Coyote Blues

by Karen F. Williams

  Riley chuckled. “No, not a thru-hiker. Not unless she was Superwoman. I’ll never know, though. I’m a foundling.”

  The reverend physically startled, enough at least that the lemon slipped from his grip, and he almost sliced his fingers with the knife. “A foundling…geez…I didn’t mean to make a joke,” he said with an exacerbated puff of his cheeks. He regarded her with an awkward look of apology and steadied the lemon on the cutting board. “I’m sorry your life got off to such a rough start.”

  At least the reverend knew what a foundling was. Growing up, she’d always been embarrassed to use the word because people, especially kids, confused foundling with changeling. “At least I don’t remember it. And I did have a good childhood with my adoptive parents…until I reached my teens and had a falling out with them over my…um…sexual orientation.”

  “Ah.” David nodded thoughtfully as he laid lemon slices on the trout with a few pats of butter, then sprinkled dill and wrapped them in foil for the grill. “Actually, I can empathize. I, too, was adopted, although not until I was eight. I never knew my mother, and when I lost my dad my godparents adopted me. They were like family, though—my dad’s best friends who owned a sheep farm with him in Wisconsin. At least I didn’t have to leave the farm and go live with strangers.”

  Riley felt a sudden kinship with the reverend. He had a good energy, a dichotomous blend of spiritual purity and intense physicality. Somehow those opposing qualities harmonized to give him a strange magnetism, and she understood why Tom was so hopelessly drawn to him. “So you’ve had your share of losses, too,” she said.

  “Oh yeah. I used to envy kids who had their parents and seemingly idyllic childhoods. But looking back, I think children who have to overcome adversity become stronger adults.”

  “I agree.” Peggy looked at Riley. “How many adult clients do we see who have difficulty coping with problems because they never had to deal with any as children? Then when misfortune strikes in adulthood—divorce, illness, job loss, etc.—they can’t cope.”

  “A lot,” Riley said. “I have one now, twenty-five years old.” She looked at the others. “In high school he was popular with the girls, captain of the football team, which meant teachers went easy on him when it came to passing classes. His whole life he never wanted for anything, but in college he went from being a big fish in a small pond, to being a small fish in a big pond. Professors didn’t give him a break. He had to work harder than he was used to, then faced a competitive job market. He’s not the golden boy anymore. And, of course, the girls aren’t fawning over him as they did in high school. He started using GHB at the gym.”

  “What’s that?” Tom asked.

  “Liquid ecstasy, they call it in the clubs. Bodybuilders sometimes add it to sports drinks because it contains some sort of growth hormone. It enhances everything, sex included, from what my client tells me. One of the worst withdrawals, though. It landed him in rehab. Now he’s on antidepressants and doing pretty well in therapy.”

  “So the moral of the story,” Tom said snidely as he ate the orange slice that was perched on his margarita glass, “is that those of who are bullied in school, called faggots, and have to pretend being straight to avoid getting our asses kicked grow up to be stronger people—if we survive to adulthood?”

  Peggy laughed. “You have to admit there’s a nice sort of retribution in attending a reunion with those once-popular and perfect people you envied in school—those conceited jerks who reached their peak at seventeen and were way too cool to give us the time of day back then—and to find that they went downhill from there. Better to go uphill slowly and not peak until our thirties or forties. And as counterintuitive as it may sound, people who struggle in youth, as opposed to those who grow up privileged and with a false sense of entitlement, develop better coping skills for later in life.”

  “We’re not in church, so I don’t want to preach,” said the reverend with a humorous tone, “but studies also show that people who engage in prayer or meditation also cope better than those who don’t believe in a higher power.”

  Riley saw the suspicious look on Barbara’s face and knew she was still conflicted over the hypocrisy of a reverend engaging in anonymous sex. Riley caught her eye and grinned. For the first time in weeks she felt surprisingly relaxed, no small thanks to the strawberry margarita that had her buzzed. Tom was obviously not feeling the effects of the tequila.

