Coyote Read online

  I floored them that night, and then I lost it. I was not clear or direct, and I did not hold it together. And everyone was moved. Even the host. I could feel the whole world sigh at once. I broke and that sigh became a gasp. I just wept there in my chair until the credits began to roll. Next thing I knew I was sitting in my chair at home, the red chair by the window where I sit and wait sometimes, or just sit and stare sometimes, and I was crying and sobbing and her Dad was there with a coffee or a tea or something else steaming, but I didn’t look at it. I just kept losing it late into the night when he had already gathered himself up in bed and turned out the light to stare at the darkness. I finally traced his steps into the bedroom and got in next to him, still in my clothes and make-up, and we just stared into a lightless room together, not hearing any of the sounds outside, only the hearts in our chests thumping away all dull and regular like everything else.

  WHAT WAS OUR DAUGHTER like?

  She was like you today on that show.

  She stuck out a bee sting one time. Came in out of the backyard with the stinger poking out of her arm, without shedding a tear.

  She called herself Delilah.

  She buttered her toast with her finger, no matter how many times we told her not to.

  Punishments did not deter her from doing again what had brought about the punishment.

  She laughed a lot. Most often to herself. She often refused to tell what it was she was laughing at.

  She always left food on her plate because she claimed to like the feeling of scraping it into the trashcan with her fork.

  AFTER THAT, THE SHOWS stopped calling. Or her Dad told the woman to stop letting them through, or to only let the good ones through, and the good ones never called. I can’t say what happened other than our phone stopped ringing. After a few months, I went and cut the cord with a pair of safety scissors, so I could stop worrying about it. Stop expecting it to ring. It was a smooth snip, like running a spoon through butter.

  Nearly a week went by before her Dad noticed what I’d done. He might never have noticed, but we had a storm and the house saw the worst of it. A branch came through a window in the living room. Bees came swarming out from beneath the stairs, he told me. Something must have broken loose under the house. They came flooding out in a little black cloud. Loud enough to be heard over the rain, the thunder, and the sound of her Dad running around the house doing God knows what. I was in the bathtub and a little bee came and sat on the mirror over the sink. I didn’t notice it at first, didn’t think anything of it when I finally did. Just a little crack in the glass, a streak or something. And when it moved, I figured it was a fly. Then more came and I started hearing the unmistakable hum of insects moving in a large group. I submerged myself in bath water up to my ears. I watched them swim around in the steam up above my head. I heard her Dad cursing about something. A bee landed on the curving top part of my ear and I swear I could hear it rubbing together its hairy little legs. I knew not to budge though. Even when a few more gathered on the wet threads of my hair. I watched them and I thought about whatever and I waited.

  When the rain finally stopped, most of the bees were still in there with me. Her Dad was out checking the lights, the cable, the phone line. Nothing was working. Nothing was as it should be.

  I slowly dunked my head, and the bees lifted. I rose out of the water, lifted myself out of the tub, and exited the bathroom, as if in one swift motion. Her Dad was in the living room, sweeping up glass and laughing.

  The bathroom’s full of bees, I told him.

  He held out his hand, all swollen and dotted with red bumps. He told me he knew.

  He said I looked good like that and I remembered then that I was naked. When I started toward the bedroom, he told me that the bees came from there, from the stairs I was headed toward. He gave me a jacket from the closet by the back door, and I listened to him sweep up the glass and branches. I watched as he put a magazine or two back on the coffee table. He was going to tape the window, he said. And call the electrician. And the cable guy. And the phone company.

  Sometimes, I push my cuticles back with the nails on the opposite hand. It looks like I’m picking at the ends of my nails. It looks like I’m nervous, so he always asks. It’s happened so often for so long, I don’t feel like I have to say anything in response anymore.

  HER DAD ISN’T STRONG. That’s why he’s always doing things around the house. He’s little, really. So he chops up trees, fixes the chairs, replaces the light bulbs, climbs on this and bends that back into shape. He’s always been thin, but he’s thinner now. Thinner than he’s ever been. Me too, I guess.

