The Coyotes of Carthage

by Steven Wright

  Early voting, for these chosen few, starts in three days. Seniors can show up, invoke their birthright, and cast their ballots. Which is exactly what Andre needs. For weeks, Chalene and her disciples have swarmed local senior centers, registering the unregistered, whispering in hairy ears, shaking arthritic hands, kissing liver-spotted cheeks, asking about ungrateful grandchildren, the kind of bald-faced pandering reserved for terminally ill dowagers. And despite the shameless self-interest, the plan has worked. Seniors in Carthage adore Chalene. Something about a cheery woman in her third trimester that’s like a fresh Social Security check in hand.

  Chalene now drags her finger across the map, from one bent bottle cap to another, estimates the time required to travel from the Southern Baptist center to the Methodist daycare. Twenty minutes. Depends if you hit a light. Only half the centers own a shuttle or bus. To be safe, she says, the campaign should rent an additional van.

  Tyler and Andre agree.

  They’re nearly done, but first, the three must decide which centers to visit today. One last opportunity to rally and flatter the base. Chalene wants to visit four centers, spend an hour at each, but Tyler worries that she’s taxing her health. Four hour-long campaign stops is a lot. Plus, she plans to deliver a sermon tonight at the fair. Plus, she’ll host another meeting of her Christian wives group. Plus the envelopes she’ll stuff, calls she’ll make, doors she’ll knock on. To say nothing of the daily burden of raising six ill-behaved sons. For even the spryest candidate, this schedule is punishing, but for a pregnant woman, yes, Andre agrees, she does too much.

  “I know my own body,” she says. “I’m not a rose petal.”

  “What if we send the gals from your women’s group?” Tyler’s voice softens, his words clear and calm, tone sensible. “Miss Patti. She’d be great.”

  “Patti?” Chalene scoffs. “Patti? Really, Patti? You think Patti’s a good idea? My goodness.”

  Andre and Tyler exchange glances. Each knows where this argument will go. Chalene recently read a feature about a middle-aged woman, forty weeks pregnant, who ran the Boston Marathon, and as she crossed the finish line, her water broke. When it comes to childbirth, Chalene is strangely competitive. But this conversation, Andre senses, is not about competition. Tyler says, “Dre, give us a minute, won’t ya?”

  “We’re too busy,” she says. “Toussaint Andre Ross, don’t you move one inch.”

  “Baby. Be reasonable,” Tyler says. “The doctor said—”

  “I know what the doctor said. I was there.” She fans herself with a campaign flyer. “He said I should rest when I need to rest. Doctors. Goodness gracious. I have half a mind to ask for my money back. Rest when I’m tired. Jiminy Cricket. He went to medical school for that.”

  “That’s not what the doctor said, and you know that’s not what the doctor said.” Tyler sends Andre an exasperated glance—Do you have to be here for this?—then says to Chalene in a whisper, “You know what he said about you-know-what.”

  “My body is fine.”

  “Your body is not fine.” Tyler raises his voice. He is an angry bull. Snorts, chuffs. He might charge. “Be reasonable.”

  “Tell me to be reasonable one more time.”

  “I don’t understand how you can . . .” Tyler takes a huge gasp of air, digs his bitten nails into his own breast. “Why would you take any risk?”

  “Dre,” she says. “I wanna say something different at each stop.”

  Tyler roars, slams his fists against the table, crumpling the map before ripping it from the tabletop, knocking over a sugar bowl and sending all twelve bottle caps soaring, ricocheting across the room, a sudden explosion that leaves, in its wake, a razor-sharp silence. Even Tyler is stunned, his face now pale and wounded, his breath a heavy pant. His gaze shifts back and forth between Chalene and Andre, and in the moment that follows, Tyler seems to shrink into himself. He is a preschooler who’s thrown a tantrum and is now surprised to learn that he commands the room. Tyler faces the glass door that frames four small graves, the final resting places that he dug with his own hands.

