The Remarkable Journey of Coyote Sunrise

by Dan Gemeinhart

  Under that paper were more. Ava’s papers, my mom’s papers, the pages I’d done about each of them. I didn’t need to read them all now, didn’t need to read each word. I’d have time for that, I knew. Plenty of time. A lifetime of time. Besides, my eyes had gone too blurry to read.

  I just wanted to feel the paper. To touch all the things that we had touched together. To see the shape of the handwriting and remember the hands that had written it.

  I shuffled carefully through the treasures, past the letters we’d written. I found Ava’s last school picture, saw her cheekbones and her blue eyes and her big, crooked smile.

  It’s funny. She always seemed so smart, so cool, so old. But, now, she looked … oh, she looked so young. Just a kid. Just a sweet, little, silly kid. And I realized—I was twelve. Twelve years old. Ava, my big sister, was only eleven when that truck swerved and tore the world apart.

  I was older than my big sister. She was eleven forever. But, somehow, she would always be my big sister.

  My shoulders shook.

  Then, a little silk pouch stuck in a corner, cinched closed with a drawstring. I pulled it open and turned it over into my hand and a single twirl of gold fell out onto my palm.

  It was a lock of Rose’s hair, golden and shiny and wound into a perfect curly ringlet. I ran a fingertip around its smooth circle. We hadn’t known if her hair was gonna stay curly; Ava and me had started with curls and then outgrown them. We were all waiting to see if Rose would keep her curls. And now, I guess, we’d never know. I held the ringlet in my shaking hand, blinked at it through burning tears. Rose would have her curly hair forever. I slid the curl back into the pouch, pulled it gently closed, and held it to my lips.

  “Hey, Coyote,” his voice spoke behind me in a whisper. My dad’s voice. I hadn’t heard him walk up.

  I pulled a breath in, I let the breath out.

  “Don’t call me that,” I said. But I said it asking, not snapping. There was a “please” in my voice, even if there wasn’t in my words. I looked up over my shoulder at him. “Not now. I’m not Coyote right now. Okay, Dad?”

  I knew he wanted to turn away. I knew he was hurting and aching and scared and sad and broken. I knew he wanted to turn around and walk away until I was Coyote and he was Rodeo again and we could just keep driving and never look back. I knew he couldn’t stand to see what I’d found. He couldn’t stand to see what we’d lost.

  I knew. I knew he wanted to.

  But here’s the thing.

  He didn’t.

  My dad nodded and his throat bobbed in a tight swallow. And he took one step closer, to stand beside me. And then he lowered himself to his knees next to me. And then he put an arm around my shoulders, and I could feel his whole self shaking.

  And then he looked in the box with me.

  That’s my dad, right there.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SIX

  I don’t know how long my dad and I looked through that box. I know we looked at a lot of the treasures inside, but not all of them. I know there was a little bit of laughing, here and there, at funny pictures and silly stuff we’d put in. But not a lot. To be honest, it was mostly crying and plenty of silence.

  It couldn’t have been that long. I mean, we were in the middle of a construction zone, after all, and they were totally cool about the whole thing, but they did have a lot to get done. And Gladys gave that cop a bruise, but she didn’t exactly give him an extra load of patience when she did it, so I bet it was really only a few minutes that we knelt there and, for the first time in a long time, shared some memories.

  So I don’t know how long it lasted, but I can tell you how long it felt like. It felt more or less exactly like five years. It felt like, breath by breath, we fell back and back and back. Back through all those years and all those miles, back away from Coyote and Rodeo and back to just me and my dad. And then I was kneeling there and I was a daughter again. I was a sister again. And Rodeo—or Dad, really—Rodeo had a wife again. A wife that he missed like oxygen. And he had three daughters again. Three daughters that he loved like … like … well, I guess just like a dad loves three daughters, which is big and strong enough all on its own and doesn’t really need any comparison, really.

  Eventually I pulled a photograph out from the stack. It was dusty and bent at the corners, but all the important stuff was there.