  He wants to fill a room. He wants to be a presence. He doesn’t say it, but he’s the kind of prey that tries to look like some other animal. He’s a little fox or something, standing on its hind legs, baring its teeth.

  The point is, we’re pretty much evenly matched when we go at it. It’s anybody’s fight. So sometimes I just let him wail on me. I let him feel strong. It’s not something I’m proud of. I let some punches get through. I let him pin me. I put up my hands, as if to fight him back. But sometimes there’s no fight in me. Only love. How strange does that sound? That you could love someone who’s hitting you? I don’t hate myself. It’s more than that. I wouldn’t know how to say it. I can tell some part of him is proud, but an even bigger part is hating himself for what he’s done. And that’s worse than me hating him, the way he hates himself. And I like that, too.

  THIS ONE TIME, I hit him with a lamp. It wasn’t a hard hit but it toppled him. He came up completely out of fight. His hand was at his mouth. He looked sad and young and scared and there was blood on his fingertip. It wasn’t anything serious. I’d hit his mouth, pushed some teeth through his upper lip, chipped the end of one.

  I got him an ice pack and he said he was sorry for whatever it was that had started us fighting. That’s exactly what he said, Whatever it was.

  The next morning I got out of bed before him. I brought my open mouth down on the edge of the counter top. I didn’t manage to chip the exact same tooth, but I chipped one that was near enough to it. I fainted or passed out or something and woke up on the porch, where he had propped me up. Not like a rag doll, but like something you want to rest awhile. Like maybe he set her down sometimes. A tender kind of propping.

  WHAT WAS OUR DAUGHTER like?

  If given the choice, she would not eat hard things. Anything that was stiff. Anything that crunched. Given the choice, she would always choose soft things.

  She pet the cat against its fur, in spite of the fact that I told her many times that it was the wrong way.

  Even before she could speak, she looked at us like she was listening. Her eyes followed the sound passing back and forth between us or pointed directly at her.

  THIS HANDSOME DETECTIVE USED to come by the house, but always at the wrong time. He called himself Mc-something. He was an Irish cop with a drinking problem, just like on the TV shows. I know it because he looked tired and sort of weak in the knees. He always accepted water when I offered. His thirst was unquenchable.

  He always came when her Dad was out, so we couldn’t both give him a statement. I told him the story I told everyone: we put her to bed, and when we woke up, she was gone. That’s the whole of the story. No, nobody had any reason to want to do us or her harm. No, we didn’t have any money or receive any requests for money or strange phone calls. The only people who called wanted to interview us. They were just like us. They just wanted to know more.

  He took notes. He had a round belly, bigger than his arms and face would suggest, and he set the pad on his belly sometimes when he was sitting in a chair on the porch or in the living room. He wasn’t unfriendly, but he wasn’t someone I would talk to normally. He was just doing his job, I guess. He seemed to care. He seemed to take it personally. I don’t know why I felt that way, but it was the way I felt. He said her name over and over again, as if he were trying to memorize it, but he never hesitated, never struggled to r
emember. It seemed an unnecessary measure taken out of respect and fear.

  I like his type of cop. It’s a different type than the cops I’ve met in our neighborhood, the cops who came when someone shot BBs through the front window, or the cops who came when there was a car parked at the end of our street for days, or the cops who write speeding tickets where the limit drops as Oak Street becomes East Oak Street. Those cops aren’t like you’d expect. They’re just these nice-ish guys, kind of dumb, but not too dumb, just filling out these forms and nodding and smiling and uninterested. They might as well be bank tellers. They’re not invested. Mc-something seemed invested. He was a special kind of cop, maybe.

  WHEN I FIRST TOLD her Dad about Mc-something, he asked questions like, Did you see his badge? Did he have a warrant to come in? Did he tell you what they were doing, how they were looking? How do cops look for someone? Do they patrol with lights at nighttime? Go door-to-door? Do they dig up yards? Drain lakes? What’s the protocol? What’s the plan? What’s their angle? What’s his take?

