The Coyotes of Carthage

by Steven Wright

  She taps a button on her keyboard, and the flat-screen goes blank.

  “She’s never spoken to me . . . I mean, I’ve heard her speak that way to others, but never to me,” Andre says, turns to meet the kid’s unsympathetic stare. “B?”

  The kid rises, heads downstairs saying, “Good luck, Dre.”

  * * *

  That evening, pacing Chalene’s porch, he rehearses what he’ll say. His message is simple, no need to complicate the issue: PISA seeks a new direction. We appreciate your contribution, but, in light of recent events, PISA wants change. If we win, which we will, then PISA promises to keep a well-paid post open for Tyler.

  The Gypsy opens the front door, chewing, a turkey leg in hand. Andre assumes, at first, that he’s interrupted a birthday party. Loud music. Loud talking. The glow on the Gypsy’s face is bright. Inside, Andre finds all six sons feasting at the kitchen table, jolly and merry, the biggest banquet this house has probably ever seen. Plates and platters of food cover every inch of table space and countertop, with excess desserts, pans of pudding and pastries and pies, placed wherever there’s room.

  “I told you.” Chalene kisses his cheeks. “Toussaint Andre Ross. I told you!”

  “Don’t call me that.” He wants to get this over with. “I talked with PISA.”

  “I like Toussaint. Sounds respectable. From now on, I’m calling you—”

  “Chalene, PISA has reevaluated the campaign.”

  “All this time I felt the burden of your doubts.” She smiles as though her next move is checkmate. “But see what can happen. This is proof. Undeniable scientific proof. The power and the glory of trusting your troubles to the Lord Jesus Christ. Praise His name.”

  “Yes. Praise His name. PISA thanks you for your contribution.”

  “When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer. Behold.” She opens a shoe box, a treasure chest of cash and checks. “I lost count. Sweetie, how much money is in here?”

  “Five thousand eight hundred fifty-three dollars.” The Gypsy speaks with a mouth full of bread. “And a little change.”

  “Between us”—Chalene leans in, whispers—“he probably skimmed a little off the top. He’s good at math, the best of all my boys, but you know, he has that thieving disability. If I had to guess, we have at least six grand. Don’t worry, I’ll make him give it back.” She restores her normal tone and voice. “What do we do with all this money? With . . . how much again, sweetheart?”

  “Five thousand eight hundred fifty-three dollars and change.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She shakes her head in cynical disapproval. “Do we have to report it? This is our friends’ and neighbors’ money. And folks will send more. A couple people called, said they put checks in the mail. These folks, they don’t have much, and they gave what they could. I want to do this by the book.”

  “This came in today?” The house phone interrupts his thought. “From who?”

  “Everyone!” Her cell phone rings too. “Sit. Enjoy. Praise His name.”

  She answers her phone, snaps her fingers and points toward the couch. He resents the command—he’s not the family dog—but he sits, nonetheless, beside a stack of newspapers, on which appears, on the front page, right smack in the middle, Tyler Lee at yesterday’s council meeting. The staff photographer has captured an extraordinary moment, an action shot—is this when Tyler called the chairman a milksop?—a perfect snapshot of Tyler’s face full of frustration and rage and passion, fists raised, Christ bracelet on one wrist, Constitution on the other.

  In every election, one photo defines the contest. A candidate tripping over the curb. An incumbent’s disengaged stare. The all-too-familiar embrace of a married candidate with his arms around a woman not his wife and half his age. More often than not, the photo—and the narrative it represents—isn’t the product of a campaign’s best effort. Instead, the moment occurs naturally, captured by a stringer or on a supporter’s phone, and the photo resonates, speaking an inexpressible truth that, somehow, articulates a campaign’s perceived strength and weakness. This photo, yes, hot damn, Chalene’s right. This photo is a miracle. Tyler’s angry—no, more than angry, he’s genuinely pissed, ready to fight, ready to lay down his life, to battle on behalf of God and Carthage.

  Chalene hangs up the phone, which, she says, “hasn’t stopped ringing. Everyone saw the paper, and they see my Tyler.” The phone rings again. “The picture’s everywhere. A gal from church says it’s now her husband’s screen saver. Our pastor put it on the church home page.”

  “This picture?”

  “Oh, and you’d be proud, I’ve been handin’ out voter registration cards, and, oh! The bracelets.” She raises her wrist to show hers as the phone continues to ring. “These two are all that’s left. I passed out my last set an hour ago. Everyone wants them. I ordered more. Used the credit card. Is that okay?”

