by Tish Cohen
“Please, baby. That’s a vicious animal. It’s trapped for a reason.”
One of Slash’s paws was wrapped around the wire, inadvertently forcing the noose around his neck even tighter. She approached carefully, inching closer slowly enough that she could dart out of reach if Slash got testy. He didn’t. His sides heaved up and down as he watched her approach.
When she was within a couple of feet, she stopped and dropped down low, murmuring, “It’s okay, boy. Easy now.”
It was clear he was too injured, too exhausted, to attack, so she crawled close and unwound the wire from his foreleg. This left a little slack in the wire, hopefully enough to free him without moving him closer. First she let him sniff her hand, then stroked his shoulder, his head, behind his ear. There was no reaction whatsoever, so she let her fingers travel up the wire into the bloodied fur around his neck where she began to work it loose and cradled his head while she slipped the wire off. He was free.
“Delilah, he’ll kill us all!”
No surprise, Slash didn’t budge.
Lila looked back at Kieran, pointed to the water bottle in her hand. Kieran tossed it. Using one hand as a spout, she poured a trickle of water between the coyote’s teeth. He didn’t react, just let the water pass through his mouth and pool in the dirt beneath his snout.
She continued to dribble water between his teeth until she saw his throat contract. He’d swallowed. It was a good sign. Slowly, sparingly, she offered him water until he was able to lift his head off the ground and lap from her hand, his tongue impossibly soft and gentle. He paused for a moment, looking around and panting, before struggling to his feet. He chanced one more drink, threw her a look that might have said thank you but probably said, “You’re one of them,” and wandered unsteadily into the vegetation.
Beautiful creature. Free for now.
Whether he was raised in a kitchen or a canyon, whether he mistook the local cats for prey or limited his meals to mice and ground squirrels, it was Slash’s all-knowing admirers, people like the Angels, who’d offered him a taste of what it meant to hang with the humans. It meant a full belly. And way too much trust to keep a safe distance.
There was no turning back for Slash. Anyone who’d lived in Rykert Canyon for any length of time had heard it before: A fed coyote is a dead coyote.
Lila returned to where her mother stood, helpless, shrunken, wringing her hands.
It was time for someone in this threesome to step up and be the adult.
Lila needed it. Elisabeth needed it. And God knows Kieran needed it.
“I thought that beast would kill you. All this time without you and then you’d just be ripped to pieces right before my eyes. It all seemed to fit. I was never meant for the good life.”
Lila wrapped her arms around her mother and smoothed her unruly curls while Elisabeth held herself stiff and aggrieved. After a few moments, the woman softened, loosened, allowed her body to conform to the hug. “It’s okay, Mum. I know how much you love us. And how hard it’s been for you.”
“It was. No one can imagine how hard.”
“I know.”
“And not everyone understood. Some people thought, ‘At least she’s with her father.’ Like it was bad but not as devastating as it could’ve been. But it was! It was every bit as terrible.”
Lila held her tighter. “It’s over now, Mum. It’s over.”
“I missed your entire childhood.”
“I know.”
“All those birthdays and holidays.”
“We’re going to look forward, right? Just like you said.”
Elisabeth pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. After drinking in a few deep breaths, she began nodding her head as if to calm herself. “Right. We’ll look forward. It’s the only thing to do.”
She let Lila take her arm and they resumed walking. Ahead of them, Kieran hopped on one foot until her boot fell off, then stepped back into it and hopped again, blissfully unaware of the gravel and dead grass stuck to her sock.
“Still, I’m not going to be able to stay on here much longer,” said Elisabeth. “The rent is just too much. I just…I really don’t want to go home. Not unless you come with us.”
“I won’t leave Dad.”
Elisabeth shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at her. “You always belonged to him, didn’t you?”
Lila watched her flick her cigarette onto the ground, allowed her mother to step ahead on the path before she stamped it into the dirt, then slipped it into her pocket. When she caught up, she wove her arm through Elisabeth’s.
