The Coyotes of Carthage

by Steven Wright

  Brendan handles a rutabaga, says, “Tomorrow for breakfast. Leek-and-bacon pie or sausage-and-cheese strata?”

  Andre thinks to answer, Neither, to explain that one more Irish breakfast may cause his heart to stop, but now is not the time or the place to discuss the excesses of Irish cuisine. “Whatever you want is fine. But hurry up.”

  “We found Tyler. Shouldn’t we be celebrating?”

  “There’s still his background check, and we need to get the signatures.”

  The kid picks up a placard and, chuckling, reads in a whisper, “‘Hakurei is great in a stir-fry, as a side dish, or in a salad. You’ll be amazed how many new and exciting recipes will turnip.’ Dre, these people are hilarious.”

  “Man, get your shit and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Through a side door passes a handsome grandmother, wearing an apron, pearl earrings, and a cardigan with copper buttons. She welcomes her guests, arms open wide, and says in a soft tone, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you?”

  Andre crosses the market, a quick twelve paces, to intercept the shopkeeper before she catches Brendan’s eye. “I see you sell hams.”

  “That’s what we’re known for.” The woman strolls behind a deli counter, where, beneath glass, sitting on ice, are plucked chickens, skinned rabbits, and parts of pigs: feet, bellies, a whole hog’s head. She stands atop an upturned crate, spreads butcher paper across the countertop. Clearly she wants to make a sale. But she doesn’t sell ham by the slice. She sells whole hams, ten to twenty pounds each, the cheapest one costing more than the airfare that brought him to South Carolina. Andre Ross is no miser, but he refuses to spend that kind of cash on pork. He says, “My friend is about done.”

  “Take your time.” She steps behind the register. “And just so you know. We host all types of weddings. We’re very open. We do not judge. We don’t discriminate. Everyone is welcome.”

  Andre looks up, confused, sees the shopkeeper’s knowing smile. Then, he understands. He’s considering correcting her assumption—We’re business associates and nothing more—when Brendan sets a full basket atop the checkout counter.

  “Dre, we’re out of soap,” Brendan says, then smiles at the shopkeeper. “Can we get a pound of bacon? You have an amazing market.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” She unrolls butcher paper. “Most of our business is out of county. We supply restaurants across the state. The artisan, locally grown crowd. We also run an agritourism program. Families learn about the farm, children pick their own vegetables. Go ahead. Take a brochure. There’s one for weddings.”

  Brendan pockets two wedding brochures, says, “And a pound of your country sausage.”

  “My husband and I talk about making soap. But every time we sell anything new, we have to jump through bureaucratic hoops. See those pickles?” She points toward a shelf of jars. “The brine is vinegar based. Vinegar is acidic. So I have to register my recipe with the federal government. Plus, I gotta send samples to the university for testing. The state won’t issue a pickle license without pickle testing.”

  Brendan selects two plucked chickens, and Andre questions whether the kid cares about the cost. For sure, Brendan comes from money: his father is chief of cardiology at some big-time hospital, his mother’s the chief operating officer of a semiconductor manufacturer. But the firm grants interns only a modest per diem.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if I only had to deal with one agency.” She finds a pencil and receipt pad. “But to sell eggs, we need a license from the Department of Agriculture. To sell ham and bacon, we need permission from the Meat and Poultry division. To sell peanuts, the Department of Health and Environmental Control. That’s just the state red tape. The feds have their rules. The county has its rules. The insurance company has its rules. I spend my entire weekend doing nothing but paperwork.”

  She tallies the bill, hands Brendan the sheet. The kid scans the figures and, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. Brendan’s reaching for his wallet, asking more about federal regulations that govern soap, when Andre realizes that, this week, Brendan’s cooked and cleaned and hasn’t asked Andre to kick in a dime. He worries that Brendan will think he’s a mooch, that the kid will tell his grandmother that Andre’s a mooch, that if he doesn’t pay this bill, then he really is a mooch. And thus, Andre snatches the slip, smiles a fake smile, and reads the bottom line.

  Appalling.