  “Did you put any alcohol in here?” he asked.

  “A lot,” Riley said.

  “I’m not tasting it. Can I please have a shot on the side?”

  Barbara reached for the bottle of Casamigos by the blender, then stood on tiptoes to get shot glasses from the cabinet. “I think I’ll join you. David? Peggy?”

  “Not me,” Peggy said. “I’m already getting drunk.”

  The reverend, who was rinsing his hands in the kitchen sink, glanced at the bottle. “Casamigos? Sure. That’s good stuff.”

  Tom watched his sister fill three shot glasses. “Thank you, George Clooney,” he said as she handed him one.

  Barbara gave him a quizzical look. “Why George?”

  “It’s his brand. Or used to be. He might have sold it. I read that he was staying at some resort when he got the idea to develop a tequila that won’t give you a hangover.”

  Hangovers were the least if it. What worried Riley most about drinking too much was waking up as a werewolf—a werecoyote as it were. A drunken one with no recollection of what she’d done the night before or who’d seen her. Staying in control was paramount. Her father had drummed that point into her.

  “How are those coals doing?” Peggy asked.

  “Let me check.” Riley slid off her stool. It seemed that everyone had gas grills these days, but she didn’t know what all the fuss was about. As far as she was concerned, food cooked on them didn’t taste any different than meat cooked in the house. She was content to keep her Weber kettle grill.

  The coals were ready, white and glowing, when she stepped out onto the deck, but as she turned away from the grill, she saw a moving flash of bright pink through the branches of her fruit trees. Riley walked to the deck railing and peered down at what Peggy and Barbara always referred to as the meadow because the area was too large to be called a lawn. The grass covered over an acre of land, and Riley, who enjoyed the June blooms of violets and clover, refused to mow until July.

  Riley realized the flash of pink was someone’s shirt and didn’t need to see the person’s face to figure out it was Fiona picking peaches. Her heart pounded, and she quickly went back inside.

  “What’s wrong?” Peggy said the moment she saw Riley’s face.

  “Fiona’s here.”

  “What?”

  Peggy’s expression instantly changed. It was the same look she got when a tension headache was coming on. “I wish you’d told me you invited her.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re putting me in a bad position.”

  “I didn’t invite her, Peg. I swear. I told her to pass by and pick some peaches for pies before the bears eat them. What can I say? She likes to bake. I didn’t think she’d show up today.” Riley shrugged. “Jim must be out of town.”

  “They’re my clients, Riley.”

  “Fiona’s by herself. And she can’t see the cars from where she is. She probably doesn’t even know I’m home.”

  “Uh…” Peggy pointed to the deck. “Don’t you think she can see the smoke from the grill?”

  The others looked at each other and kept quiet, the reverend taking his drink and easing himself onto the stool Riley had occupied.

  Riley nervously scratched her head. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll run down there and tell her I have company.”

  “Peggy gave her a hard stare, obviously displeased, and shook her head. “Riley, Riley, Riley,” she said with each shake. “You have me breaking one rule after the next. And now you’re making me feel bad.”

  “Don’t feel bad.”

&n
bsp; “What kind of therapist tells someone not to feel bad. I do feel bad. And now I feel worse for making you send her away.”

  As ethical and by-the-book as Peggy was, her heart always won out.

  Riley held up her hands. “Everyone just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  Peggy frowned as she tossed a dish towel aside and waved a hand in resignation. “Go ahead, Riley. It’s your house. Do what you want. Invite her in.”

  “Yeah,” Barbara said. “Go get her! There’s plenty of food. I’ve been hearing about this woman for twenty years—and more recently saving your butt from her husband,” she blurted, then realized the reverend was there and covered her mouth too late.

  Riley saw David’s facial expression and jumped to her own defense. “I’m not having an affair with a married woman. Fiona was my first love. We were teenagers. Her parents found out and…well, being that her father is an evangelical preacher, we were forbidden to see each other. Now she has a child. And an abusive husband she was coerced into marrying—a good Christian man who’d rather see her dead than have her leave him,” she added sarcastically.