  “Chalene.” His patience is exhausted. “What are people saying?”

  She answers the phone, and Andre skims the paper. Inside, at the jump, is the poet. Her photo is equally angry, equally aggressive, and yet hers is unflattering. Have they darkened her skin? The text beneath her photo is surely a gross misquote. He knows why the editors picked this shot—they practically stole his idea—and he’s not naive enough to resent the bigoted blessing.

  These photos, he knows, represent the only facts that people will learn about last night’s council meeting. God bless social media. Good for pictures; terrible for truth. Most folks won’t watch the full meeting online, and most folks won’t read the full story, a short fifteen column inches that offers a shallow summary.

  Andre flips through the newspaper, expects a sidebar or op-ed, some piece of investigative journalism that questions the link between PISA and the initiatives.

  Nothing.

  Tyler wanders inside from the backyard, shirtless, wears a camo apron and jester’s crown. He carries a platter full of thick steaks, marinating in a puddle of blood and grease, in all about three hundred dollars’ worth of well-marbled beef.

  “Dre, brother, you’re here! Sit down. Grab a plate.” Tyler wipes his hand against his apron, grabs Andre in a big bear hug. “Brother. I’m telling you. It’s been a madhouse. Folks in and out all day. Bringing food and money. Things are different. You can feel it in the air. Like status electricity.”

  Tyler finds the largest steak, plops it atop a paper plate for Andre. Tyler’s all smiles, with a newfound confidence and swagger. Andre takes his seat, unfolding a linen napkin, watches the steak juices soak through the paper plate.

  “Tyler.” Andre pokes the meat that is burnt yet bloody. “Question.”

  “Italian dressing, brown sugar, a little bourbon.”

  “Today’s article in the paper.”

  “What? No, come on, brother.” He slams down his steak knife. “Man, I knew it. I knew it. There’s just no pleasing you. I didn’t do nothing wrong, and you come here, in my house, and—”

  “No. No. Tyler. The article’s great. You did great. I couldn’t be happier.” On Tyler’s face relief turns to pride, as though all his life Tyler’s sought Andre’s praise. “But I’ve done this for a while, and now, twice, you’ve received especially favorable coverage from the local newspaper.”

  Tyler casts a glance over Andre’s shoulder, and Andre turns in time to catch Chalene’s face. Andre regrets that he asked, because without a doubt, the two share a secret. In politics, you never know what secrets people might keep: family secrets, secret families—the bigger the secret, the bigger the sin.

  “Boys,” Chalene says, “take your plates out to the patio.”

  The boys complain—too hot, too dark, too many bugs—but Tyler, with a clear of his throat, hastens their retreat.

  “The publisher, the paper’s owner.” Chalene slides into Tyler’s lap, and the two exchange an obnoxiously long kiss. “We worship with the family.”

  Is that the secret? No. Of course not. Otherwise the boys could’ve s
tayed. He suspects that she’s about to share dirt, dark salty poisonous dirt that one sprinkles in their nosy neighbor’s yard to kill their rosebushes. Maybe, oh, just maybe, one of them had an affair, which wouldn’t be a complete surprise. Probably Tyler. All that time working with half-naked hoes. Of course he strayed. Of course he surrendered to temptation. Name one red-blooded American male who wouldn’t have. Goes to show, though. This marriage has always felt too solid, too healthy, too happy, and too strong. Two people couldn’t possibly love each other this much for this long.

  “It’s the same family that adopted our Lucius.” Her voice breaks as she gestures outside at the Gypsy. “That family wanted to send my angel back to that godforsaken war-torn land where they don’t even worship the Lord Jesus.”

  He’s disappointed. He wanted something salacious, but he realizes this revelation’s worth. The newspaper—the only print media in town—owes his straw men. These past few weeks, Chalene’s shared every banal family secret. Andre even knows the vaccination history of the family dog (only rabies, everything else is luxury). Why didn’t she share this? He suppresses his irritation, saves for another day a discussion about relevant information.

  * * *

  He slows the Jeep, checks his cell. The battery is dead, and he wonders whether Mrs. Fitz has returned his call. He has, in the past hour, sent a half-dozen texts, phoned four times, each time leaving a message explaining that the campaign’s circumstances have changed. The council meeting represented a watershed, the real moment this campaign began. He recommends, before she assigns a new team lead, that she put a new poll in the field, confirm what he sees on the ground.