  “I shouldn’t complain,” the woman says. “We’re blessed, and no one wants to hear a successful person whine about the price of success. But I’ve talked to the county manager, Paula Carrothers. She says there’s nothing she can do. She just doesn’t understand business. Bless her heart. Everyone says so.”

  Andre pays with a credit card. At least he’ll earn some miles. He tries to mask his disgust, hopes, for this price, that these vegetables will extend his life, a sentiment that he brings back inside the Jeep, where Brendan says, “She seems nice. What? Did I talk too much?”

  “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Andre says. “And, by the way, she thinks you and I are a couple.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve got two wedding brochures in your pocket.”

  “Me and you?” Brendan cringes. “Please, I can do better.”

  Brendan pulls the Jeep onto the road. Andre sits quietly, sulking, imagines all that he could have bought instead of overpriced organic produce. New Italian loafers. A good bottle of brandy. Maybe a house. The list is long and growing, and, with each additional item, his irritation rises. Then his anger finds use.

  “The county manager. Paula Carrothers.” Andre silences the radio. “Have we requested anything on her?”

  Chapter Six

  Too early the next morning, at the Lee family dinner table, Andre recalls the details of his new straw man’s background. Traditionally, the firm would interview neighbors, past employers, archenemies, and ex-lovers. People would be amazed at the things their postman knows about them and astonished by how cheaply he’ll sell their secrets. But, for this assignment, the firm’s investigators are not authorized to travel or to make calls. Too much risk. Too small a community. Too little time. Therefore, the background check is limited to online databases, the records, both intimate and impersonal, purchased for a modest sum.

  “I don’t see why we can’t stick to the one issue.” Chalene Lee sits in her husband’s lap. Tyler’s wife is a cheery, dimple-cheeked woman, twenty-two weeks pregnant with their seventh child. She’s birthed five sons, adopted one more, says she loves them all the same. Her background check is pretty clean: secretary of her church’s women’s missionary society, part-time manager at a laundromat, part-time school bus driver for kids with disabilities. She’s popular with parents and with her employers, has but one blemish on her record, an incident six years ago when, driving the bus, she seized the cane of a blind eight-year-old who kept smacking a quadriplegic girl. Chalene’s applied for a third job two counties over, third shift at a factory, the nation’s second-largest producer of Going Out of Business signs. With another child on the way, the Lees make no secret that they could use the extra cash. Their jobs, six between the two of them, and federal assistance aren’t nearly enough. Even their eldest son, an eighteen-year-old high school senior, works part-time, scrapes a grill at a burger joint, shares his wages with Mom and Dad. Chalene says, “When my Tyler talked to Miss Vicki, she didn’t say nothing about three initiatives.”

  Tyler’s rubbing her thigh; she’s caressing his nape. The past half hour, the two haven’t kept their hands to themselves. Kissing. Caressing. Cuddling.

  “These three ballot initiatives share a theme. Each says that the government has gotten too big, too out of control.” Andre needs his straw man’s wife to buy into the campaign, because if he can’t convince her, then what hope should he have of convincing anyone else? “Remember, we’re trying to rein in government. To take the power away from the bureaucrats and special interests. The local gov
ernment, the state government, the feds in DC. Someone needs to remind them about American freedom. Someone needs to take a stand.”

  “Big Brothers at their worst.” Tyler pets the small of Chalene’s back. “Sweetheart. This is good for everyone. It’s good for the county. It’s good for us.”

  Tyler places both hands on his wife’s round belly.

  Andre shifts his eyes toward Brendan, who stares through a window at Tyler’s twin sixteen-year-old sons. Each is the spitting image of their father, and they’re wrestling on the front lawn. Andre shifts his sight again, past another son asleep on the fold-out couch. Finally, Andre sets his gaze above a faux mantel, where hangs a pastel portrait of Jesus. Andre wonders whether Tyler and Chalene have any shame, pawing at each other like love-struck teenagers in front of their Lord and Savior.

  “Instead of one ballot initiative, we’ll have three. The first is symbolic,” Andre says. “The county must post the Bill of Rights at the door of every government building. To remind those government bureaucrats that this country was founded on principles of freedom and liberty.”