  It was a family picture. It was me in a tank top, tiny and grinning, a big gap between my front teeth. Next to me was Ava, tall and pretty, one arm thrown casually over my shoulder, pulling me just a bit off balance so I was leaning on one foot toward her. Behind us was Dad. Lord, he looked different. I didn’t even remember him ever looking that way. Normal clothes. Clean-cut hair trimmed short, a smooth-shaved face. You could see his chin and everything. He was squinting a little because of the sun, and he looked easy and happy and young.

  Next to him was Mom. She was right behind me and you could kinda tell I was leaning back against her. She was smiling, and there was a little bit of laugh to her smile, like someone had said something funny just before the picture was taken. Rose was in her arms, one hand around Mom’s neck, perched on her hip, one eye closed against the glare, showing off her baby teeth in a big smile.

  I held the picture up and I could hear Dad breathing beside me, breathing like he’d just come up from the bottom of a lake.

  I held up the picture and I pointed at Ava.

  “Who is this?” I asked my dad, and we both knew I wasn’t asking who it was; I was asking him to say her name, to say it out loud. To stop running.

  It was hard. It almost felt cruel. But it was what I needed. And, I think, it was maybe even what he needed.

  Rodeo swallowed and breathed through his nose.

  “Who is this?” I asked again, even quieter than the first time. My voice wasn’t slapping him, it wasn’t pulling out splinters; it was taking him by the hand, it was pulling him up from where he’d fallen.

  My dad rubbed his eyes.

  He tried to say something but his voice caught and he cleared his throat and tried again, but there was still nothing there, so he took one more breath and tried again and on the third try he got it.

  “That’s Ava,” he said. “That’s your big sister.”

  I moved my finger to Rose, snuggled in my mom’s arms.

  “Who’s that?”

  “That’s your little sister,” he answered, and his voice was a scratched-out whisper, but it was there. “That’s Rose.”

  My finger slid to my mom and the picture shook in my hand, but you could still see her despite the shaking, still see her smile, still see her shining eyes, still see my mom.

  “Who’s that?”

  It took a couple tries again, but my dad did it.

  “That’s your mom,” he said. “Anne.” And when he said it, when he said her name, he reached out with one finger and he touched the picture. He ran his rough finger soft down my mom’s arm.

  Then I asked, “Who’s that?” My finger was pointing at him, at my squinting, young, unbroken dad.

  He sucked in a breath and blew it out with a sigh and shook his head and said, “That’s me. That’s your dad.” He said it like he almost didn’t quite believe it. He said it sad. He said it like he missed that smiling, clear-eyed man almost as much as he missed the other people in the picture. Well, maybe not almost. Maybe not even close. But still, he missed him.

  My finger moved to the last face in the picture.

  “Who’s that?” I whispered. “Who’s that, Dad?”

  His arm tightened around my shoulders.

  “Oh, honeybear,” he said, and he kissed the top of my head. “That’s you, baby,” he murmured into my hair and then kissed me again. “That’s my daughter,” and another kiss, and then he said, “Ella,” and he kept his lips pressed to my head.

  We sat there like that, me and my dad. Me and my dad.

  And then there was the sound of a throat clearing behind us, and I knew without looking that
it was the cop and that our time was up. I appreciated that he only cleared his throat, that he hadn’t growled or snarled or said something hard or officious or impatient.

  I pulled away just enough to look my dad in the eyes and I was relieved to see that his eyes were there with me and they were whole; they were sad and red, but they weren’t empty and they weren’t far away at all. They were Rodeo eyes, open and honest and there, but they were Dad eyes, too. I woulda smiled, but it wasn’t really a smiling kind of a moment. I don’t know what kind of moment it was, really, but I know it was a big kind. And a good kind, in the way that big moments can be good without being happy, exactly.

  I nodded to him and sniffled and he nodded back and rubbed his nose with his arm and then I put the picture back in the box, laid it in gentle like it was made of ash, and then I pulled the lid of the box closed and snapped the latch shut.