  Chalene goes to her husband, whispers in his ear. He kisses her lightly, and they wipe away each other’s tears. She rests her face upon his shoulder, and the two join hands, staring through thin glass, seeming to accept the inevitable truth that in the coming days, they will experience either joy or sorrow, and that no matter the result, they will face the future together, as they always have, as husband and wife, as friends and lovers, as soul mates and equals, comforted by the knowledge that their fate is all a part of God’s grand plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Carthage’s blue laws prevent alcohol sales on Sundays. The lone exception is a local pharmacy, which sells liquor for medicinal purposes, twenty-four/seven and without a prescription. Andre’s on his way there, traveling this back road, with its arches of Spanish moss and lattices of bloodweed, that is a scene straight out of a horror film. On nights like tonight, when the moon projects a beam that sets the fog aglow, Andre imagines that the ghosts of slaves, their bodies mutilated and disfigured, lie in wait, eager to ambush passersby who journey this dirt road that cuts deep into the wilderness.

  The pharmacy is a Quonset hut that stretches into the hillside, and he slowly pulls into its unpaved parking lot. Tonight, three shitfaced white teens—not old enough to drink, but big enough to cause trouble—tailgate inside a pickup, passing around a flute-shaped bottle, cigarette stubs at their feet. Chained to the rear bumper is a pit bull, a beast of pure muscle, with a faded white mask and a brown patch around her right eye.

  To avoid the teens, he considers the pharmacy’s drive-thru, but he needs a prepaid cell phone, which he hopes to find inside. He’s searched everywhere for his cell, which he’s pretty sure the Gypsy stole. He leaves his car, keeps his head down, as the boys elbow each other and whisper. They don’t bother to hide their mistrust. Nor does the pit, which barks, lunges, stretches her chain leash.

  Inside the pharmacy, sleigh bells attached to the front door announce his entry. Behind the counter a fat cashier brings an oxygen mask to his face, exposing a forearm that looks diseased, a stretch of skin with hills of red bumps and plains of dead skin. Andre nods and, stepping over a fallen mop, heads toward the back, where the booze is racked on shelves welded onto solid rock. He’s scanning the selection when he hears Chalene’s voice inside his head. I’m praying for you. Two bottles of Dutch gin, he guesses, will last awhile. To be safe, he grabs three.

  Two rows later, past an aisle of hatchets and knives, past another aisle of sunglasses and greeting cards, he scans the electronics section. The pharmacy keeps inventory that he can’t explain: a TV/VCR, fax machine, Walkman, and dial-up modem. Who the hell needs a floppy disk and what the fuck is a Betamax? All this junk and no phone.

  He reaches the checkout counter, cursing beneath his breath—Fucking Gypsy. Stole my phone. Of this, he’s certain. At first, he doesn’t notice the customer ahead in line. His attention is drawn to the cashier folding a box, then angrily punching the register keys, and, not until the customer turns, mouthing, I’m sorry, does he recognize Paula Carrothers.

  A surge of panic, a rush of fear, a punch in the gut. Andre supposes this moment was inevitable. Carthage isn’t large. Yet now that the moment’s here, he’s unprepared, stunned and sheepish, the feeling of his youth when after a lift, he’d pass a patrol. Then, like now, his instincts kick in. Play it cool, like nothing’s happened, it’s just a coincidence.

  Paula Carrothers, who at six feet seems taller in person, doesn’t seem to recognize him—or perhaps she too plays it cool. The cashier shoves the box toward her, mumbles hard syllables, and Andre wonders what’s inside the box. He doubts Paula Carrothers is a regular here, and part of him wonders whether the box contains something nefarious, perhaps contraband, perhaps a secret that, if discovered, would represent the final blow to her career.

  She opens her purse, pays with two fifties, and the cashier groans as though cash is in
convenient. He takes the bills, drops a couple coins onto the counter, folds his infected arms as though to emphasize that he’s not driven by a desire to receive an online review that praises his exceptional customer service. Paula doesn’t seem fazed. Perhaps by now she’s grown accustomed to assholes. She peels the coins from the glass counter, thanking the cashier, and, as she makes her way toward the door, again mouths, I’m sorry. Then she’s gone, sleigh bells ringing. The cashier signals Andre to approach, but not before mumbling, “Bitch.”

  “You have cell phones?”

  The man doesn’t make eye contact, shakes his head, saying, “You need to make a call, you use ours. Five dollars first minute. One dollar each minute more. Local calls only. Pay first.”

  “Was that . . . ? That’s what’s-her-name?” Andre, playing it smooth, leans in—the cashier smells like boiled sausage—and says, “Politicians, I tell ya.”