  “And my issue,” Peggy explained, “is that I’m her therapist.”

  David gave a shrug. “Is it inappropriate for me to be here, considering I’m your reverend?”

  “It’s different,” Peggy said. “You’re the head of our congregation, not my client. This is a matter of crossing boundaries and the self-disclosure involved in socializing with a client.”

  “Oh, Peg…” Barbara gave her a private, convincing look. “It’s not like you’re socializing with her one-on-one, honey. No one’s asking you to reveal details about your personal life. There’s six of us. We’ll keep the conversation light.”

  Convincing Fiona to join them proved equally difficult. “Hey, you,” Riley called as she walked down the driveway and across to the trees. “Jim gone?”

  Fiona spun around with a bright smile, clearly surprised to see her. “He’s headed for Maine, thank goodness.”

  Riley looked at the half-filled shopping bag of peaches, then put her foot in the crook of the tree and hoisted herself up to reach for the higher fruit, unlike the bears who carelessly pulled the branches down. “Where’s Edy?”

  “Having dinner at Olivia’s.”

  “I thought that was tomorrow?”

  Fiona caught the peaches Riley threw to her. “It was supposed to be. But Mark, one of Olivia’s dads, has a family emergency. They’re driving down to Pennsylvania in the morning. They’d felt bad about canceling and invited Edy over tonight instead.

  “What about you?” Riley tossed the last of the ripe peaches, then jumped down from the tree and brushed off her hands. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “No.”

  “When do you have to pick Edy up?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  “Great. You can join us for dinner.”

  “Us?”

  “I have a few people over,” Riley said. But as soon as she mentioned Peggy being there with her wife, brother-in-law, and their reverend, Fiona attempted a quick getaway. “Gosh. I’m so sorry for taking you away from company.” The heavy shopping bag started to rip as Fiona picked it up with both arms and headed for the car. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t even know you were home.”

  Riley ran after her. “You’re not disturbing anything.”

  “I’m Dr. Spencer’s client, Riley.” Fiona eyed her warily. “I really should go.”

  “Dr. Spencer knows you’re here. She’s totally fine with it,” Riley said, even though she knew Peggy wasn’t. Letting her leave might have been the better thing to do, but she wanted Fiona to stay.

  Riley opened the passenger door, and Fiona dropped the bag of peaches onto the seat. “I don’t see how she could be fine with it, Riley. She’s my therapist. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to—”

  Riley shut the car door and took Fiona by the hand. The bright-pink polo shirt she wore lent a little liveliness to her otherwise cheerless face. Her eyes were sad though—eternally so, it seemed—and her hair style didn’t match the real Fiona buried beneath the bitterness. Long, parted in the middle, and pulled back in a ponytail, it was as black as the reverend’s, and it struck her that, aside from her big blue eyes, Fiona would have had a better chance than her of passing for part Native American.

  “Riley, I don’t think this is such a good—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Come on,” she said, almost dragging her. “I’ll give you a tour of the other fruit trees on the way up. Don’t worry. It’s all good.”

  And it was. By the time they stepped in the house, the tension had dissipated, and the general mood had greatly improved. Tom, who had turned up the music, was simultaneously eating guacamole and dancing by himself. Barbara stood by the blender ready to make another batch of margaritas, and Peggy and the reverend were just lifting trays to carry out to the deck. But everyone stopped when Riley walked in with Fiona.

  Fiona was nervous, visibly uncomfortable, and maybe that’s what got to Peggy. She put her tray down on the counter, and with her fantastic signature smile she opened her arms and actually invited Fiona in for a bona fide hug.

  “I’m so sorry for intruding, Dr. Spencer,” Fiona said as she embraced Peggy. Riley caught Peggy’s eye over Fiona’s shoulder and gave her an appreciative nod.

  “Don’t you dare apologize. We’re happy to have you,” Peggy said, always gracious and forgiving, and proceeded to introduce everyone. “This is my wife, Barbara…her brother Tom…and our reverend, David.”