“I have an idea.”
Forty-Eight
Monday and Victor’s hearing came and went. Lila was there, sitting directly behind him, willing him to stay lucid long enough not to cuss out the judge. Before walking into the courtroom, the lawyer Lila hired told them there would be one of two outcomes. Victor could be released pending trial, which was a distinct possibility because he wasn’t a huge flight risk—though Elisabeth, Lila had thought to herself, might have had a different opinion of this. The other outcome was that Victor could be admitted to a psychiatric facility on consent pending the trial, whereupon he planned to plead guilty.
Victor’s desire was clear. Sitting across the polished wood table in room 17B of the courthouse, he told the lawyer, polite as anything, he’d like to check into the facility after lunch, if it could possibly be arranged. Please and thank you.
Turned out the judge agreed. Said Victor, given his condition, would probably be safer there than at home without a trained health-care worker. Victor had nodded his approval, kissed his daughter on the cheek, and presented his wrists to the bailiff for handcuffing, mildly disappointed when the bailiff announced he wouldn’t be shackled for the journey.
LILA HADN’T KNOWN what to expect from a psychiatric institution largely dedicated to locking down criminals. Mint green walls and windows facing birdfeeders and special nooks dedicated to knitting, perhaps. Actually, no knitting. The needles were too sharp. Rug braiding and checkers? Maybe even guards with smiley stickers on their badges? Fairfax Institute wasn’t like that. Stern but functional. The decor was spare—with linoleum floors and ugly couches centered around an enormous TV. But the hallways were painted the soft pink of the inside of a conch shell, and just like with the shell, if you listened hard, you could hear the pound of the Santa Monica surf.
No wonder Victor had insisted upon this place.
His room was small. Whitewashed cement lined the lower parts of the walls, with a gray-blue paint above. The décor here was spartan as well: iron bed and nightstand in one corner, speckled white floor, laminate reading table flanked by two tired armchairs. Overhead lighting. He sat in the armchair by the window wearing the taupe shirt and pants you might see on a zookeeper. The look on his face was unexpected too. He looked peaceful. Content. Had atonement softened him?
“Your mother all settled in?”
Victor had endorsed Lila’s idea immediately. Not only did it offer him a shot at giving something back to Elisabeth, but he’d actually been calmed by the knowledge that Lila would be surrounded by family.
To Lila, the move meant much more, Like the small dark coyote in the hills, Lila would step in as unofficial, unasked-for guardian of her sister. At no time would the girl be offered up to a couple of tourists at an amusement park, or left to amuse herself among empty beer bottles.
“Mum’s settled, yes. And she’s surprisingly thankful to you. She’s selling the Cabbagetown house now, so she’ll have a bit of a nest egg, not having to use it for another place.”
“She take my room like I said?”
“I told her to sleep on the other side of your bed. Seemed fitting.”
He nodded his approval.
“Kieran shares with me.”
Confusion crosses his face. “Kieran?”
“My sister, Dad. Mum’s other daughter. I’ve told you about her.”
He thought about this for a moment. Then asked
, “Is your mother all settled in?”
“Yes. She is.”
“You give her my room, Mouse?”
She should have grown used to it by now, but she hadn’t. Every time he got disoriented, it made her ache. “I did, Mister.”
This seemed to please him.
A nurse came in with a tray dotted with paper cups, and announced it was pill time. He flat-out refused. Told her to send in someone else. She frowned, shot a disapproving glance at Lila, and left the room.
When she was gone, Victor pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket. He handed it to Lila and pretended not to watch as she tore it open. After she’d scanned his words, she looked up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You were dead against it. Now you’ll fund it?”
“I’ve been thinking—and I do maintain a modicum of reasoning up in this rotting melon on top of my shoulders. You’re not your mother. Down there in the cellar working day and night—your mother never did that. Spent most of her time lazing around with these artsy characters she started bringing home. So for you, this art school thing—it might just turn out differently. As long as you stop destroying every damned thing you make.”
