down at his feet, as if he'd just discovered something fascinating about his overgrown toenails. “The ax is in the shed, but the rest is gone.'
The words were like a physical blow. A flush rose to Matt's cheeks. “No…'
'You were dead, Matt. That stuff meant nothing to me. What was I supposed to do with it, build a shrine?'
Rachel squeezed Matt's hand. “He's right, Matt.'
He knew that, but it didn't diminish the pain or the betrayal.
Hell, the least Andy could have shown was a little regret, even if it was insincere.
It was Matt's life that Andy had thrown away.
No, it was the souvenirs from it.
That life ended three months ago. He was on his second life now. It was time to acquire new souvenirs.
But he'd take what was left.
'I'll go get the ax,' Matt said and headed off to the shed.
Andy and Rachel watched him go. Then they faced each other, no longer bothering to hide their mutual hatred.
'You killed him and he still wants to fuck you,' Andy said. “That's the real miracle.'
She stepped up close to him, just to prove that he didn't intimidate her. “He's starting a new life, one that doesn't involving carrying your sorry ass anymore. Your failures are your own now. He won't save you.'
Matt emerged from the shed, holding the ax in one hand and a toolbox in the other. “You mind if I borrow some of my carpentry tools?'
'You can have 'em,' Andy said. “I'm not going to use them.'
'Then how are you making a living?'
'I've got a line on a new job that's a lot easier on the back,' Andy said. “Besides, you shouldn't be worrying about where my next dollar is coming from. Worry about where you're gonna find the thirty-seven hundred dollars you owe me.'
'For what?' Matt asked.
'Your tombstone,' Andy said with a grin. “You ought to go out to the cemetery and see it sometime. It's real nice.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Matt spent the next week at Rachel's house, sanding and restaining her cabinets, replacing the dry-rotted wood around her windows, and repairing her fence while she was at work at the sawmill.
He found that working with the wood, which Rachel brought home from the mill, centered him and eased him back into the flow of day-to-day life again.
The fantastic sex, home-cooked meals, and loving, tender company of a good woman didn't hurt, either.
Maybe it was because of all those things, the comfort and the security, that he didn't have any more waking nightmares or delusions.
He also hadn't bumped into Andy again.
The truth was, Matt was thankful that his oldest friend hadn't showed up. He was afraid of what he might see.
What the hell was that on his face?
What did it mean?
But Matt wasn't in hiding. He and Rachel went out for dinner a few times and went shopping in town. So he'd already run into people he knew and even more he didn't know.
He didn't see any more putrid sores or any imaginary doctors from hell.
But did hear again and again about how unbelievable and impossible and miraculous his return was.
Those encounters made him uncomfortable and, as glad as he was to see his friends and as appreciative as he was of their happiness for him, he was also eager to get away from them.
He didn't like the attention. He wanted to go back to being just another face in the crowd.
His intention was to move in with Rachel and make a living as an independent carpenter. But he was quickly coming to the conclusion that the only way he'd be able to have a normal, anonymous life again was if they moved somewhere else, where nobody knew him.
He was planning on talking about it with Rachel when she got home from work at the sawmill. But before he could get around to it, she practically tackled him to the floor and fucked him with such animal ferocity that he thought she might morph into a werewolf when she came.
The enthusiastically carnal encounter left them both ravenous, so she insisted that they go out for something to eat. Considering how nice she'd been to screw him nearly senseless the second she walked through the door, and considering the sacrifice he was about to ask of her, he told her they could eat anyplace she wanted.
He was hoping for the Charles, the hotel restaurant with the best steaks in town, or maybe La Reve, the
