Coyote Blues

by Karen F. Williams

  “What the—?” She strained her eyes, trying to make out the car. It might have been black or blue. It was too dark to tell. The only thing that stood out was the driver’s side door. It was much lighter, like it had been taken from another car; either that, or it had been primed for a paint job. Barbara hurried to the hall closet, taking out the baseball bat she kept in there, then flipped the floodlight switch on the wall to trip the sensor. But as she opened the door to have a good look in the light, the engine began revving again—once, twice, three times. Whoever it was had one foot on the brake now, the other pressed on the gas pedal. The tires squealed and the car peeled off then, leaving the faint smell of burning rubber on the breeze. A couple of dogs barked somewhere in the distance.

  “Fucking coward!” Barbara grumbled. The stairs squeaked behind her, and she turned around to see Peg coming down, tying the sash of her robe.

  “I heard that,” she said. “Probably just some kids horsing around.”

  “Maybe,” Barbara said, but she didn’t for one minute think it was a random act. There was something deliberate about it all, like someone was delivering a clear message. She felt it in her gut. And she could tell by the look on Peggy’s face that the same thought had crossed her mind.

  Peggy made a face at the bat hanging loosely at her side. “Put that thing away and come back to bed. Whoever it was is gone,” she said and went back upstairs.

  Barbara didn’t press the issue. She didn’t want to spoil the amorous mood, but when she got upstairs, she realized it had been spoiled. She’d lost her mojo and was preoccupied now. “I know you’re tired, baby. How about if I rub your back instead?”

  “That would be nice,” Peggy murmured, taking the pillow that was meant to be her throne and tucking it underneath her chest as she turned onto her stomach.

  Barbara went to the bathroom for a tube of gel, then came back and straddled Peg’s thighs, her thoughts wandering as she began to massage Peggy’s hips and back. She wasn’t sure why, but if she had to name a primary suspect, it was Jim Barrett. That he’d even have the audacity to drive by their house—to what, scare and bully them?—made her temper flare again. Peggy’s soft moans turned into a sudden grunt of displeasure. “Ouch! Easy, cowboy. You’re not on a bull at the rodeo.”

  “Sorry, baby,” Barbara said, lightening her touch. She could feel a spasm, a hard knot along the muscle in Peg’s lower back, and focused on gently working it out. But the revving engine and squealing tires kept replaying in her head.

  “Stop thinking about it,” Peggy said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Barbara laughed under her breath. Peggy knew her too well. Having your mind read was the one drawback of living with someone too long. But she couldn’t help it. The thought of someone threatening her loved ones—of thinking they could be bullied and frightened into submission—did not sit well with her. Whoever was behind the wheel seemed to either be making a statement or sending a warning. It didn’t take long for Peg to fall asleep, and when she did, Barbara shut off the light and lay on her back, perseverating over the intrusion and trying to figure out what the whole thing meant.

  * * *

  Riley woke up to the sound of purring and Luna’s fur tickling her face. Since having Fiona in here last weekend, if only for a few hours, both the bed and her heart felt painfully empty. And with all her littermates adopted it seemed that Luna, too, was feeling terribly lonesome in her cage. As much as Riley wanted to allow the coyotes in her bed, she kept the room off-limits to avoid a daily change of linens. The last time she’d let them sleep in here, she’d woken up to find dirty paw prints and all manner of forest debris dragged in on their coats and deposited in her sheets. Cats were cleaner.

  “I’ve got to get you and those lazy bums downstairs fed,” she said. It was amazing how fast the hunting instinct diminished when food was readily available. Why bother chasing down mice, frogs, and bugs when you could hold out for kibble, chicken, and peanut-butter sandwiches? As long as the coyotes resisted a kitten sandwich, things were good. Her biggest concern about bringing Luna home was the pack mistaking her for a snack. To avert a tragedy, Riley had run in fur that first night, and when she came home, she’d rubbed the kitten all over her bare chest to mark it with her own scent. Then she invited the pack upstairs.