  “Who can argue with that?” Tyler says. “Honey, remember that time the boys got a citation for burning lawn clippings in our own front yard? Private property. Boys weren’t causing no harm. And the county comes and gives us a fine.”

  “And, did you know, the county government is the largest landowner in Carthage? The county owns . . .” Andre looks to Brendan, who’s mesmerized by the twins’ punching each other’s arm. “Brendan? Brendan? Land ownership? The county owns how much land?”

  “Oh. Seventy-six thousand, four hundred acres.” Brendan calculates. “Which is about one hundred twenty square miles.”

  Tyler leans back, clicks his tongue, a child king passing judgment from his castle’s throne. And look at this castle. Andre’s never set foot inside a mobile home, and, truth be told, he’s impressed. He supposes he envisioned a camper with spare tires and propane tanks and breakfast nooks that double as beds, but this three-bedroom home, with its starched white curtains and trimmed garden terrace, is larger than his own condo.

  “One hundred twenty square miles,” Andre says. “The island of Manhattan is only . . .”

  Brendan sighs, waits a beat. “Twenty-three square miles.”

  “If that doesn’t scream big government, I don’t know what does.” Andre reads Chalene’s face, wonders whether the logic has any traction. He likes the comparison: public landownership as a proxy for the size of government. Cut the county’s landholding, cut the government’s power. “Again, the second initiative is symbolic. One thousand acres. Put the land up for public auction. Anyone can bid. Let the people and free market decide. Lastly, the third initiative—”

  Brendan groans, and Andre wishes the kid would keep his displeasure to himself.

  “Sweetie, you okay?” Chalene leans toward Brendan. “You look a little pale.”

  “He always looks like that,” Andre says. “Lastly, Paula Carrothers—”

  Brendan releases a deep, sorrowful sigh, and, in a flash, Chalene’s on her feet. She fills a glass with whole milk, stirs in canned seltzer and chocolate syrup. She claims to have invented this home remedy herself, that her concoction will clear up acne, alleviate joint pain, and settle any stomach. You think, maybe, I might should get a patent? She sets the glass atop a placemat, folds a linen napkin, opens a tin of sugar cookies. And then she’s back in Tyler’s lap.

  “Lastly, Paula Carrothers, the county manager, makes ninety-five thousand dollars each year,” Andre says. “That’s more than three times this county’s median family income. If we gathered three ordinary families in Carthage, each with two hardworking parents, she’d make more money than all three families combined.”

  “That’s our tax money, and she’s getting rich.” A vein throbs in Tyler’s throat. “She’s not even married. Don’t have no kids. She owns that big ol’ house on the lake. Drives that fancy car. That ain’t fair. I got four jobs.”

  Chalene’s clearly skeptical, which Andre respects. She’s being asked to assume an enormous risk, to publicly challenge her government, to potentially alienate the county’s business elite. If she and Tyler fail, they could fall further down the social ladder—which isn’t a far fall, but a short one that would surely shatter their bones.

  “Listen, Chalene, I understand your hesitancy,” Andre says. “But I can’t win without your husband. Victoria Boshears, she personally vouched for him. Trust me. I do this for a living, and I don’t say this to everyone, really I don’t, but I see that Tyler has the common sense and charisma and persona to be a great leader. This initiative is only the beginning. Mark my words, your new future could start right here at your kitchen table.”

  “You see that in my Tyler?” She blushes, and just like that, Andre knows he’s won her support. She brushes her husband’s cheek, says, “I see that too.”

  “Then we’re set.” Andre draws from his pocket a blank check. “Right now, between you two, you make, what? Six hundred dollars a week? Do I have that right?”

  Tyler and Chalene stare at the check.

  “Here’s a signing bonus.” He writes the check for five thousand dollars. “Tyler quits his other jobs and works full-time for the campaign. Chalene can keep her jobs, but the campaign will need her help too. Part-time. After work. Weekends. Especially early on, collecting signatures. I need a wife to stand by her man.”

