Coyote Blues

by Karen F. Williams

  Paul Junior’s death had come right before Miriam’s high school graduation and admission to a college art program, but Paul and Doris were too busy mourning to celebrate. Miriam had lost her big brother, and she’d lost her parents too—emotionally, at least.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Chief Foster had asked during that initial intake. “Throw a graduation party? Pretend we’re happy? Jesus, I just buried my son. Am I supposed to stand around entertaining guests, grilling steaks, laughing at jokes when my boy is six feet under, lying there on the wrong side of the grass?”

  “Yes, Paul, that’s what you’re supposed to do. You give yourself one hour each day to mourn, cry, scream, punch the wall, whatever you need to do, and then you put your grief aside and spend the rest of the day alive with the living.”

  Reactive depressions, complicated grief syndrome—those traumatic life events from which people can’t find their way out—were one of Riley’s specialties. It wasn’t just Miriam who needed help; the whole Foster family was in crisis, and Riley insisted that Paul and Doris participate in therapy. Paul, a bald, burly, muscular man with small but piercing blue eyes, was as kind and big-hearted as he was scary looking. But like many cops and most men, he kept his feelings inside—toxic masculinity, as it was called. It was easier to wash down all that emotional bile with a shot of whiskey than to let it come up and have to deal with the mess. Which was probably why more men than women were alcoholics.

  Paul had trouble putting his feelings into words, and had the oddest way of using clichés to communicate. During sessions he’d say things like, “I feel like I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go,” meaning he didn’t know what to do next; or, “another day another dollar,” meaning one day was a repeat of the next since he’d lost his son; or “I’m not the only one with an ax to grind,” referring to his anger over the war on terrorism that had claimed his son’s life. One day, a few weeks into family therapy, when Riley asked if he’d like to say something, he shrugged and said, “Talking about it won’t change anything…it’s all water under the bridge, isn’t it?”

  “And where are you, Paul?” Riley asked. “Are you standing on that bridge, or are you in the water, trying to keep from drowning?”

  He’d stared at her peculiarly, blinked his eyes a few times, as though something had suddenly clicked, and for the first time since his son’s tragic death, he broke down. Miriam and Doris moved close to him on either side. Paul put his big arms around them and sobbed like a baby. It was the first breakthrough in grief work.

  The poet Robert Frost once said, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” And life went on for the Fosters, and for Miriam, whose cry for help had almost ended in a fatal mistake. God knows where Paul and Doris would be now if they’d lost a second child.

  During their last session a few months later, Paul confessed that he had felt terribly guilty allowing himself to have a good day, guilty for even smiling. They all did. But in therapy they learned to give themselves permission to live and laugh, to have a fun night out at the movies or a restaurant. Finding happiness didn’t disrespect the dead, nor did it minimize the gravity of their loss.

  Life was a series of gains and losses. Accepting the gains was easy, accepting the losses not so much. The goal of bereavement was not to get over our losses, but to get past them…to let life go on and find a way to go on with it. An inability to do so is what drove people into therapy—the realization that they were stuck in a rut and unable to move forward, their wheels spinning and driving them deeper into the muck. But there were only two choices: find a way out and move forward, or stay stuck and sink deeper.

  Two years later, just after their office manager announced her retirement, Chief Foster stopped in to deliver a tin of cookies Doris had baked. They were all doing well, thanks to Riley, he said. Miriam had earned her associate degree in fine arts and now was enrolled at night in a tattoo-training program. She was living at home and looking for a day job so she could save money to open her own business. Riley had told Paul to send Miriam in, and she and Peggy hired her on the spot. They hoped it would be a while before Miriam left to open a tattoo shop.

  * * *

  Luna Maria stood on Miriam’s lap, her little back arching in another stretch as she mewed at Riley. “Okay, so the name Luna is cute…as long as you don’t use her middle name. But she really needs a last name,” Miriam said and handed the kitten to her.