  I said he’s trying to help so why bother about it. He’s not hurting anything. There was no reason to get worked up. I told him, I think they dig up all the yards and fill them back in. I think they swim around in lakes in scuba gear and shine lights on old ships and secret fish. I think they find more than they’re looking for, but never what they’re looking for. I think he’s a special kind of cop with a chip on his shoulder. He seems like he needs something in his life. I don’t know if he’s married or not, but he doesn’t act like a married man. He seems confused and unsure what to do with his body. If he’s got a wife, she’s unhelpful. I think he’s the kind of cop who will track this thing down to the bitter end. I think he’s the kind of cop who takes it personally. He’s the kind who would turn in his badge, but keep hold of his gun.

  Mc-something?

  Yeah, Mc-something. Or just Mick. He’s Irish.

  I get it, he said. Mick Something.

  Mick Something Goes Rogue.

  Mick Something Goes Wild.

  WE FUCK ALL OF the time now, me and her Dad. We’ve got more time on our hands than we know what to do with. It’s not great fucking. It’s pretty casual most of the time. Sometimes it gets intense. Typically more so for one of us than the other. I’ll get this rush of some feeling and just start fucking him like I’m wringing a cat’s neck. I get on top and he grips my hips or the sides of my legs and I just set to work on him, tilting myself to get the right angle, so it’s like he’s one of those alien babies in that movie Aliens, breaking out of my stomach. It doesn’t feel like that, but that’s what I picture when I’m trying to get the angle right. Right before he’s about to come, he always looks shocked, as if it never occurred to him that it would happen. When I come, I think I look mean. That’s just what I guess. I always feel like I’m taking something from him. Taking something for myself. Absorbing his energy or something. He likes it, but he gets pale sometimes, like I’m making a face he couldn’t otherwise stand to see. Or that used to be true. He’s getting used to it now, I think. He looks away sometimes, closes his eyes. I resent orgasms most of the time because I don’t like the ‘finishing up’ feeling that comes after. I’d rather just keep going. But I also hate tiring out, wearing down, which always happens eventually, if we’re not smart enough to chase an orgasm for ourselves whenever one’s in sight.

  YESTERDAY, I WAS PRETTY sure I saw Mick driving past the house. I didn’t recognize the car – it was a brown something – but the guy in the driver’s seat had this simmering determination all about him. He drove slow, watching the road and searching for something in the passenger seat with his right hand. I could see that much from the porch. He didn’t look over at me. Mick Something playing it cool. Trying to play it like he wasn’t checking in on us, like he didn’t want to make sure we were getting along, living our lives, still waiting for him to return our daughter.

  I told her Dad.

  I’m pretty sure I saw Mc-something.

  Her Dad was on his back, beneath the sink.

  Is it broken?

  Tightening up, said her Dad. So it doesn’t become broken.

  Tightening what?

  These… things.

  He pulled himself out from under the sink, pointed with his toe toward a dark area.

  He was trying to play it cool, I said. Reaching over like he was getting at something in the passenger’s seat. So cool I didn’t even catch his glance. But he was looking.

  Mick Something?

  Yeah.

  Leaning over him, I could see him swelling against his jeans.

  You fucking love Mick, I said.

  He had a whole list of things to do, her Dad did. He showed me the list. The sink was at the top. So I let him by.

  WHAT WAS SHE LIKE?

  She spoke out of order. I assumed it was because she got overexcited. For example, she might have just said: She ordered out of spoke. She laughed at herself when she did it. I suspected she might have made some mistakes on purpose.

  She did not tolerate silence. She filled the days and evenings with sound.

  She sang often, songs we did not teach her. Songs she must have come up with herself, or picked up at school.

  She called me Dad, Dada, Dod, and Daddy. I tried to get her to call me Pop, but she did not pick it up.

  She was stubborn.