  Andre slides the check across the table, watches their eyes widen, sees that all their problems are solved.

  “I’ll pay Tyler fifteen hundred dollars a week for the next twelve weeks. If we win, you’ll get an additional victory bonus.” Andre opens his bag, retrieves Chalene’s confidentiality agreement. “I’ve also talked to PISA. If we win, they promise to take care of you. A cushy management position. Good pay. Good health benefits.”

  Tyler fails to fight back an imbecilic grin. Andre knows, to them, this trifle is a fortune, so he’s not surprised when the two celebrate with a passionate kiss. Now Tyler can stop working those four jobs, especially the one at the saloon, which, Andre assumes, will also please Chalene. Andre’s curious why a woman of faith would permit her husband to work at a place like that, but he knows the answer, the same reason that the girls work there. No one dreams of working at the Gray Wolf, but opportunities are few in Carthage, and sometimes, you just need the money.

  * * *

  They’re stuck in traffic, and Brendan broods behind the wheel. He sulks because he abhors the third initiative, thinks that Paula Carrothers, a career civil servant, should be immune from political attack. Andre knows all this because the kid has said so, once this morning, twice last night.

  “How’s traffic so bad?” Brendan says. “There’re like ten people in Carthage.”

  Andre rolls down his window, tries to see beyond the crowd and line of cars. “Maybe the circus is in town?”

  Brendan lifts a finger, points toward a freckled tween wearing a black velvet suit. At first, Andre assumes the boy’s dressed for a special occasion—a wedding, a birthday, maybe a casino-night fund-raiser—but then their Jeep fills with the chime of church bells, and, instantly, he realizes it’s Sunday, nine A.M. He counts seven chapels on this block alone, not including the two-thousand-seat megachurch that sits in the sunshine atop a distant hill.

  The Jeep crawls forward, reaches a busy intersection, where a hunchbacked senior citizen directs the flow of traffic. Andre doubts she’s a cop, a suspicion confirmed by the stitching on her vest, bright glittery text that reads Crossing Guard for Christ.

  “I want to go to Mass tonight,” Brendan says. “There’s a cathedral in Greenville. Far enough away. Big congregation. Lots of migrant workers. No one will notice me. Last-chance Mass is at six.”

  The crossing guard permits a crowd to pass, and as each pedestrian goes by, the old woman receives a warm salutation. Fathers shake her hand. Mothers kiss her cheek. Children hug her leg.

  “Tell me, how are you cool with this
plan?” Brendan erupts. “Tell me, how is it acceptable that South Carolina has no real campaign finance laws?”

  “Fifty different states. Fifty different rules. The laboratories of democracy. Someone has to experiment with the Fisher-Price chemistry set,” Andre says. “Listen, B. If you’re uncomfortable with our work, that’s not a bad thing. There’s no shame if you decide to leave. This job isn’t for everyone.”

  Brendan wouldn’t be the first intern to walk away midcampaign. The firm loses new staffers all the time, especially during the federal election season, when the stakes are high, the travel grueling, the tactics amoral. In his first year at the firm, Andre often considered pursuing a different career. In those days, the senior partners assigned him to every team where the black vote mattered, and, in pursuit of a client’s agenda, Andre has bribed black pastors, labeled good white men bigots, and run smooth-talking brothers to split the black vote. He doesn’t regret his conduct—a win is a win is a win—but he admits that for his people, he might have done more harm than good.

  “I don’t want to quit. I like the job. I like you.” Brendan sinks into his seat. “It’s just strange. Lawless. Like the Wild West.”

  “Are we the good guys? You my deputy?”

  “Dre. It’s not funny. Outsiders can run a quarter-million-dollar campaign—”

  “Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I’m talking about our campaign.”

  “Yeah. Me too. I pitched the three-initiative strategy to PISA last night, and they liked it.” Andre watches the kid turn red. “What? PISA thinks they could have persuaded the council, if not for the meddling of Paula Carrothers.”

  “They’re willing to pay an extra one hundred thousand dollars just to enact their petty revenge upon a small-time county manager?”