  Riley knew where this was going. “Oh, yeah? Any suggestions?”

  “Dawson would be nice, if you’d just break down and take her home. Can’t you see she’s already picked you?”

  It was true. Whenever Luna was out of the cage, she meandered into Riley’s office. She’d contemplated adopting her but hadn’t said anything yet. She had her coyotes, but she missed having a dog, a companion animal she could legally be seen with in public, and she’d always wanted a cat. Once, a few years ago, Riley had gone to the local shelter in search of a pet. It was quiet when she first walked in, but once the animals got a whiff of her, they all went nuts. The place became a cacophony of feline hisses, suspicious growls, alarming barks. The staff grew alarmed, too. Riley saw their quick exchange of worried glances and became so self-conscious that she left and was too embarrassed to ever return.

  Riley rubbed her cheek back and forth against the kitten’s fur, then held her up. “Luna Maria Dawson…what do you think about that name?” Luna mewed, and she brought its face to her ear. “What’s that you say? You need to think about it? Good, because I need to think about it, too.”

  Miriam rolled her eyes as she brought two cat carriers from the back. “You know you’re gonna take her.”

  “Maybe.” Riley’s cell phone rang in her back pocket. She kissed the kitten, placed her gently in the carrier, and pulled out her phone. It was Peggy.

  “Hey,” Riley said.

  “You still at the office?”

  “I’m getting ready to leave.”

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “I’m about to grab something to take home.”

  “Don’t. Come over and eat with us. Tom’s here making pizza. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Nothing bad. It’s something exciting. And he has some gossip to tell us about David Cortez.”

  “Who?”

  “You know. Reverend Cortez from our church.”

  “Oh, right.” Riley had been inside the church only once, when Peggy and Barbara were married there three years ago. She liked that Presbyterians were gay-friendly, liked that the church had a rainbow flag waving from a pole by the back door and a sign welcoming refugees and immigrants, but Riley hadn’t been raised to believe in God. Even if she had, her last conversation with Pastor Bell’s wife was enough to make her run the other way. Peggy, Barbara, and Tom had tried to get her to join them for Sunday service. According to them, the charismatic reverend’s sermons were inspirational, wonderfully uplifting, but Riley saw no point to any of it. Christianity wasn’t an animal-friendly religion. Eternity was reserved for people, not an option for soulless animals. Wasn’t that the thinking? And where did that leave her? With only half a soul? Certainly not worshipping a God who discriminated against his own creations.

  Life on earth was hard, often torturous for animals, and it didn’t seem fair that paradise should be a prize awarded to one select species.

  “All right,” Riley said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “And can you pick up some cold beer on your way? Corona Light? We weren’t expecting pizza, and I have only one bottle in the fridge.”

  “Sure.” Riley hung up and wrangled the other kittens into the carriers while Miriam packed their food and shut down the computer.

  “Oh,” Miriam said. “I forgot to tell you. I scheduled Mrs. Barrett for Monday. Peggy has a twelve thirty with the daughter, so I thought you might want to see the mother then. I know it’s your lunchtime but—”

  “Twelve
thirty is fine. I’ll grab an early lunch.” Riley picked up one of the carriers. “Come on. I’ll help you out with the cats.”

  When they got them into Miriam’s backseat, Riley bent down and waved good-bye to Luna. The kitten reached an arm through the wire door and touched Riley’s finger with a paw.

  “Aw…see?” Miriam said. “She’s picked you. Why don’t you just break down already?”

  “It takes me a while to break, but I’m breaking. Give me a little time to decide.” Riley turned away with a smile and held a hand up as she walked to her car. “Have a good weekend, Miriam.”