  The cashier brings his oxygen mask to his face and, peering over the mask, gives Andre a glance whose message is clear: Mind your own fucking business. Andre respects the cashier’s fidelity to protecting the sanctity of the customer–sketchy pharmacist relationship. A man has to have a code. To atone for his faux pas, Andre asks for a box of cigars, which are expensive and on a high shelf behind the counter.

  “Make that two boxes,” Andre says.

  The cashier groans, takes great pains to rise from his stool, grunting, straining, and Andre wonders whether open sores cover the cashier’s entire body.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me! I’m sorry.” Paula Carrothers flies through the door, face blanched, sweaty and breathless. “I need your phone. Please. It’s an emergency.”

  The cashier sits, without the cigars, says, “No phone for public use.”

  She’s near tears. “They slashed my tires.”

  “Not my problem. You.” The cashier points his thumb at Andre. “You want cigars or not?”

  “I can pay,” she says. “I’ll be quick. A local call.”

  “If you want a phone,” the cashier says, “go to Geraldine’s.”

  “That’s a mile away,” she says, and Andre thinks: A mile down an unlit haunted road with no sidewalks. If those boys don’t come back and get her, a coyote or drunk driver or slave ghost will. She says, “Please. My phone isn’t getting any reception.”

  “No cell towers out here. They let the government spy on you,” the cashier says with accusation, as though Paula Carrothers runs an intelligence agency. “They tried to put one up last year. We had a little talk. Now they don’t bother.”

  “Sir, would you mind checking your phone, please?” She tries Andre, opens her purse, retrieves a fistful of cash that she splays and counts. “I have fifty. One. Two. Three. Fifty-three dollars. One phone call. It’s yours.”

  He pats his jacket, not really thinking. Of course, she can use his phone. Of course, she doesn’t have to pay. But then he remembers: Fucking Gypsy stole my phone. “I’m sorry, I don’t . . .”

  She doesn’t believe him.

  “Here.” She removes her ring, a gold band with a modest sapphire, jewelry for which a pawnshop might pay. “You can have it. Here. It’s yours. It’s worth a lot.”

  He thinks she’s overreacting. Now is not 1950, and she is not a black college student registering colored voters. Worst-case scenario, she’ll wait an hour. Maybe two. This bargaining for your life, Paula Carrothers, it’s unseemly. But he considers her week. A rock through her window, slashed tires, the psychotic pornographic e-mails. And those are the crimes that he knows about.

  “Please,” Paula says. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  A pause. A long, awkward pause. An impasse? A stalemate? No. The cashier’s won. Paula rushes out the door, sleigh bells ringing.

  “Horse-throwed.” The cashier scoffs. “Those cigars. They’re expensive. Show me the money before I get up.”

  Andre buys the Dutch gin, rejects the cigars, hurries outside, where the pickup, boys, pit bull are gone. They’ve slashed all four tires of her sporty premium sedan, a car that, at rallies, Tyler loves to mock. To his surprise, his tires are fine, and inside his Jeep, he fidgets with the radio, sneaks a glance at Paula, who’s clearly panicking in her car, gripping her phone with both hands, shaking and waving the phone, as though hopeful that if she holds it at the right angle, in the right spot, at the right moment, then, perhaps, she’ll receive reception.

  Paula slams her phone against her dash, screaming, shaking, an eruption of frustration that surprises Andre. He sets aside that she’s his political opponent, sets aside that, perhaps, her peril is his fault. If she were a stranded stranger on the streets, he’d offer help. It is, he supposes, the right thing to do. He could offer her a ride, but she won’t accept. Not that he can blame her. Juvie was full of young men who helped a desperate woman. That’s the tough part about being a damsel in distress: no way to tell who’s the hero and who’s the villain.

  Maybe he’ll offer help and let her decide. If she refuses, he’ll have done his duty and can end the day conscience clear. First, though, he hides all the campaign materials that clutter the back seat, propaganda that includes a new Wanted poster that accuses her of treason. He ignores his instinct to mind his own business, leaves the engine running, passes her back seat, where sits a stack of sample ballots and voter guides, the typical and unsurprising materials that officials prepare before an election. Tyler insists that Paula has a conflict of interest, that a woman whose fate depends upon an election shouldn’t control the ballot. He’s certain that Paula will cheat, voiding registrations, stuffing ballot boxes, Dre, I’m not being ridiculous, Lazarus will rise from the dead and vote against liberty. Brother, don’t you watch the news? Andre guesses that she’s only now leaving work. She has a reputation for working late, a reputation more insult than compliment. Paula Carrothers is married to her work, not to a man.