  “Please, Mrs. Fitz,” he says. “Just one more chance.”

  He turns the Jeep, brakes hard at the mouth of his driveway. Directly before him, right there in the middle of his pebbled drive, a coyote lies on its belly, pawing a cottontail rabbit, muzzle bloody, teeth tearing at flesh and fur and bone. Andre flashes his high beams, but the coyote refuses to relent. Andre sticks his head through his window, yells, “Get the fuck out the way,” to which the coyote raises its nose, baring its fangs, and growls.

  Again and again, he honks the horn, until at last the coyote rises, seemingly more annoyed than intimidated. Andre slowly advances the Jeep—inch by inch—but the coyote stands its ground. The standoff, however, is short-lived, as the coyote, tail raised, snatches the rabbit, trots down the road.

  He seizes the moment, dinner plates in hand, sprints onto the porch. There, beside the open door, a dull-edged, world-worn footlocker with a broken hinge. A stretched-too-tight belt—orange and green and white—keeps the bloated footlocker shut, and a dog-eared sticker makes plain to whom this luggage belongs.

  The screen door closes, and he follows the fresh scratches etched onto the wood floor, passing through the vestibule and into the viewing room and to the base of the stairs, passing the mounted predators’ heads that he once resented, finding, along the way, the kid’s flotsam and jetsam: a face towel and dice cup, a tote bag and balled-up pair of socks. Andre collects each, like a father tidying up after a careless child, cradles each item in the crook of his arm. A short climb up the stairs, and he’s paralyzed by a fear of what he might find.

  “Please, B,” he whispers to himself. “Please don’t go.”

  He slides open the door, advances to Brendan’s room. Finds the space empty save a stripped bed and a television that sits atop a pyramid of milk crates. The faint stench of a cigarette irritates his eyes, and he traces the scent up into the attic, where the smell is strong. In the dark, sitting on the ledge of an open window, the kid is pensive, ash-tipped cigarette in hand, face pale in the moonlight. Andre reaches for the light, but the kid says, “Don’t.” Pauses, then says, “I called you.”

  “My battery.” Andre sets the dinner plates atop the conference table, removes the tinfoil. Fried chicken. Slabs of ham. Corn and tomatoes and beans. “Chalene sent more calories than a sane man should eat. She packed that honey cake you like. Let me grab you a Guinness.”

  “My mom called.” The kid takes a drag, then hands the cigarette to Andre. The kid knows Andre doesn’t smoke, but Andre senses he must take this hit. To his surprise, Andre enjoys the sudden inner warmth, sweet and spicy, the tickle of his throat. The kid says, “That’s the last one.”

  “We’ll find more. We’ll go to Charleston. Make a day of it.”

  “No. It’s my last cigarette forever. After this one, I’m done.” The kid reclaims the cigarette, forefinger brushing Andre’s wrist. “About an hour ago. They . . . the firm . . . the partners . . . they were supposed to meet.”

  Andre braces for bad news, understands the packed bags beside the front door. The firm must have called, and the founding partners must have recalled this team. He has no right of appeal. Their decision is final. Infallibility is the best perk of seniority. He never thought his career would end like this: midcampaign, in a shadowy, smoke-filled room in a derelict house in a backwoods town that he’s happy to leave behind.

  “B,” he says. “As soon as we get back, I promise that I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “What? No, man, Dre,” the kid says. “The security guy called my ma. What’s his name?”

  “Sabatino?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Sab, I like him.” He takes a long puff, holds the smoke in his lungs, which must surely burn, then exhales. “He found her passed out at her desk.”

  “Wait, Sab found who?”

  “Someone started CPR right away. Used one of those portable defibrillators. But by the time the paramedics got there . . .” The kid takes his last drag, drops the smoldering butt to extinguish it beneath his heel. “Dre, man, we gotta go back to DC. We gotta bury my nana.”

  Part IV

  Goodbye

  Chapter Seventeen

  No one quite remembers when Fiona Fitzpatrick joined St. Benedict of Palermo, the District’s only African American Roman Catholic church. Most likely, she joined twenty-five years ago, during that period when she considered abandoning political consulting to scratch an itch and run for office herself, to become the first elected white mayor of Washington, DC. She ultimately decided against a run—her friends, the polls, an exploratory committee each predicted a humiliating defeat—and most folks assumed that she would return to her former parish, a small, elite Georgetown congregation where she’d worshipped for nearly thirty years. But Fiona Fitzpatrick didn’t. She stayed here at St. Benedict’s, and she received communion, and she baptized grandchildren, and she mourned the loss of her first and then her second husband; and here, on a cold, wet day in spring, is where the people who loved her say goodbye.