She leaned forward to hug him, but he swatted her gesture away. “Now, now. Don’t get all sappy or I’ll think about it harder and have to ground you.”
“Good luck with that, Mister,” she said. “I’m nearly twenty-one.”
“I’m nearly fifty-four, and as you can see…” He got up and walked toward the window, unsnapped a lock and pushed it open a few inches. The frame clanked against an iron barrier painted the same seashell pink as the lobby walls. “…being grounded is always a possibility.”
“Dad…”
He held up his hand. “No. I asked for this. No regrets here.”
A male nurse wearing chocolate brown scrubs came in with the tray. Victor waved him away before he got halfway across the room. “No pills from you, either,” he roared. “Doesn’t anybody around here listen?”
Lila reprimanded him. Told him if he was too bossy, they might ship him off to prison. He smiled, completely unconcerned, and Lila informed him he was a crotchety old bugger. He smiled wider.
“I’ve been wondering. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
He stood to adjust his hair in the brass mirror.
“Didn’t you feel me hating you? And idealizing her?”
“I did.”
“Then why?”
Settling himself in his chair, he cleared his throat and looked at his daughter. “She’s still your mother.”
Even in the face of that terrible accusation, he’d been unwilling to tarnish Elisabeth as a parent. Lila leaned over him, held down his arms, and forced a kiss to his cheek.
The door swung open and a third nurse walked in with a tray. She placed it on the counter and brought a paper cup and a glass of water to where they sat. A pretty woman, with short brown hair, tiny marshmallow nose, plump lips and cheeks. “I hear you’re causing trouble again.” With mock sternness, she handed him his pills.
“Me? Never.” Victor tossed the contents of the cup into his mouth.
She set about fluffing the pillow behind him and laying a throw across his lap.
“There you go. Can’t have my favorite patient getting chilly knees, can I?”
Victor blushed fiercely and reached out to pat her hand.
“You’re still an old rascal.” As she stood up straight, Lila noticed her nametag said genevieve. She looked at Lila. “You must be Victor’s daughter. Lila, is it? I’ve been hearing about you since you moved out here, what? A dozen years ago?” She held out her hand, which Lila shook, confused.
“I’m Gen.”
Gen.
“Your dad never could get enough of this place.”
Gen.
She wasn’t made up. She’d really been deserving of donuts.
“It’s kind of nice to have him here full time. We’ll take extra good care of Victor, I can promise you that.”
Victor reached out to pinch her arm and she playfully swatted him away. When Gen walked out of the room, Victor sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and smiled.
The old trickster—Lila could practically see his black-tipped tail twitching.
Some things never changed. Victor Mack always got his girl.
Forty-Nine
After dinner she took the bus over to South Pomona. Went straight around the back of the bungalow, snaking her way through massive hydrangea bushes with thick waxy leaves and glowing flower heads so huge they could have been human heads nodding as she passed. It wasn’t fully dusk, but the lights in his studio were already on, spilling into the dense shade of the yard.
As always, the glass doors stood wide open. Through them, she could see Adam, bent over, piling handful after handful of paint tubes into a carton.
She stepped inside and leaned against the doorframe where she watched for a moment.
“If you want to come, it’s too late,” he said, not looking up. “I didn’t book you a seat.”
“That’s not why I’m here. It’s just…it’s possible I’ve been a bitch.”
He looked up, his expression unsympathetic. “You think?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been…” She wandered in and perched on a stool. “You know.”
“I do.”
He sealed up the box, then placed a stack of drawings on a huge, badly cut piece of cardboard, before sandwiching the artwork with more cardboard that appeared to be cut with a plastic knife. She watched while he taped up the edges, then brought out the kraft paper and started to wrap it up like a gift.
“I’m sorry about the magazine thing,” he said. “Who could have predicted all that?”