  “Mine! Riley’s puppy,” she said in a clear, confident voice. They knew the word puppy. She saw no point in teaching them a new one. This wasn’t the time for a vocabulary lesson. Settling any confusion was paramount. She held Luna to her face, pretending to lick and clean the kitten in exaggerated displays of maternal affection.

  Widget, being a mom herself, seemed to understand right way that Riley had given birth. She kept a respectful distance, craning her neck to get a better whiff. Little Midget wagged her tail at the thought of having another playmate. Fidget, the big sister and nanny in the group, assumed a proud stance, as if to advertise her exceptional caretaking capabilities, should Riley require them. And big-daddy Gadget, fixedly observing the tiny addition to the family, seemed perplexed. Animals were quick to smell hormonal changes in expectant females, and he seemed surprised that he’d missed the olfactory signs of Riley’s pregnancy. He looked away, then glanced bashfully at her as if to say, Gee, Riley, I don’t know how I missed that, but congratulations!

  Riley had placed Luna on the floor at that point, showing her teeth and growling her demand for spatial boundaries. They obeyed, politely backing up, and she distracted them from any further speculations by giving them hamburgers, which they heartily consumed in celebration of the new odd-looking pack member.

  Riley stretched and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Luna mewed and kneaded her chest through the cotton blanket. “I like that you knead me. I need you, too. But I have to pick up your Aunt Peg and Aunt Barb in an hour. We’re going to the powwow,” she said, rubbing Luna’s velvety nose with a fingertip.

  Most years, attending the powwow was just something fun to do. This time she felt more of a connection, as though she were off to a family reunion to meet long-lost relatives. She’d stayed up late last night, researching American Indians on the internet while new-age music played in the background. Making sense of her origins was a daunting affair. There were nations, so many tribes, bands, clans. She settled on the Algonquin Indians of the northeast, the Wampanoag tribe of New England, to be exact. The Wampanoags had greeted the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock in Cape Cod and generously supplied the cornucopia of food for that first Thanksgiving. Of course, relations had apparently soured after dinner. Instead of dessert, the white man brought disease. Between epidemics and greed, it was a wonder the Wampanoags survived to this day on Martha’s Vineyard. But that made them coastal, a long way from the Berkshires. The Mohicans, or the Mahicans, part of the Hudson River Indians, seemed a more likely prospect. They’d settled in nearby Stockbridge, the next town over.

  Just because Riley was born in Massachusetts didn’t mean her parents had been, though. The reverend had joked about them being thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail, but who could say they weren’t? Maybe they’d been drifters—a hippie-type twosome, rejecting the establishment and refusing to conform to societal norms. Or maybe her mother had been a teenager—a college freshman away from home, say—who’d met a loser-type guy in some far-off state. He might have promised her the world, then took off when she became pregnant. Out of shame or fear, she might have hidden her pregnancy until it was time to wander into the woods and deposit her dirty secret. That’s how Riley had always felt—that she’d been deposited instead of born. And sometimes it happened that way. How many accounts existed of young girls, desperate and destitute, giving birth in a gas-station bathroom and leaving a baby behind. The world was full of heartbreaking stories like that. She was one of them.

  Thinking about it sent her mood into a downward spiral, and she quickly shifted her focus. More uplifting than her undetermined origins were the mystical aspects of Native Ame
rican culture and religion—power animals, vision quests, spiritual journeys. She found tales about the trickster coyotes of Native American folklore, legends of skinwalkers, and the shamans reputed to have shape-shifted into their spirit animals.

  It was well past midnight when she shut down the computer and turned off the music, but when the room grew quiet, she heard the chugging of a car engine outside. Not the whooshing of a passing car, but one that was idling. From the sound of things, it needed a new muffler. Riley moved to the doors, looking out past the deck, and through the dense line of trees, she saw the headlights of a car creeping along her property. Then she spotted the red glow of brake lights as the car stopped, slowly backed up, and moved forward again, like someone looking for an address. A moment later it drove on, backfiring as it continued down the road. Probably some idiot trying to find his way home and too drunk to remember where he lived.