  And my dad stood up. He reached down with his big ol’ hand and took hold of my free one and helped me up. We turned and faced the cop together.

  The cop was looking serious, but not sour. I mean, he wasn’t gonna tell us a joke or anything, but he wasn’t gonna slap handcuffs on us, either.

  “All right,” he said. “We’re gonna need to go back and have you answer some questions about, uh”—he gestured back over his shoulder with his thumb—“the bus situation.”

  “Yeah,” Dad said, and he said it soft and easy. “I’m sure we will, officer.”

  The officer walked off ahead of us and me and Rodeo followed. I nodded at the workers who were still standing there waiting and I said a few thank-yous, but I stopped in front of Travis and I looked him in the eyes and said a clear and true “Thank you, sir,” and he just smiled and shrugged and said, “Heck, I needed a break anyway,” and I smiled back and then he said more serious, “I’m real glad you found it, miss,” and I decided right then that I was a big fan of rough, hard fellas who called girls “miss.”

  When we passed the ditch, Salvador joined us and walked by my side and I gave him a little one-arm side hug and he kind of gave me one back, but mostly he just looked away and blushed a little. I could hear Gladys clopping along behind us, and I liked that because it’s good to have a friend you can trust at your back.

  “How’d you get out?” I asked my dad as we walked.

  “Easier than you’d think. Val got on the phone with her folks and it was all pretty clear pretty quick that there wasn’t any kidnapping going on. That, plus that cop’s boss finding out he’d hauled me away and left two minors sitting by the side of the highway, plus the news that you and the bus were gone … Well, that sheriff’s office was pretty ready to get me out of there and get you two found and safe.”

  “Huh. Val okay?”

  Dad shrugged.

  “More or less. She still feels awful guilty even though I told her I totally get it. She ain’t all that excited to go home, but it sure sounds like her folks might be looking at things a little different now. I think she gave ’em quite a scare.”

  I nodded. Losing something can sure make you realize how much you loved it, even if you knew you loved it all along.

  “How’d you get here?”

  Dad was quiet for a few steps.

  Then he said, “Well, she gave me a ride,” and he pointed up toward where Yager was parked and my breath got sucked out of my lungs when I saw her standing there, a little grayer and a little older, but still no doubt and no mistake my grandma. I gave my dad the box and I took off running, brushing past the cop without slowing, I ran back toward the street, right up to my grandma, and I wrapped my arms tight around her, so tight I’d have been afraid of hurting her except that her arms were around me just as tight and we stood there, tight together and not bothering or needing to say a word.

  Five years is a long time.

  And she said “Ella” a few times into my hair like my dad had a minute before and I said “Grandma” a few times, too. Then she held me out, her hands on my shoulders, and looked at my face and I looked at hers.

  “Oh, I missed you,” she said, and I did a little laugh-sob thing and said, “I missed you, too,” and really it was a pretty stupid thing for both of us to say. Because, I mean, obviously. But it’s okay to say stupid things sometimes, especially if they’re true.

  So on that day at that tore-up construction site, I got to be a daughter again and I got to be a sister again and I got to be a granddaughter again, and I tell you, those are three pretty fantastic things to be, sadness and all.

  You know what? I kinda wanna take that last sentence back. It feels like the truth but it isn’t, or at least it isn’t the whole truth, because a thing like that—it doesn’t happen that easy. It just doesn’t. But I can say this: On that day at that tore-up construction site I got to start being all those things again. And that’s just fine. ’Cause I can tell you for a fact that it’s a heckuva lot better to start being those things than it is to stop being ’em. And starts are important. Once-upon-a-times are important.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I can spare you the rest. There were quite a few conversations with various authorities. There were an awful lot of stern looks and wagging fingers and dire warnings. There was also a fair amount of apologizing and explaining and promising on the part of me and Dad, a.k.a. Rodeo, a.k.a. that freaky, big-hearted hippie.