There’d been an article in Vanity Fair about Norma Reeves and her ad campaign of painted nudes and very little denim. Specifically about Lila’s buttocks. Rumors had been flying around that it was Keira Knightley’s posterior, but her camp had denied it. Adam had been not only named as the artist, but Norma had been asked to reveal his model’s identity. Adam had refused to name Lila.
So she’d made it into Vanity Fair after all, ironically, with absolute anonymity. But the speculation had passed as quickly as it began, and nude models everywhere could now return to their usual and preferred state of elegant obscurity.
“Doesn’t matter. Not your fault,” she said, looking around the room. “I thought you weren’t leaving until after Christmas break.”
“Nikki’s getting married.”
“No.”
“I found out online. She posted a moment-by-moment recap of her engagement night. From a single white rose to a table by the window at Bellini’s, to crème caramel, to two carats—marquise-cut diamond set in platinum.”
Lila grunted. “Classy. And intimate.”
“Yeah. Her, him, and all three hundred and fifty-eight of her closest followers.”
They were silent for a moment while he scrawled New York addresses on his packages. The marker, which appeared to have no lid, went dry, and he had to dig through a desk drawer for another.
“So you’re really going.”
“This time next week, I’ll be outta here.”
“You’re sure you’re going?”
He sat back on his knees and blinked at her, then pulled his NyQuil from his pocket and tossed it into an open box.
“Kind of looks that way.”
She walked around the room, peering into boxes, stepping over packing supplies, leaning over to inspect the remains of a takeout burger. After crinkling her nose, she wandered back over to where he sat and stared at him.
“Actually it doesn’t. It looks an awful lot like you’re running to New York, not going. There’s a difference.”
Standing abruptly, he left the room, returning with an unzipped duffel bag bursting with clothing. A shoe fell out onto the floor. “That’s your opinion. You’re allowed one.”
“Thank you.”
“Anyway,
you’d be the expert on running. You’re so ready to bolt, you wear short shorts no matter what the weather. God forbid a pair of pants should slow you down. Not that I’m bitter.” He bent over to dump a basket of folded laundry into the bag, his shirt riding up his back, revealing the waistband of blue plaid boxers. The same ones he was wearing the night they were together. A girl doesn’t forget the first pair of underwear she tugs down a guy’s thighs.
Suddenly, she wanted to touch his legs again. Feel their solidity and warmth pressed against her. To feel him all over her—his hands, his mouth, his arms—needing her like he had that night.
She could go. Elisabeth and Kieran were all set up at the cabin. She could make arrangements for appropriate after-school care for her sister, throw a few things in a bag, and escape what remained of her life. Start fresh with Adam. Come up with a hip artist’s name, maybe even start wearing long pants. Wake up next to Adam and, instead of feeling suffocated by his feelings for her, take a deep breath and luxuriate in them.
Would he still have her? “Adam…”
He turned around and pointed. “Grab that little vinyl case behind you, would you, Nik?”
Nik.
She tossed him the black case.
“Sorry. It was her case. Her name was on my brain…”
“Yeah. That’s the trouble, isn’t it?”
“You’ve got it wrong. I’m over her.”
Lila laughed and turned around.
“It isn’t her, Lila. It isn’t Nikki I’m running from…”
But she was already out the doors, marching down the steps into the yard.
“It wasn’t Nikki who left so fast she forgot her socks!”
“Good-bye, Adam.”
Fifty
It was warm for mid-January, even for Los Angeles. Lila put down her art bag, tugged off her jean jacket, and tied it around her waist—she had two and a half hours free until she needed to pick up Kieran at school. She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and checked the numbers on the buildings. Halfway up the block, she came to a one-story building, adobe style, with buttery clay exterior and a wooden door with oversize hinges in rusted iron. A small sign, oval with hand-painted letters, to the right said, the artists’ space. She pushed blond strands from her face and wandered inside.