  * * *

  Riley slowed down as she approached Tyringham Road. The white church on the hill seemed almost to glow against the darkening trees, its steeple and the cross that topped its spire reaching up to the ribbons of pink and orange melting in the evening sky. She made a left and continued up the incline. Her own house was another two miles up the road, but Peggy’s cottage was there on the right, almost directly across from the church. Painted butter-yellow, it sat on an angle above an old stone wall, surrounded by a picket fence. The driveway ran alongside the cottage to a detached garage in back. Riley pulled in, parking behind the other cars, and opened the picket gate. The flower gardens were in full bloom—foxglove, hollyhocks, and a cheerful assortment of colorful perennials. It was a charming place, as warm and inviting as its owners. Riley followed the flagstone path that cut through the flowers.

  The front door was open, and the dogs watched her like excited children through the screen. In Riley’s experience, the bigger the dog, the more wary it was of her, but something about chihuahuas responded well to a werewolf. Riley hadn’t quite figured it out. Felix and Brandi, gone for several years now, had been quite attached to her, and now there were Peanut and Black Jack, her little niece and nephew, as she called them. They barked in greeting as Riley reached the porch and let herself in.

  “Is that your Aunt Riley?” Peggy peeked out from the dining room, where she was setting the table.

  “Yep. It’s me.” Riley could smell the pizza baking. Usually the cottage had the faint scent of lavender. She loved it here, her home away from home. Barbara might have been the handywoman of the house, but Peggy’s artistic sense gave the cottage a tasteful blend of classic cottage and bohemian styles. Black-and-white buffalo-check curtains hung in all the windows and matched the upholstery on the dining-room chairs. If anyone could coordinate them with a palette of bright colors, it was Peggy. The floors and furniture were whitewashed, a brightly braided rug covering most of the living room with splashes of pink and black, yellow, red, and blue, which carried over to the pillows on the sofa. And here and there, framed in black, were paintings of poppies and fields of wildflowers.

  All in all, the cottage was magazine-perfect, cheerful and cozy, the kind of place you didn’t want to leave. And it definitely had a feminine feel about it—even if Barbara did not. She came out from the bathroom in shorts and a cut-off T-shirt, carrying a toolbox and wiping sweat from her brow. For as long as Riley could remember, Barbara had kept her hair in a ponytail, as if she thought the long hair threw people off.

  “Hey, Wiley Riley.” She smiled and gave Riley a peck on the lips. Barbara and Tom had called her that ever since they’d given her a Wile E. Coyote T-shirt years ago. “The toilet’s been running. Like forever. I just changed the flush valve. Give me a minute to get cleaned up.”

  She turned to go down the hall, and Riley teasingly gave her dark ponytail a soft tug. “Still trying to pass for straight, huh?”

  Barbara laughed. “Yeah, well, you know how it is,” she joked back. “Some of these locals are still iffy about a dyke filling their prescriptions. The long hair confuses them. Of course, seeing that I’m part Asian helps gain their trust because, well…you know, we’re smarter than you people, right?”

  Riley laughed, and Tom’s voice came from the kitchen. “Is the beer here?”

  “Nice to know I’m good for something,” Riley called to him. She carried the two six-packs into the kitchen, set them down on the counter, then lifted the dogs one by one for a proper greeting, replete with wet kisses.

  Tom slid two pizzas into the oven and shut the door. He was still in his work clothes—gray slacks and a white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had Peggy’s apron tied around his neck and waist. Handsome, lean and athletic, Tom was in his late forties now, seven years younger than Barbara. Except for his slightly almond-shaped eyes, he took more from the Italian side of the family. His short hair was just starting to gray, as was his fairly new and sexy stubble-beard.

  Riley was still holding Peanut, the tan chihuahua, when he put his hands on her shoulders, jiggled them, and jumped up and down. “I’m so excited,” he said. “Have you had anything to eat or drink in the last hour?”

  Riley looked at him askance. “Why?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Put the dog down and come inside.”

  Peggy walked into the kitchen just then. He winked at her, and she shot Riley a knowing smile, as though she was in on some sort of secret. “I frosted glasses in the freezer. Go inside with Tom, and I’ll pour us beer.”

  Riley put Peanut down and looked at them. “What are you two up to?”