  We’d broken our share of laws. Well, to be fair, I’d broken my share of laws. Rodeo was actually surprisingly innocent in the whole affair, apart from kinda sorta encouraging me to do it, but even that was under duress and in code. Either way, though, the folks in charge couldn’t just look the other way. I mean, it wasn’t like they could just say, “Sure, an underage kid stole a bus and raced it down the highway and ran away from the cops but, hey, she’s got kind of a sad story, so no big deal.”

  So they looked into it. There were cops and a prosecutor and a judge and even a counselor I had to talk to. It all took a few days, and to tell you the truth it got a little old. But in the end, they decided that I was not a deeply troubled threat to society. And that Rodeo was without a doubt a certified weirdo, but not the dangerous kind and in fact maybe kind of an okay kind, really.

  So neither one of us had to go to jail, and no one talked about taking me away from my dad or anything. Things worked out like they should have. Despite the badges and the titles and regulations and all the paperwork, it was all being handled by human beings, after all. And for the most part, human beings try to do the right thing, if they can see what that is.

  They did make us pay for the reflector post I ran over, though.

  And there were goodbyes. To Val, first. Her parents drove out to get her, and they took turns driving, Rodeo-and-Lester style, so they made it by the next night. I wasn’t there for their reunion, but when I said goodbye to Val the next morning, she seemed okay. And sometimes you gotta take okay, because it’s way better than terrible and can sometimes turn into pretty darn great. She gave us her address and her phone number, and I can guarantee that keeping in touch with that girl is right near the top of my list of things to do.

  And then, a day later, we took a little drive back to Yakima and said goodbye to Salvador. That one was even tougher. And you know what? I don’t think I’m gonna get too much into describing that one. I will say that Salvador told me, “I’m not not gonna miss you, Coyote Sunrise,” and I said, “I’m not not gonna miss you, too,” right back to him and we both laughed a little and there was a quick hug and, yeah, it was super awkward. But awkward’s not always bad.

  I worry about Salvador every day. But I never feel sorry for him. A promise is a promise. I’ve got his phone number. We’ll be talking. He is my best friend, after all. Sure, he’s also my only friend, but hey, “best” is still best no matter the number. And I’m pretty sure that even if I had a hundred friends, Salvador would still be the best one.

  Rodeo convinced Lester to let us buy him a bus ticket back to Tampa and the Strut Kings. When we dropped him off at the b
us station, Lester gave me a good, long hug and said, “You’re still crazy, girl,” and I said, “Yeah, probably. Don’t go marrying any security guards,” and he laughed, and that was that.

  We said goodbye to Gladys, too, of course. There weren’t any tears for that goodbye, but I did miss her as we drove away. She was a good goat, that Gladys. I was happy to see her back with her family.

  And, eventually, we said goodbye to Grandma. Not for a while, though. We stayed for about a week. She and I went for walks, and she roasted a chicken for dinner once and we went out for ice cream, and a couple nights we sat together on the couch and ate popcorn and watched a movie and, boy, it was something. It was really something.

  But even though we didn’t talk about it, I knew all that week at Grandma’s that we weren’t there for good. We did laundry and ate breakfasts and got into a sort of routine, but I knew it wasn’t a forever routine, and Dad spent the week changing the belts and oil and spark plugs in Yager, and you don’t do that when you’re getting ready to park it for good. You do that when you’re getting ready to hit the road again.

  So one night, when Grandma was in cleaning the dinner dishes and Rodeo and I were sitting out on the back porch watching bats flit and dart through the dim evening air, I asked him, “When we leaving?” and he waited just a few seconds before answering, “I was thinking the day after tomorrow,” and I nodded to myself and looked away, off toward the shadowy shapes of those hills that had welcomed me home.

  But then he did something else.

  He said, “Would that be okay, Ella?”

  He asked me. And he called me by my name.

  And I just looked at him for a second, surprised by the question.

  “I don’t wanna keep doing this forever. This driving around, I mean,” I said.