  So much for self-disclosure, Riley thought. She owed Peggy big-time.

  Barbara jubilantly offered to make her a margarita, but Fiona politely declined on account of having to drive the eight miles to pick up Edy.

  “I haven’t added any tequila yet. How about a frozen virgin margarita?”

  “Uh…okay, sure,” Fiona said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  Whether it was the music, the tequila, or the sudden rush to get food on the grill, everyone seemed to forget any anticipated awkwardness. Riley set the table on the deck, lit some candles, and plugged in a fan out there to keep the mosquitoes away. Fifteen minutes later the food was coming off the grill, and the six of them were talking easily as they passed around the steaks and fish, corn on the cob, Peggy’s potato salad, and Tom’s fry bread. He made a toast to Riley’s heritage discovery and to the reverend’s feline additions to his family.

  Fiona grew excited. She knew all the kittens by now. “Congratulations! Which ones did you adopt?”

  “The solid black and one of the black-and-white ones. Both girls.”

  “It’s so nice to see them get good homes. Do they have names yet?”

  “They do,” David said, with the proud smile of a new father. “The black one is Raven, and…well, I’m not sure if you know what magpies are, but they’re basically black-and-white crows. I thought Magpie would be a cute name for the sister.”

  “What wonderful names,” Fiona said. “God bless Miriam and her mom for taking in those sweet babies and placing them in homes where they are loved and cared for—even though Miriam says they were anything but sweet when she first trapped them.”

  “They were miserable. If looks could kill,” Peggy said. “They hated Miriam and Doris for kidnapping them. All they wanted was to return to their mama. The first few days they just huddled together and glared at Miriam. We felt so bad for them.”

  David gave a sympathetic nod. “Now you know how God feels when we get angry at him for not giving us what we want.”

  Tom furrowed his brow. “I don’t get the comparison.”

  “Well, I’ve often had parishioners ask me why their prayers go unanswered…why the scriptures say, ask and you shall receive…but they’re still waiting to receive.”

  Barbara gave a soft chuckle. “And what do you tell them?”

  “I tell them that the Lord does answer every prayer…it�
�s just that sometimes the answer is no.”

  “Hm. I never thought of it from that perspective,” Peggy said.

  Fiona got it right away. “We’re like those kittens, angry and unhappy in the present, not understanding why something has been taken away from us or why we can’t have what we’re asking for, but it’s because the Lord is preparing us for something better…just as Miriam was preparing the kittens for a better life.”

  David winked at Fiona, and she smiled at him.

  Before long they were talking about Riley’s Luna and the gray one Tom wanted to name Greyson. That led to talking about pets—Peggy and Barbara’s chihuahuas and Fiona’s turtles—and when David started describing how the kittens loved watching him cook, the conversation switched to kitchens and Barbara’s new DIY project.

  Over the years, Barbara had heard about Fiona being an artisan with wonderful carpentry skills, and she gestured to her. “Maybe I can pick your brain,” she said, describing the classic 1940s cottage she and Peggy had renovated, and how lately they’d wanted to replace their kitchen table with a built-in breakfast nook. “I’m pretty handy and would love to do it myself, but Peg thinks we should hire someone.”

  Peggy glanced at Riley, and Riley immediately understood the self-disclosure issue. In less than an hour Fiona had come to know a lot about her therapist’s private life.

  “Do it yourself,” Fiona said. “I could help you work on some design plans if you want. And it wouldn’t take that much time to assemble. You could frame it out in a day, then get some nice wood for the table and benches. But get yourself a pocket-hole jig. That way you can predrill holes at an angle, which will pull everything together really tight.”

  “A pocket-hole jig? We have to write that down, honey,” Barbara said to Peggy.

  “And make sure you have plenty of clamps, especially if you’re working alone.”

  It was wonderful watching Fiona light up as she talked about the things she knew and loved, her deadened spirit momentarily surfacing in her blue eyes like a wave rising high on the ocean to sparkle in the glorious sunlight.