  WE GOT THE CABLE fixed and Jerry Summers had someone on who’d killed somebody without knowing it. There’s a sleep thing where you do what you’re dreaming, but in real life. This guy just woke up with his dead wife’s neck in his hands. Jerry was sweet to the guy, who was positioned in a chair between two policemen, his hands chained together. Jerry asked him what it felt like, what he had to say to the world, to his wife’s family, to himself, and the guy said, I did an unforgivable thing. Jail’s the very least of my punishment. I’m going to live as good as I can until the day I die, because that’s when the real punishment will start. Then the camera cut to Jerry, who was nodding, letting the microphone sag. Then the camera cut to the guy, who said, I am very truly sorry. He had just a little make-up on, mostly under the eyes. His hair was shining in the light because of the hairspray. Our make-up man was probably standing there, just off-camera, feeling proud as a child, happy as a clam. I don’t think of him that often anymore. But I’m sure he’s doing well. I remember he was that type of person.

  THIS ONE TIME WE cooked a whole boar on a spit in the backyard. This was before her. When her Dad was just him. He tried hunting for a while, but was never very good at it. He liked being out in the woods with a gun. He liked drinking and sitting very very still. But he didn’t like to shoot, he told me. Whenever he did spot something, a bird of some worthwhile kind or, once, a doe, it always seemed to come at a time when he was feeling particularly at peace with his silence. Comfortable and happy, he called it. So he wasn’t ready to break that feeling with a shot, by taking a thing down. So he never once pulled the trigger in the right way.

  He made friends, instead. He and his friends shot at cans and tree trunks. They went out for weekends and his friends loaded the beds of the trucks they drove with their kills. He never brought anything back. Except the one time with the boar.

  According to him, it wasn’t his kill. Something a friend donated at the end of a particularly successful day. He’d taken down a buck, a few pheasants, and two boars. More meat than he could eat. More than he really wanted to deal with. So the friend handed it over to him, free of charge. He’d bought the beer the night before, something along those lines.

  I always doubted the truth of that story. That one of those boys would ever give up a clean kill, an entire boar. Wouldn’t even take a picture of himself with it. These proud men. These men weighed their kills with a special kind of joy. They hung around gas stations and general stores, went out for breakfasts and talked for hours about what they’d been thinking, how they’d been feeling, how they had almost overlooked the beast, lingering there in the corner of their eye. H
ow something hadn’t felt right about the stillness, or whatever, so they looked a little more closely, they felt it in their gut, and the gut was hardly ever wrong.

  That kind of man doesn’t just hand over a boar like a handful of change. I’ve always suspected her Dad killed it himself. Finally decided to step up and be a man, and that he’d been lying to me all along. I think he wanted me to believe he was the kind of man who would never kill a thing. But I think the truth of the matter is that everyone is a killer, given the right order of things. Everyone has it in them.

  He always had the fear in him that I might leave. Especially before she arrived. He knew he wasn’t a great man, that he’d lucked out with me falling in love with him and all. It was one of those things that just happens, and you don’t question it for years. But one day you start noticing the strangeness of it. That an ugly man, an abusive, stupid, weak, ugly man, could suddenly have someone at his side who loved him more than life.

  First of all, I like an ugly man. I’m not ugly myself, but there’s something vulnerable about an ugly man. He doesn’t expect much from the world. He doesn’t feel entitled. And, most often, ugly men know how to take care of themselves. They’re used to being alone. It makes them self-sufficient. It breeds character. Also, hobbies. Ugly men take up all kinds of hobbies. They’re good with their hands, or they’ve read more books than you’d care to think about. They can cook or fix things.

  Her Dad tried for it all, which guaranteed he would never be particularly good at any of it, but it was cute to see him move about the house, tooling at one thing, flipping a few pages in the history of some ancient civilization that we might be better off forgetting, tying flies he’ll never use, cleaning guns that will never be truly his because he never used them proper, and so on. I liked that kind of restlessness. It made sense to me. And I’ll admit that some part of me thought I could calm him down enough to focus on a thing. It wasn’t a thought I had, just a feeling. Or when I pictured us together, I pictured us calm and comfortable. I pictured my thoughts turning a little less and his hands working a little more steadily. I pictured us at a kind of peace I knew only from the picture in my head. I was wishing for us, I guess.