  Riley dragged herself out of bed and gobbled down a banana with her morning coffee while she fed everyone, then quickly showered and dressed and managed to pick up the girls on time. Ten minutes later they were on their way to the powwow on Mount Greylock—a fitting destination considering the day was just as gray. It was overcast, expected to rain by evening.

  Tom was standing at the entrance with a long face when they arrived and had already paid for them. “My treat,” he said, handing them each a schedule and rubber admissions bracelet.

  “Thanks, Tom,” they said at once.

  “Don’t mention it. And whatever you do, don’t mention him.”

  “Him who?” Peggy asked.

  “The Reverend Cortez. I got here early and walked around a little. He’s in there, getting his stupid face painted with a bunch of kids from Sunday school.”

  “The Reverend Cortez?” Barbara rolled her eyes. “That’s a little formal, isn’t it, considering it was oh, David last week. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I thought I’d made a breakthrough last Friday, after taking the kittens there and then all of us having dinner together. I expected him to say something when I dropped him off.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, it was great spending time outside of church. Or, let’s get together again soon. Or, come in and have sex with me.” All he wanted to do on the way back was talk about Riley.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. He wanted to know when your birthday was. He said it must be a bittersweet time for you, given your ‘rough start in life,’ and said he’d like to prepare a special sermon—if Barb, Peg, and I could manage to drag you to church.”

  “Aww…that’s nice of him.” Peggy smiled at Riley. “I could tell your story deeply affected him. He’s such a thoughtful, sensitive man.”

  Tom sucked his teeth. “His dick is sensitive. I don’t know about the rest of him.”

  Barbara’s eyes bulged at her brother. “Thomas Monti!”

  “Well, it’s true. He knows I’m interested, but he’d rather hook up with strangers.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know,” Peggy said as they made their way through the thin crowd. “Maybe he’s afraid you’d reject him. That would make for awkward Sunday services.”

  “Trust me, he knows. We aren’t like lesbians. You women miss signals, second-guess each other. Someone could be blatantly hitting on you, and you’re like, ‘I can’t tell if she likes me,’ he said in the high voice of an exasperated female, waving his hands in imitation. All men have to do is look at each other to know their intentions.”

  “And?” Riley said. “Does he have intentions?”

  “I thought so, but by Sunday he was back in minister mode, greeting me like he does everyone else. So that would be a big NO, Wiley Riley.”

  The general mood was as gloomy as the day. Tom was pouting, Peggy seemed unusually pensive, Barbara was grumpy like she hadn’t slept well, and Riley was lovesick—worried sick about Fiona and Edy. She hadn’t heard from her all week and wouldn’t chance calling for fear Jim might check his wife’s phone. She had planned to sneak out of the office, meet her in the parking lot after her session with Peggy. But Fiona had canceled her appointment—something to do with an upset stomach.

  The mystical music of a Native Indian flute floated in the air as they walked and talked, perusing vendors along the way. Some offered Native American food. Others were selling moccasins, clothing, and blankets; pottery and pipes; handmade dreamcatchers and totem animals carved from stone. And then someone shouted her name.

  In between passing people, the reverend flagged her with a waving arm. “Riley! Over here.” He was wearing a man-bun, and with his dark skin and painted face he could have passed for an American Indian.

  “You go,” Tom said. “I am not in the mood to engage him. I’ll meet you guys by the arena. The Grand Entry is in fifteen minutes.”

  Riley looked at the flyer in her hand. The Grand Entry. According to the schedule, the eagle staff would be carried into the arena, followed by the raising of flags, and then the dancing would commence—always in a counter-clockwise circle to follow the movement of the sun from east to west, it said. She folded and tucked it in her back pocket.

  “Okay. We’ll meet you over there,” Barbara said. “I’ll call if we can’t find you.”