  The two-hour funeral Mass ends, the choir singing, one last bold, jubilant performance accompanied by a string quartet, the formation of a haunting harmony that soars like seraphs through the sanctuary; all the while clergy, black men in cream robes, lead the exiting procession with a little extra soul in their step. Her six sons and two eldest grandsons guide her casket up the aisle, a solemn parade followed by a cadre of family and dignitaries.

  Andre’s been stoic the entire ceremony. It’s been six days since Brendan shared the news, and Andre has yet to surrender to emotion. But this closing hymn, this damned awe-inspiring hymn, both beautiful and breathtaking and sung by a choir that is sincere in its grief—My God, Mrs. Fitz, you would’ve been proud—this hymn rumbles like a peal of thunder trapped inside his chest, and he wonders whether all funeral Masses are this grand, this full of pageantry and regalia, tradition and spirituality, hope and loss. He wants to believe that the answer is no, to believe that the church has done something special for its most faithful of daughters. Sure, Mrs. Fitz would’ve complained. This service, she would have said, was too long, too loud, too much of a fuss. But, in his heart, he has to believe she would’ve been happy, or at least content.

  The casket disappears through an archway, and the cathedral springs into motion. Hundreds of mourners fill the aisles. They shake hands, exchan
ge hugs, check their phones. The other associates pass him without acknowledgment, and he wonders how best to interpret their silence. He thinks maybe they simply don’t know how to respond to his sorrow, that they don’t know how to comfort the usually stony black man now wiping tears. Perhaps they think it’s better to simply leave him be. Or, possibly, they know something he doesn’t.

  “Lovely service, wasn’t it?” Mr. DeVille, the firm’s other senior partner, stands beside Andre. “And that homily. Boy. Pitch-perfect. Eloquent. Funny. Touching. Such nice things the father said. I should be so lucky. You think Fiona wrote it herself?”

  Andre buries his chin in his chest; the last thing he needs is for someone to see him giggle at his mentor’s funeral. But the moment has also made him aware; a small group of important people, the firm’s most senior staff, are huddled beneath the archway, watching. Andre wonders what they expect. Will Mr. DeVille fire him here? It would be a savvy move. Anywhere else, Andre might cause a scene. Stomp his feet. Pound his fists. Throw a chair. For sure, he’d raise his voice and curse the old man out, but here, in Mrs. Fitz’s church, moments after her funeral Mass, even Andre wouldn’t dare.

  “Don’t mind the vultures,” Mr. DeVille says. “Why don’t we walk? This probably isn’t the best place to talk shop anyhow.”

  The two make the short trip into a nearby vestry, a small room with round windows that overlooks journalists snapping pictures of mourners. Her funeral has attracted international attention. The Post ran a lengthy obituary that quoted a former president. She was to me a trusted advisor and loyal friend. The story was chum in the waters, beckoning scores of protestors, groups now assembled across the street, kept at bay by candy-cane-striped sawhorses and uniformed police. One group protests capitalism and corporate money in politics. Another is a coalition of homophobes, members of an anti-Catholic, anti-gay, anti-Semitic Missouri-based church that travels around the nation in white minivans to mock families’ grief. To Andre’s disappointment, the homophobes win the prize for best demonstration. These assholes came to play. The other group has no sense of order or direction or flair. It feels as though the anti-capitalists woke up this morning, forged a Doodle poll, and chose between this protest and brunch. They’re not even standing together, diminishing their strength, scattered among trees and trash cans and random onlookers in plastic ponchos. They should take a page from the playbook of the homophobes, who have not only formed a solid block, but also positioned themselves strategically in front of the news cameras. Their banners even include a short, easy-to-remember call to action: Friend us on Facebook, follow on Twitter, or find out more at . . . But the anti-capitalists, their signs are lousy: long, busy, confusing. One man—who’s either homeless or a college professor—has written a sign in Latin. Another woman’s sign is a photo of a vagina—possibly hers, but, God knows, possibly not. A third protestor, a punk-rock diva wearing a miniskirt and satin tie, her sign must have fifty, maybe sixty words in small sloppy print.