  He taps her window—knocking, he fears, is aggressive—startles her nonetheless. She drops her phone, grabs her purse, presses it against her breasts. Her eyes are wide, face pale, jaw dropped. Does he really look that terrifying or has he merely surprised her? She slips one hand inside her purse, and he suspects—no, he knows, through intuition, through experience, through common sense—that Paula Carrothers has her finger on the trigger of a loaded gun.

  Good for you, Paula Carrothers.

  “You okay?” He keeps his distance, shows open palms, softens his tone and stare. “Listen, you don’t know me, but . . .”

  She can’t hear. The sedan must be soundproof. She sets her purse in her lap, keeps one hand inside, uses the other to crack the window.

  He says, “Need a lift to Geraldine’s?”

  “Thank you.” She doesn’t pause to consider. “But someone will be along.”

  “I’m heading that way. I can—”

  “No.” She’s quick. “I mean, no thank you.”

  “Do you want someone to wait with you? I can wait in my car.”

  She shakes her head no, and he tries not to resent the ease with which she dismisses his help. Sure, he may look like a panhandler, but he can’t help but wonder, if he were a white panhandler, a blue-eyed, blond-haired, could-be-in-a-grunge-band panhandler, then would she so quickly reject his help?

  “Maybe,” she says, “you could call for me. He has a phone inside. He lets other people use it. I’ll give you money. Call 911 and the sheriff will send a patrol.”

  Hell no. Call the cops and the cops ask questions. At the very least, they’ll ask his name and why he’s here this late. He could call, request help, hang up, but that too comes with risk. Juvie’s full of boys who tried to do the right thing. Good boys who gave fake names or no name at all. Didn’t matter. Cops always find a way to fuck you. God forbid they search his Jeep, with its after-hours booze and its campaign propaganda and its laptop memorializing the campaign’s every bad deed. Cops might get the wrong idea. Might think he’s the asshole who slashed her tires, smashed her window, sent those fucked-up pornographic e-mails. He don�
��t have no alibi. Don’t have no friends. All he’s got is means, motive, and opportunity. A brother in Carthage won’t get no fair trial. Hell, a brother terrorizing a single white female, a county manager at that, that’s a crime for which a judge, in an election year, would sentence a brother to death.

  Now he’s got a fresh dilemma. If he refuses to make the call, Paula Carrothers is gonna freak. A stranger offers a ride but won’t make a call. That’s got serial killer written all over it. She’ll ask questions; she’ll report him to the police. The last thing he needs is an APB out on his black ass. He should’ve never offered to help. No good deed . . .

  He has one choice, says, “Sure. Call the sheriff?”

  “Thank you. Thank you. Tell them that Paula Carrothers is stranded. Here.” Both hands are inside her purse, one digging for cash, the other clutching the gun. Through the cracked window, with a trembling hand, she slips fifty-three dollars as though she’s feeding a crocodile: nervous, cautious, a quick recoil, fearing she might lose her fingers. She flinches, withdraws her hand too soon, and the cash falls. He kneels, collecting the bills, as she apologizes. The change, she adds, is his.

  He says, “Be right back.”

  The cashier eats a meatloaf sandwich, chews like a grazing cow, a lettuce leaf pulled, chomp by chomp, into his mouth. Andre checks his watch. Ninety seconds should do. He notices, on sale beside the door, Confederate garden gnomes. Pudgy white-bearded gnomes in rebel gray. A button-nosed artillery officer with sash and saber. A pink-cheeked private thrusting a bayonet. Andre picks up one—a gnome Scarlett O’Hara—doesn’t see a price.

  “You can’t afford it,” the cashier says with mouth full. “Put it down.”

  “I’m looking for a price.”

  “Put it down.”

  “What did the county manager have in that box?”

  “Get the fuck out of my shop.”

  “And why don’t you let her use your shitty phone?”