  The reverend, who seemed especially animated today, stood to hug them as they approached. Three heavy stripes of color adorned each cheek: lines of black, green, and purple. He wore a khaki shirt, unbuttoned halfway to show off a beaded necklace, from which dangled some sort of formidable-looking fang—a bear or wolf tooth maybe—and strung through the loops of his faded jeans was a leather concho belt, the buckle and silver ovals embellished with turquoise and other gemstones.

  Peggy flashed her famous bright smile. “Well! I don’t know whether to call you reverend or tribal chief.”

  “Warrior!” He pounded a fist against his chest and laughed. “Come on and get painted. It’s not just for kids.”

  Barbara and Peggy politely declined, but Riley was game. After all, a powwow was a gathering of kin, the annual renewal and preservation of their rich heritage. Her heritage in part, even if that part hadn’t manifested in her physical features.

  There on an easel stood a poster board with swatches of color and their meaning, but as soon as Riley tried to study the list, David blocked it with his body. “Pick your colors intuitively,” he said. “Which ones do you feel?”

  She looked at the stripes on his face. “Black and green, like you, but maybe yellow instead of purple.”

  David rubbed his hands together. “That’s a potent color cocktail.” The indigenous women doing the painting nodded in agreement. He stepped aside and pointed to the descriptions. “Purple, which you didn’t pick, symbolizes the power of mystery and magic. Red is faith and happiness, or blood and violence when used as war paint. Black symbolizes fearless aggression and victory, and yellow stands for intelligence, determination…a willingness to fight to the death.”

  “That’s me in a nutshell.” She hoped those colors would stand true, if and when the time came for battle. Peg and Barb watched in amusement as one of the native women painted her face. The rhythmic pounding of log drums rose, signifying the earth’s heartbeat, the spirit of life. Then came the softer sound of water drums—what the white man named tom-toms, after a popular British child’s toy, from what she’d read last night.

  “It’s starting.” David glanced around. “Where’d Tom go?” he asked, but before they could answer, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he motioned for them to leave. “Go on. Don’t miss it. I’ll catch up.”

  Riley followed Peggy and Barbara, heading toward the arena, until she passed a jewelry case on a vendor table, and a sterling-silver turtle pin caught her eye. It was about an inch around, inlaid with triangular pieces of turquoise and black onyx. Two rows down in the case she spotted a howling coyote in the same design.

  Riley caught the vendor’s eye and smiled. “I’ll take the turtle and the coyote—as fast as you can,” she said, and a
minute later she was exchanging a credit card for two tiny black pouches, which she flattened and slipped into the top pocket of her denim shirt.

  She hurried through the growing crowd then, toward the sound of drums, wondering why so many strangers were acknowledging her with friendly smiles. It wasn’t until some jerk chomping on corn on the cob said HOW! that she realized it was her war paint drawing attention. It’s not just for kids, David had said, but from the look of things, she and the reverend were the only non-indigenous adults with decorated faces. The reverend might have passed for a Native American man, but with her summer-blond hair and golden eyes, she probably looked like a ridiculous white person.

  “I feel like an asshole,” she said to Barbara when she caught up to them at the edge of the sacred circle. “Am I the only grown-up with face paint?”

  She grinned, put an arm around Riley, and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I believe so…which makes you the absolute cutest grown-up here.”

  Peggy was looking down, typing on her phone. “I just got a text from Miriam. She’s on her way to the office to meet Scott Quigley. The sink’s clogged. First the leak, and then this.”

  “I didn’t think he worked on Saturdays.”

  “He doesn’t, but he got stuck on a job yesterday and felt bad. He called Miriam after you left yesterday and offered to come today if someone could be there to let him in.”

  “Ah, one of the perks of having a plumber who has an eye for our office manager,” Riley said.

  “Poor Scott.” Peggy put her phone away. “He has such a huge crush on Miriam, and she makes it so hard for him, pretending not to notice.”

  The dancers were in the sacred circle of the arena now, and over the sound of drums, rattles, and leather jingle dresses, a hawk screeched. Riley heard the hoarse kee-arr of its voice and lifted her head to the sky, watching it soar as it rode the warm thermals in the atmosphere, its broad wings turning predatory circles above the open field.