  Peggy didn’t say a word. Tom took her hand, pulled her into the living room, and made her sit on the couch. She saw a small plastic container there that resembled a tiny tackle box. “You know I’m working for the Chromosome Connection now, right?”

  “Right…” She knew he had left his former job with a biotechnology company to take a higher-paying position with the Chromosome Connection, one of those genomics and genealogy places like Ancestry.com and 23andMe.

  Tom was stoked, humming as he opened the box and withdrew a bunch of scary little items: an empty vial, another with blue fluid, gauze, an alcohol wipe, and a lancet in a paper packet. It suddenly occurred to Riley that this was a collection kit.

  He handed her the empty vial. “Fill that with spit, and then I’ll prick your finger.”

  “Oh no…uh-uh. No genetic testing, if that’s what you’re offering.”

  His smile disappeared and he looked hurt, almost insulted. “Why not? I thought you’d be thrilled. We can analyze your DNA…look for mutations in your genes and—”

  “I can’t have my DNA out there, stored in some bank. I just can’t, Tom.”

  “It won’t be in a bank. I can do the testing alone, after hours. I’m a supervisor. I have full access to all the equipment I need. Also, I had dinner with a few friends from grad school the other night. One guy, Jeff, works at a dog DNA company—you know, where they do breed analysis. I can get access to their database.” He waited and then bounced in his seat like an impatient kid. “Oh, come on, Wiley. No one will ever know…just the four of us.” Peggy and Barbara walked in, and he looked to them for backup.

  “It’s a wonderful opportunity,” Barbara said.

  “If there’s total anonymity, why not do it?” Peggy chimed in. “You know Tom would never offer if he thought someone could access your DNA.”

  Riley rubbed her face. “Can’t I think about this over a beer?”

  “No,” Tom said. “You have to do it before you eat or drink.”

  Riley thought for a minute. She was starving. The smell of pizza had her stomach growling, and she could almost taste that cold Corona in the frosted glass Barbara held for her. She glanced at their pouting faces. Deep down she knew she could trust Tom. He would never chance exposing her. “Okay…all right,” she finally said.

  Excited smiles showed again, and joy returned to the room.

  Ten minutes later they were sitting around the table with pizza, salad, and beer. Everyone was too busy eating to talk until Riley broke the silence. “This pizza is outrageous. I love the fresh basil. You made the dough yourself?”

  “Yep. In my bread maker. It’s only the second time I’ve done it, but I will be perfecting my technique.”

/>   “It tastes pretty perfect.” Black Jack quietly waited by Riley’s chair. He knew she was always good for a handout. He loved pizza, especially the melted cheese, and who could blame him? Riley pulled off a bit of the stringy stuff and handed it to him.

  “It’s delicious,” Peggy said as she reached for a second slice.

  “Mmm…” was all Barbara could manage.

  Tom wiped his mouth, took a slug of beer, and smiled. “So! Are you ladies ready for some gossip? It’s about David.”

  “Our reverend?” Barbara asked.

  Tom nodded and looked at them all with that I’ve-got-a-secret twinkle in his eyes. “I think he’s gay.”

  This assertion pulled Barbara’s attention away from the pizza. “What?”

  He looked over at Riley, who sat next to him. “You never met Reverend Cortez, but—”

  “Duh! I was at the church for Peg and Barb’s wedding, remember?”

  “That’s right.” He tapped his temple. “I forgot about that. Then you know he’s gorgeous.”

  “Exceedingly handsome, yes, even by lesbian standards,” Riley agreed. Aside from the fact that he didn’t have an accent and might not even speak a word of Spanish, the reverend reminded her of the actor Antonio Banderas in his younger days. Riley remembered admiring his thick and shiny head of hair while he officiated at the ceremony. It was all one length, long enough to touch his clergy collar, and he had a habit of combing it back with his fingers.

  “And you also know I’m in love with him.”

  Peggy rolled her eyes. “It’s the only reason Tom goes to church.”